A Visitation of Beauty

A Visitation of Beauty

It was the last thing I expected.  The day had been busy to the point of chaos; so many questions I had to answer, so many places I needed to be.  Now it was after midnight and I sat curled up in my favourite spot, a skein of wonderful wool flowing through my fingers as I knit a new shawl.  With each stitch I wove, another of the day’s irritations unhooked its claws from my soul and flew, grumbling, up the cold chimney and I became lost in the rhythm of knitting.  

 The television was on.  Stephen Colbert’s Late Show -  I often tune in for a bit of his intelligent wit before bedtime.  But this evening, the sound was down low and I was paying him little attention, until I glanced up to see prima ballerina, Misty Copeland, standing on one side of the stage, clearly about to dance to the music of cellist, Yo Yo Ma, who sat waiting on the other side.  I turned up the sound.

  Two human beings doing what they do best in the world, creating a moment of beauty.  My knitting needles dropped from my hands as I watched and listened and by the close, two fat tears had rolled down my cheeks.  I was filled to the brim with the sort of joy beauty bestows and I went to bed - peaceful, hopeful and full of gratitude.

It is often dismaying to see how little we value beauty today, particularly in the light of its importance.  We insure our school sports programs are always well-funded even as we slash art and music away as though they were mere trivialities. If only we realized how much richer the soul becomes by learning to recognize beauty.  How expansive the mind and how happy the heart of the person who learns this early in life, for by making the soul a harbor for beauty one is guaranteed a life that rewards all the days with wonder.

 Some of us are born with an innate ability to see beauty. We seem to be aware of its holy power the first time we encounter it.  However, it is a skill that can be learned as well.   It can start by opening the window at midnight to sit and gaze at the stars.  Finding the perfect fragrant flower to place in a vase by your bed. Stopping on a walk to feel the autumn wind on your face.  Or, by putting down your knitting to watch someone at the height of their powers perform a lyrical, joyful dance. 

 The more you begin to revere the transforming power of beauty, the more beauty you see,  for it seems to reveal itself in direct proportion to how much it is appreciated. You have to pay attention, for beauty is so often ephemeral; like a soap bubble in a breeze.   But oh, what a delightful gift it can be.  How it does lift the soul to soar.

The marvelous Irish writer, John O’Donohue, (one of my favorites)

 puts it much better than I when he writes: 

 "Beauty does not linger; it only visits.

 Yet beauty's visitation affects us and invites us into its rhythm; 

it calls us to feel, think and act beautifully in the world:

 to create and live a life that awakens the Beautiful. 

A life without delight is only half a life."

Stop a moment and watch Misty Copeland and Yo Yo Ma.

I wish you all such beauty in your lives.

Let's Go To London... A Tiny, Wonderful List

“Go where we may, rest where we will,

Eternal London haunts us still.”

Thomas Moore 

Let's Go To London... A Tiny, Wonderful List

The first time I visited London I was still a child.  Kensington Gardens seemed vast and mysterious to me then, but I soon learned vital things about it that would forever colour the way I viewed the city in which it rested.  For instance, I was introduced to the fairies who live there, fairies who danced and knew how to make little boats out of thrush’s nests for sailing down the Serpentine. They are frequently too shy to be seen by everyone of course, but for those who met them as children, as I was fortunate to do, they are always present.  As an adult, I have often heard their lyrical greeting as I’ve walked through those gardens in autumn.

I was about six when I first wandered down London’s leafy, residential streets, stopping to gaze in the windows of Number Seventeen Cherry Tree Lane.  There were magical happenings inside that house.  People had tea parties on the ceiling and visitors were sometimes blown in by a strong change of the wind.  These days I still love to meander through these streets at dusk, gazing into all the tall windows where lamplight still illuminates intriguing, inviting, interiors.

