Counting Sheep

It was the perfect night for sleep. The cold breath of winter was rushing down through the pine trees, playing soporific lullabies on the silver windchimes, whistling quiet melodies around the cottage eaves, providing a hypnotic background to the comforting sounds of the three sleeping souls close around me.

I lay there, listening.

Toasty warm, and wide awake.

Oh, I knew it would happen. I was wide awake all evening, wide awake when I went to bed, when I closed my book, when I turned off the light. No pain or worry to keep me from sleep, just a mind that refused to turn off.

Knowing that if I sneaked out of bed to roam the darkened house - perhaps to read, to write, to knit - Edward would consider it a severe dereliction of his duties not to follow me, up from his warm bed, fur mussed from sleep, eyes half closed. I could not do that to him, so I stayed where I was and decided, like Wordsworth on a night long ago, to count the ever reliable sheep. I selected my flock and lined them all up. But like the great poet, I too soon learned that this time tested remedy is not always fool proof.

At first, my sheep were performing nicely enough, leisurely jumping over my conjured stone stile with an easy grace often afforded by one’s imagination. But then I noticed a slight distraction, a lack of focus in their ovine eyes. Soon, sure enough, one abruptly refused to follow his kin, taking off on his own down a pathway of green. Another turned left and ran off to the sea. Soon they were all going in different directions, willy nilly, paying no heed to my orders and leaving me no choice but to try and round them up.

I followed the wooly Swaledale to town where I found him outside an ice cream shop with red and white striped awnings. We wandered the village streets, gazing in shop windows and lapping up ice cream before heading back, me holding tight to the scruff of his neck.

Next I headed off after the Greyfaced Dartmoor, down an overgrown country lane to a garden, planted all with white flowers - peonies, gardenias, freesia - oh it was heavenly. We strolled through the ivory rows, sipping lemonade and thinking of spring, me in a white dress, my fleecy companion with daisies woven round his head.

I found the Spanish Merino perched on a hillside overlooking the sea, an estate agent’s brochure held tight in his mouth. It was chock full of photographs of Cumbrian cottages, Scottish crofts, and weathered seaside manors. We sat there for at least an hour in companionable fashion, trying to decide which one was the best choice for me.

A Dalesbred ram was trying on boots in Toulouse, an Icelandic ewe was having dinner with Robert Deniro. A Herdwick lamb was in Rome at the opera, a dozen Hebridean on a boat down the Nile.

As the light in the bedroom began to turn from silver to milky grey, the sheep began to wander off home. Exhausted, I let them go. Though they did not perform as expected, they made for an interesting night. No doubt my eyes will be scratchy at noontime, and my mood will be grumpy at five. But I shall fall into bed at an earlier hour, and hope for a restful night’s sleep.

To Sleep

A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by

One after one; the sound of rain, and bees

Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas,

Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky;

I've thought of all by turns, and still I lie

Sleepless; and soon the small birds' melodies

Must hear, first uttered from my orchard trees,

And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry.

Even thus last night, and two nights more I lay,

And could not win thee, Sleep! by any stealth:

So do not let me wear tonight away:

Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth?

Come, blessed barrier between day and day,

Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!

by William Wordsworth

An Education

There were fairy godmothers when I was little. Plump little women dressed all in pink, who convened at my bedside when I was asleep, to discuss my future and plan my days, occasionally touching my forehead with their star-tipped wands. Inscrutable genies lounged within oddly shaped lamps, ready and waiting to grant any wish I might make. There were magic mirrors on the walls, good fairies in the garden, and rows upon rows of eager frogs requesting kisses.

These charming characters populated my world and gave me confidence that, as long as my heart was pure and my eyes were open, they could help me navigate the labyrinth of yellow brick roads that curled round me, all the way to a most happy life. I don’t remember exactly when I realized that their power, though kindly offered, was rather limited. I suppose it was a gradual awakening.

The mundane fact is, when it comes to making one's way on the journey to a life void of regret, it really boils down to nothing more than a series of decisions. Given this, I have always considered it a weighty thought that some of these decisions, and some of the most vital ones to be sure, demand to be made when one is least equipped to do so. That is to say, when one is young.

Waves of advice crash over you when you are young, index fingers are wagged in your face, each direction proffered seems as insistent as the next - and no fairy godmother is in sight. How do we snatch the young off the technicolour carousel of carefree youth and make them see how monumental these decisions are, how inescapable their consequences? That even choosing not to choose is a choice with certain results? Truth is, we cannot. Nor should we, I suppose. For each must choose for themselves.