As I got older, I came to London on the arm of the brilliantly eccentric Sherlock Holmes.  He taught me that mysteries and secrets reside in every stony corner of the city.  I sat in the drawing room of the Schlegel sisters, listening to them discuss the intricacies of London culture.  I helped Mrs. Dalloway plan her party as we strolled along the lake in St. James’s Park and have often sat by the fire with Lady Slane in her charming little house in Hampstead where there are "arm-chairs and chintz, and the light in the right place" .  I also , quite usefully, learned where to look on Charing Cross Road for the scrubby little sign of The Leaky Cauldron. 

Yes, I first came to London on the magic carpet of books so by the time I physically placed the toe of my oxfords on its grey pavements, I felt as though I knew the old city very well indeed.  Every corner I turned was familiar - I recognized every shop door, every stairway.  Every warm aroma of treacle tart and tea that tickled my nose as I wandered its streets was expected just as much as it was welcomed.  To paraphrase the old saying, I found exactly what I was looking for in London.   It was the London of books and it was precisely what I thought it would be:  pure wonderment.   Chelsea, Covent Garden, Kensington, Seven Dials, Marylebone, Bloomsbury, even Soho... (which has always seemed to me to be a bit like the place where the Donkey Boys took Pinocchio, but is fascinating nonetheless)… even the names alone enchant me.  This most recent trip was no disappointment.  Here are a few highlights for you to enjoy.

1.  The Draycott Hotel

It takes a bit of effort and a bit of time to travel down to London from the wilds of Elgol on the Isle of Skye and when you’ve spent the last week or so hiking the hills of the Inner Hebrides you can be hit - about the exact same time as your EasyJet touches its wheels on the tarmac of Gatwick Airport - incredibly, overwhelmingly, tired.  I was just that tired the night we arrived in London and the only place I wanted to rest my head was The Draycott Hotel.  I’ve written about The Draycott before, I know, ( in fact, some of you have even taken my advice and stayed there as well.  I’ve loved hearing how much you’ve loved it too) but a stay there never fails to please me no end.

While some other notable London hotels have gone sleeker and hipper, The Draycott remains an oasis of delightful English elegance that always brings to mind, for me at least,  the Mitford sisters, Agatha Christie, Kate, Diana and The Queen.  Parts of it are even decorated by that most English of English decorators, Nina Campbell, so you can imagine how gorgeous it is.  I’ve even stayed there by myself a couple of times and felt cosseted and comfortable, all the while reveling in that quintessential English charm that is what I come to find whenever I travel to London.

 Flowers are everywhere here.....

There is always champagne in the afternoons, hot cocoa and biscuits at night.

  Interesting books and magazines are everywhere, and there’s even a beautiful private garden in which to stroll on a sunny afternoon.....

  And there's a perfect little library 

filled with books you really want to read.....

The Draycott sits on a quiet street in Chelsea, just around the corner from Sloane Square.  A few steps will bring me to John Sandoe Books, my favorite bookshop on the planet, while a few steps more and I’m in Partridge’s, a sublime corner grocery where The Songwriter’s favourite chocolate cake, and my favourite yogurt, can always be found for a late night treat.  The delights of London sometimes have to be put on hold when I’m at The Draycott - it’s often just too fabulous there to leave. 
See more of it HERE.

*******

2.  The Chelsea Physic Garden

For years I have heard about the Chelsea Physic Garden.  It’s within easy walking distance from The Draycott, but for some reason I’d never made it there for a visit.  This time I did.  I texted a photo to a doctor friend back home, who texted back..”You’re at the corner drug store!”.  In fact, I was. 

The Chelsea Physic Garden began in 1693 as an Apothecary’s Garden.  Today it’s fascinating to still see plants arranged by ailments; everything that grows in the pharmaceutical garden naturally treats ailments ranging from gout to gastritis.  Who knew a periwinkle from Madagascar contains an alkaloid used in anti-cancer drugs?  But beyond the history, and past the wealth of information free for the picking at every turn, it’s just a lovely, atmospheric little garden just steps from the hustle and bustle of Sloane Square and Kings Road. 

I visited on a cool, slightly cloudy morning, when the imminent arrival of autumn was so clear, the words of Keat’s reverential ode seemed to whisper to me at every turn. 

 "Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness... "

"Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;

 Conspiring with him how to load and bless

 With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run...."

Visit this garden if you possibly can.

******** 

3.  Loop

All knitters should make a pilgrimage to Loop, London’s best little yarn shop.  Located in Islington, a charming section of town heretofore unvisited by yours truly, Loop sits on a little crooked street that seems to have leapt straight out of this reader’s imagination.

  Inside are all manner of temptations for the knitter or the textile lover.

Buttons and charms, yarns and tiny embellishments.

 Ladies are laughing and knitting in cozy fat chairs dotted here and there. 

  It’s a magical place.  Go if you have the chance.
  You’ll love it, whether you knit or, regrettably, not.  

Find Loop HERE.

*****

4.  The Victoria and Albert Museum

There are so many museums in London, it is impossible to appreciate them all in one trip or even, I would imagine, one lifetime.   I limit myself to a couple of new ones each time so as not to overwhelm my senses and to better appreciate each experience.  The one exception to that, rather flimsy and frequently broken, rule is the V and A.  There are things of such beauty here that I am drawn to its doors every time I'm lucky enough to be in the city.

  This time there was a particularly remarkable exhibit of tiny buildings that caught my imagination not only for its visual appeal and sheer scale, but also for the lamentable cultural change it depicts....

  If you look closely at the bottom of the piece you will see a collection of individual shops.  Bootmakers and bakeries, bookshops and butchers.... 

Farther up, these owner-operated shops transition to more corporate mega-stores,
 finally winnowing down to a tiny few, highly recognizable names the closer your eye gets to the top.  Individuality sacrificed to the commercial and convenient. 

It’s sobering and its message resonates painfully with anyone who resides near a big city.    Try to see it if you’re in London anytime soon.  Then go out on the streets and enjoy the array of small, exquisite shops and restaurants that still exist here.

*****

5.  The Atmosphere

I could write all day about London; it’s simply the greatest city in all the world.  From the tiny Pollock’s Toy Shop in Covent Garden, to the bejeweled halls of Liberty.  The Wolesley for breakfast,  The Orangery for tea, the Rock and Sole Plaice for the best fish and chips.  The yellow daffodils of St. James’s Park in April, the red-orange leaves of Holland Park in fall.  The historic majesty of Westminster Abbey.  The inspiring art at The Tate.  Your eyes will widen at London’s beauty, your ears will bend to every accent on the planet. It is a city that always challenges my view of the world as it brings history full circle right before my eyes.  Amazing things happen every time I’m there and I always leave just a little bit changed - a little bit wiser, a little more curious, and a bit more eccentric, if that’s even possible.  

  Just take a look at this video I shot outside the National Gallery early one evening.  I had stopped to listen to this fellow as he was singing one of my favorite songs, the poignantly beautiful Hard Times by Stephen Foster.  The video is not great quality; I never planned to post it.  But then I discovered I had captured something more than what I'd intended.  The eye-watering marriage of art and reality.
 Put it on full screen if you can, turn up the sound and
 as you watch the video begin, take a look at the man behind the singer. 
Upon seeing this, a good friend of mine said,

 “Art doing what it’s supposed to do”.  So true.

Always travel with open eyes for, like I said, 

amazing things happen all around you in London. 

 Things that make you think.

***
PS... books mentioned in the opening section...
Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens
Mary Poppins
The Complete Sherlock Holmes
Howard's End
Mrs. Dalloway
All Passion Spent
Harry Potter 

Just a Wee Bit of Scotland... The List Begins

Just a Wee Bit of Scotland - The List Begins…

It is one of the downsides of travel.  Jet lag:  that feeling that creeps over your shoulder before the sun is down and insists you turn in for the night, or bounces on your bed at three am, intent on waking you up.  (Clarification:  Wilmont is just tired from a hike in the photo above.  He’s never been a victim of jet lag in his life.)   Since returning from Scotland I have been held captive by this gremlin; I actually went to bed the other night at eight-thirty, something I’ve not done since I was six.  But the fog is beginning to lift and I’m slowly returning to the land of the living.  Although I hasten to add, it is a reluctant re-entry.  This journey to Scotland, with a little icing of London to make it even sweeter, was so perfect, I find I’m frequently still there in my head.  And so much so in my soul. 