I was fortunate to see a film over the weekend that illustrates, with intelligence and beauty, what it is to be young at that crucial, confusing moment when these cardinal decisions must be made. An Education, directed by Lone Scherfig, is set in a rather sleepy England at the dawn of the sixties, just when that country is about to be hit by the culture changing storm of The Beatles. It stars the amazing Carey Mulligan as a sixteen year old girl at the dawn of a culture change of her own, in the midst of the roundabout of choices that only circle past at that age. Every performance in the film is spot on, especially that of the extraordinarily talented Ms. Mulligan, who has been compared to Audrey Hepburn, something I personally find does a disservice to her own uniqueness. Even Emma Thompson is there, playing an implacable headmistress with terrifying efficiency.

And a bonus.... it also has a fabulous soundtrack!

I was thrilled when I read this week that An Education was nominated for a Best Picture Oscar, and Carey Mulligan also for Best Actress. If this film is any indication, Ms. Mulligan has not only made some very good decisions, but the fairy godmothers who once gathered round her bedside bequeathed more than the usual share of talent.

Go see An Education and tell me what you think.

Painting above: The Princess and the Frog by William Robert Symonds

And, Yet

The face of the garden has been scrubbed clean by the icy winds of winter. They have left behind only those most primary shades of a February day - grey and silver, brown, dark green.

The graceful hydrangeas, that once held fistfuls of blue in their leafy arms, now stand as stiff as porcupine quills, frozen sharp and brittle under the full moon’s light.

The sweet fragrance of rose and gardenia is today but a memory, replaced with the crisp scent of wood smoke and pine.

And the frosted windows are all shut tight in this, the polar season.

And, yet....

Despite these cold facts, I still hold the blanket of winter up under my chin, my fists tight in their reluctance to let it escape from my grasp. How I hate to say farewell to all those delicious hot tea afternoons, curled up with a book and a dog - those wind whistle nights spent knitting in the orange glow of the fire, with Edward asleep on my feet. The turtleneck sweaters, the fleece lined boots - the hearty soups, the chestnut scented candles ...the sublime hibernation only wintertime provides.

Is there really only one short month to go?

Oh no doubt I’ll rejoice when the winds changes course, transforming itself once again from biting blast to blustery breeze. I’ll sing along with the rest of the choir when the pale morning light takes on its Easter glow, when Spring sends her scouts of green up over the hillside at last, signaling warmer nights and longer days.

But please, until then, do not hurry me along.

Let me snuggle under this blanket just a bit more.

And put another log on the fire.

Laughing Later

Part Two

.....What if he didn’t show up. What if he couldn’t fix the car. What if he turned out to be a homicidal maniac who intended to eat us for dinner. The dogs were quiet. They knew this was serious......

Finally, through the darkness, we saw lights coming down from the road. A rickety, rackety pick-up truck pulled up beside us and a wizened little walnut of a man climbed out. The Songwriter began to explain our situation and received not a word in reply. The car hood was opened and the walnut man disappeared inside. Quite a lot of noise began to flow from within the recesses of the car, rattles and thumps punctuated by the occasional unintelligible swear. Finally the strange little fellow crawled out holding up something attached to a wire that, at least to my eyes, looked fairly important, and drawled, “Well. You were gonna lose this anyway”.

Suffice it to say, the car could not be repaired. At least not this night, and at least not by this man. So. Here we were, over two hours from home, with two hungry dogs, in the middle of nowhere. And did I mention, it was our wedding anniversary?

It was apparent that this mechanical wizard intended to trot up the hill to home without another thought directed our way, so the Songwriter hurriedly asked him if he knew of someone who could perhaps tow us back to the city. He did, and we called he gentleman immediately, who promised to come pick us up as soon as he finished his dinner. About thirty long, worrisome minutes later, a behemoth of a truck could be heard thundering down the drive and we four looked out through our steamed -up windows to see the largest form of transport we could possibly imagine. As I stared at this thing, it dawned on me that, although it was indeed designed to haul large vehicles to their destinations with no small amount of fanfare, the actual room for people was fairly standard and, frankly, fairly small. Needless to say, it would never accommodate three adults and two large furry dogs. Naturally the driver assumed that the dogs would remain in the car - high up in the air, chained and bolted to the truck, for two plus hours, down a superhighway, in the cold, in the dark, alone.

Shall I give you just a few seconds to imagine what I said to that?

I calmly folded my arms.