I know I probably prattle on about Scotland too much for some of you,

 but I’m going to risk it one more time by sharing a few special places

 I discovered this time out.

  Please indulge me. 

We’ll do London next!

Skye Pie Cafe

There’s a lot of what’s termed “social media” that I don’t participate in.  I don’t have a Facebook page.  Snapchat doesn’t interest me, and I consider a “selfie-stick” to be tangible evidence of the end times.  But boy, have I enjoyed Instagram.  Just pretty, inspiring photographs from people with fascinating viewpoints and eyes for beauty.  I’ve loved sharing some of the crystalline moments of my journeys that would otherwise be lost in the course of an ordinary day.  I particularly loved sharing my latest expedition to Scotland and London.  One of the special people on Instagram commented on a post I left before leaving for Scotland, telling me that I must visit a place called Skye Pie Cafe.  (Thank you so much, Christi.  Find her page HERE. She’s a wonderful photographer.)  So, I filed that tidbit away in my head and on a brilliantly bright morning as The Songwriter and I made our way up the Isle of Skye on the way to the Quirang, we found Skye Pie Cafe waiting for us on the Staffin Road.  Pulling in, I was immediately charmed by the whitewashed cottage with flowers blooming beneath the blue, blue sky.  

But when I entered, I was tickled beyond belief.

  All my favorite things gathered under one roof.

  A fascinating art gallery. 

Delightful rooms with bowls of yarn and knitting needles sitting on each table so you can knit whilst waiting for your pie.  You can also embroider your name and hang it from the ceiling.  When I was there the collective knitting project was blankets for the refugees, so as The Songwriter placed our order for lunch, I snooped around a bit and then sat down to knit my contribution.

 All is light and beauty and friendliness.  Just look at the dye/creative stuff room above!

 I was in heaven.  The Songwriter practically had to pull me out of there.  A little later,  when we arrived atop the Quirang, we found it to be the perfect spot for a picnic of Skye Pie.... 

And that pie?  Absolutely transcendent.

I also found out, you can actually stay there, too!

Next time, guys!

Find the Skye Pie Cafe, HERE.

******

Shilasdair Yarns

Okay, so I’ve mentioned Shilasdair Yarns before.   It’s one of my favorite places on earth.  The setting is unsurpassed, sitting as it does on the tip on the Waternish peninsula with views that stop my breath cold and make my heart sing symphonies.  It’s also the tiny building that made me learn to knit.  I first entered it on a bright, quiet morning about a dozen years ago and felt as though I had walked into a magical box of colour.

  All over the walls, on tables and tucked into cubbyholes, were the most glorious colours of yarn I’d ever seen.  I was speechless and horrified at my massive ineptitude.  I didn’t know how to knit, so couldn’t do a blessed thing with the treasures I saw before me.  Right then and there, I made a vow to myself.  I would learn to knit, and knit well, and I would return to Shilasdair to purchase some of this gorgeous yarn.  I did, and I have, several times. 

But this time was special.

Shilasdair was created by a woman named Eva Lambert.  Eva arrived on Waternish in the late sixties after attending university in Scotland and spending time in Turkey where she became obsessed with textiles and colours.  I can only imagine how remote Waternish must have felt back then.  She moved into a tiny cottage ( that I’d give my shoes for) and set up shop.  She had her own sheep and soon created a dye garden from which she would extract the marvelous colors for her yarns. 

Today, many years later, she is known as a wizard of colour, still dyeing all the yarn herself using natural dyes from all the growing things around her.  This gives the yarn such individuality and depth, you cannot imagine how amazing the colours are.   When the Victoria and Albert Museum commissioned new linens for The Great Bed of Ware, it was to Eva they turned for the dyeing.  She is brilliant, and a treasure.

This time when I was there the sun was shining as it rarely does in this part of the world.  There was a soft breeze and the air smelled of salt and heather.  As I poked blissfully around inside the shop I heard The Songwriter (who’d been taking photos of the magnificent sea just below) talking to someone outside.  When I finally pulled myself away, swinging a bagful of lilac-coloured yarn on my arm, he said, “I think I just met your lady.”

“What?!”, I sputtered.  “That’s like me meeting Paul McCartney and you knowing nothing about it!”.

Yes, dear reader, I became a fan and marched up to the dyeing shed where I met Eva’s handsome husband and asked as sweetly as I could if it would be possible to say hello to her.  He smiled and took me to her.  We had a lovely conversation.  I told her it was because of her that I learned to knit.   We laughed.  We talked about colour, about Turkey, about Skye.  I felt like the luckiest girl on the planet.  You can see from my big ole' goofy grin exactly how tickled I was.

If you’re a knitter, or a lover of colour, or just an admirer of someone who created a marvelous, inventive life on the edge of the world, you must visit Shilasdair Yarns on the Waternish Peninsula of the Isle of Skye.  You simply must.

If you cannot visit in person, but would like some of the glorious yarn, 

the website is HERE.

Oh and to prove I did what I vowed to do... yes, I knitted the shawl I'm wearing above and also... so proud... this scarf to wear in the Scottish landscape. 

 It matched perfectly!

****

Coruisk House

For years The Songwriter and I have tried to hike into the edge of the Black Cuillin Mountains to reach Loch Coruisk.  We’ve never managed it.  You see, you have to take a boat there.  The boat drops you off and you hike and hike till you reach an isolated spot that has captured the imagination of countless artists and composers for centuries.

But on every trip we’ve taken to Skye, the changeable weather has held up a blue hand to stop us from sailing.  Either it was too bad to leave, or forecasted to be too bad to get back.  But, ever optimistic, we have continued to try.  This time was the charm however, and we spent one of the most incredible days of our lives there.  We felt like the only two people alive as we reached the loch and sat beside it, stunned at the view in front of us. 

Needless to say, we were pooped, with wind-chapped cheeks

 and sun-bleached hair, when we arrived back at the dock.

  Fortunately, we had an evening at Coruisk House awaiting us.

We discovered Coruisk House a couple of years ago and are so happy to have done so.  It’s run by a charmingly talented couple, Clare and Iain, who chucked successful London lives to pursue their dreams in Scotland.  I already loved them as soon as I heard this.

Coruisk House is known as a restaurant with rooms, but I’d say both experiences - the dining and the staying - are equally delightful.  The old cottage has been lovingly restored by Clare and Iain, and it’s just the perfect storybook place.  The staircase we climb to our room is small and atmospheric and when we enter our room, with its four-poster bed and dark sheepskin rugs, we feel utterly comfortable and cosseted.  

There are tiny details of delight everywhere you look. 

A bowl of fresh, crisp apples to tide us over till dinner. 

Scottish books on the windowsill.  Hot cocoa makings in the corner. 

A gorgeous mohair throw across the fat bed that I was sorely tempted 

to “mistakenly” stick in my suitcase.

Dinner is the most delicious event of the day.  Iain does the cooking (though I hasten to add that Clare makes some of the most mouth-watering bread I have ever eaten) and The Songwriter said as we climbed up the stairs to sleep… “That was one of the best meals I’ve ever eaten in my whole life”.  

Coruisk House is one of those rare finds along the way

 that make a perfect trip even better.  

 You can find it HERE

***

The Fairy Glen

You may have noticed in some of these photos how brilliantly blue the sky is.  This remarkable weather condition was a constant throughout our entire trip to Scotland.  It was jaw-dropping, both in beauty and in rarity.  Though I’m one of those people who adore the cold and misty Scotland, I have to say that this perfectly salubrious weather allowed us to experience things we’ve never been able to indulge in before.  One of such halcyon moments was our afternoon in The Fairy Glen on Skye. 