Outside my closed car window, there commenced a lot of talk back and forth about what was allowed and what was not. Something, I think, was said about what was safe and what was not. I know I heard the words, “risk”, and “illegal”, maybe even the phrase, “bodily harm”. I’m certain The Songwriter said a few choice words about stubbornness being an inherited trait, and something along the lines of “its useless, I’m telling you”. But all these trivial words and phrases simply drifted past my ears like summer breeze off a lily pond. There was absolutely no way I was going to leave Edward and Apple to be hoisted up to the heavens in a tow truck and hauled through the cold night, for two hours, by themselves.

So. Yes, you are right. I stayed with them in the car, letting out feeble little yelps of terror as it was lifted up in the air, higher than I dreamed possible. Those yelps became unmentionable words, shrilly shouted, as I was roughly bounced back down the rutted drive, past the now slightly alarmed bloodhounds, back out on the main road, enroute to the highway. I squealed like a girl with every jolt, till Edward calmly climbed into the front seat, placed his head on my knee and fell asleep. We were higher up than I ever dreamed it possible to be, so high I could look down on the tractor trailer trucks passing by. I was not having fun. But then, I thought... if I were eight years old, this would be the most fabulous experience I would have all year long. So, that’s what I decided to be. For two hours, I pretended I was eight, I pretended I was in a flying ship, I pretended I was on the back of a dragon, I pretended I was seated next to Mr. Toad, along for his infamous Wild Ride - I pretended I was comfortable, I pretended I was warm, I pretended that tonight was not, in fact, my wedding anniversary.

Now of course, as I am writing this two years later, it is obvious that we all returned home safely. The dogs had their dinners, and I had a hot bath and a not so wee dram.

And yes, it was an anniversary to remember.

But laugh about?

Well, maybe just a little.

Laughing Later

We said we would laugh about it later, both of us a tad uncertain how long it might take for the experience to become funny.

So begins this, a true story.

Though it reads like the tallest of tales.......

Commemorating our January wedding anniversary in the high style it deserves presents the occasional problem, as the weather rarely cooperates in celebratory fashion. I suppose, ideally, we should take off for warmer climes, fly away from the grey skies of home to relax on a pink sand beach, cradling fancy little drinks in our pale little hands as we await Swedish massages and dinners that end with creme brulee. We have indeed done just that several times. More realistically however, we usually opt for a nice dinner out, swaddled in coats and scarves and often dodging icy raindrops enroute. Over the past couple of years, we have enjoyed anniversaries en famille, with both Edward and Apple coming along for the celebration, usually a hike in the woods or an outing at the lake. One such trip occurred two years ago, with decidedly unexpected results.

Our anniversary fell on a Sunday that year and we had headed out to one of our favourite destinations, a lovely, rather romantic, garden setting a couple of hours from town. It was a beautiful day, graced with the most salubrious sort of weather, especially for a January. We had a marvelous time, all four of us, following winding trails in the winter sunlight, sipping hot cocoa by the glassy lake. Eventually, the light turned to mauve and dusk was upon us, so we all headed to the car, the four of us tired and happy and ready for our dinners. Little did we know, much like the fabled musician who fiddled away during the burning of Rome, as we were frolicking in the woodland, there in the parking lot, unbeknownst to us, our car had expired.

Blithely unaware as we were, we turned the key and immediately discovered our trusty Passatt overheating in a way that cars are just not supposed to do. Slowly, slowly, we coasted out of the gardens, hoping to make it to help, all the while well aware that Sunday evening in the middle of nowhere was not the best time or place to find it.

The only establishment open in town was Little Piggies, a restaurant whose very name was a certain hindrance to any female appetite. We pulled in and The Songwriter ventured inside, leaving me with the dogs, who were attempting to remind me, through piercing, focused stares, that their own dinnertimes were fast approaching. The Songwriter soon returned with an address of a “hobby” mechanic scrawled on the back of a greasy menu, and we limped away down the road.

Turning into the man’s driveway a few seconds later, my heart, which had been teetering on the edge of fear, much like Humpty Dumpty atop his wall, finally fell with a thud. A more vividly Southern gothic scene could not have been imagined. We bounced along in the ruts of the drive, past an enclosure full of slack-jawed bloodhounds, and came to a pitiful halt in front of a faded old barn on which a homemade sign bore the words - written in red and in such tiny letters they practically screamed for a psychoanalyst’s interpretation - ”cash only and no checks from wachovia bank”.