The Fairy Glen is a unique and bewitching place.  An unusual formation of land that captivates the imagination like no other.  We’ve admired it before from the roadside; the weather being too prohibitive for a climb up.  But this time…. oh boy, did we love it.   I highly recommend this if you’re ever on this spectacular Scottish island.

Inside are circles of “fairy” stones that snare the senses.

I climbed to the top and sat for a long while.

Imagining and wondering.

A gift indeed.

Hopefully, you can see a bit of why I love Scotland so very much.

Would you like to see some special bits of London next?

What Am I Afraid Of.... A Dispatch From Scotland

White Sands Beach, Isle of Iona, Scotland

What Am I Afraid Of?

A Dispatch From Scotland

(For By Invitation Only)

The branch of the sweet gum tree bounced in the wind just outside our kitchen window.  For days my Mother and I had watched the robins come and go as they fed what was obviously a full nest of new babies.  I was little, I was fascinated, and I was bubbling over with curiosity.  I wanted to see inside that nest.  It was so easy for me to imagine fluffy yellow little birds, the sort that dipped and darted round Snow White as she skipped through the Disney forest.  Or the bright baby blue ones that helped dress Cinderella for the ball.   So finally, my Father took me outside and lifted me high in the air… up, up… to the nest of baby birds.  

No sooner were my eyes level with that nest then they were met with a 

scene so horrific I could only give that silent, Munch-like scream of the truly terrified.  Four hideous heads - if one could accurately call them heads, for they resembled nothing so recognizable to me - sprung up before me, sharply pointed mouths agape - squealing like spectres from hell itself .  These were not the birds of fairy tales, oh, no. These were creatures of Lovecraft and Poe and thus, this was the very first time I remember experiencing fear.  I did not like it one bit.  I still prefer to watch birds from a respectful distance.  

As I grew older I developed categories of fright.   Waterbugs and snakes were somewhere near the top of the list and invisible beings lurking beneath the bed rated highly.  Spiders were ranked according to size while sharks and horror movies, both terrifying, were both easy to avoid and were consequently regulated to the bottom of the list.   These were the frights of childhood, but as we clock more and more time here on Earth, those little scares and starts begin to coalesce into something more nebulous, more insidious and more internal - they become fear.

 To be human is to have known fear.  That grey shroud that cloaks the mind, erasing any hopeful feeling, deleting any comforting word.  It is the nadir of human emotion and we flee from it with justification.  But through the years I’ve come to realize that greatest thing I fear, is that very feeling of fear.  Roosevelt had it exactly right.   Rarely does the thing I fear equal the fear that I’ve felt anticipating it.   Even excruciating loss - so dreaded, so black -  has distilled into gratitude, bringing with it the comfort of memory and deep, abiding hope.  Crossing each and every frightful bridge has only given me a surer step.  Though, granted, it is difficult to remember this when that feeling of fear descends on the soul.

There are places on earth where the veil betwixt heaven and earth becomes sheer as gossamer.  I have stood in one such place this week, on the strange and holy white shores of the Isle of Iona, in the northwest of Scotland.  It was a luxury to ponder the question posed by this post in such a place as this for in this setting where the path between the ages seems clearly marked and beckoning I can see quite clearly that, at this point in my journey, the only real thing I truly fear is regret.  The ignored invitation, the shunned experience.

There were fat fluffy clouds in the blue, blue sky as I made my way along the path to the sea on Iona.  As I crossed a sheep-speckled meadow, I passed two elderly women going the opposite way and overheard one say to the other as she pointed to a blanket of bright sunlight illuminating the violet hues of the mountains across the sound on the Isle of Mull.  “See that?  That’s the pearl of great price.  You wait all day for a view like that and so many people just walk past and never notice”. 

A life half lived.

That’s what I’m afraid of.  So I notice.  I appreciate.  I am grateful.

 I hold both arms as wide open as I can to gather in all the beauty around me. 

 It’s there for all of us.
***
Find lots of other interesting takes on this topic HERE

And to see more of my Scottish journey, look HERE