No one was in sight, but I had the distinct feeling that we were being watched. Sure enough, Edward and I turned to look to our right and discovered a herd of donkeys placidly gazing our way from their place in a pen by the barn, their dull expressions perfect pictures of asinine ennui. Of course, Edward immediately told Apple to look (!), and the chorus of barks and growls than ensued was deafening.

As we sat there, in the dying car, in the total darkness, in the freezing cold, hours from home, on our wedding anniversary, waiting for a “mechanic” we’d never clapped eyes on, questions naturally arose. What if he didn’t show up. What if he couldn’t fix the car. What if he turned out to be a homicidal maniac who intended to eat us for dinner. The dogs were quiet. They knew this was serious.

To be continued on Saturday night......

Anniversary

There are roses on my bedside table. I am a lucky girl.

It is my wedding anniversary.

And this is the best poem for today.

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I Will Make You Brooches

I will make you brooches and toys for your delight

Of bird-song at morning and star-shine at night.

I will make a palace fit for you and me

Of green days in forests and blue days at sea.

I will make my kitchen, and you shall keep your room,

Where white flows the river and bright blows the broom,

And you shall wash your linen and keep your body white

In rainfall at morning and dewfall at night.

And this shall be for music when no one else is near,

The fine song for singing, the rare song to hear!

That only I remember, that only you admire,

Of the broad road that stretches and the roadside fire.

by Robert Louis Stevenson

Enjoying January

January is a nesting month. The pages of the calendar are a bit clearer now, our schedules not quite so demanding. In cozy hibernation, much like artist Amber Alexander’s satisfied bear shown above, we have more time to read the books we’ve been saving, to see the films we’ve been curious about. Time to cook that recipe we’ve wanted to try. To pull out that difficult knitting pattern and work away with no deadline in sight. Time to to clean off our desks, clear the tinsel from our thoughts and prepare for the rest of the year. A wonderful time really, and here are a few of the things I’m especially enjoying whilst hibernating in this, the first month of the year.

Oh, and Amber's wonderful book-reading bear is named Byron and you can see more of her work HERE.

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Knitting

After all the knitting I did for Christmas presents, it’s been fun this month to knit a few special things just for myself and the Songwriter. In the holiday issue of Vogue knitting there were several patterns for cowls, or as I like to call them...Snoods. (Shown here on my two favourite models, who were kind to help out, even though neither of them has any need for warm clothing.) Trust me, these things are fabulous. When the cold winds blow, just tuck your chin down in their wooly warmth, or pull them up over your head. You’ll be in heaven! I am currently working on a splendid hat for The Songwriter. Terribly fun to knit and it reminds me of something Albus Dumbledore might wear.

You can see it HERE.

Edward and Apple kindly modeling my snoods!

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Bookplates

I’m crazy about these wonderful personalized bookplates, so much so that I gave some to everyone in my book club for Christmas.

Be sure to check out the entire shop HERE.

So many delightful designs.

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Horlicks

A hot cup of Horlick’s Light Chocolate Malt every night by the fire. One of life’s true pleasures in my humble opinion. We don’t have this particular incarnation here in the states, so I have to try and get it shipped in from the UK, but it’s worth every effort. More warming than brandy on a cold winter’s night.

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House Portraits

I always feel as if our beloved cottage is really the fifth member of our family, so it seems fitting that its portrait would hang on the walls. Some years back, an artist who often does work for me (in fact, his work is in every room of our house, much like Carl Larsson’s) created such a portrait and we just adore it. If you are fortunate enough to dwell in a house that you love, it is such a delightful thing to have its portrait painted. Patricia van Essche can do just that and can do it beautifully. The illustration below is just one example of her work.

Go HERE to see more.

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Fair Isle Gloves

The Songwriter surprised me with a wonderful gift at Christmas. A creamy brown pair of hand-knitted Fair Isle gloves, straight from Scotland. They are sold by Thistle and Broome, a site devoted to the art of my favourite place in the world. From teddy bears to Orkney chairs, dog leads to riding habits - all gorgeous and all handmade in Scotland. I had fallen in love with these gloves a while back. You may choose which of the knitters you’d like to create your very own pair.... mine were made by Agnes Bowie... and they arrive soon after, made exactly to your measurements.

Go visit, go shopping, HERE.

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Wedding Dresses

I suppose it’s because my own wedding anniversary occurs this week, but I often think of weddings in January. I catch myself glancing at the bridal magazines, creating whole white rose extravaganzas in my mind as I stand in the check out line at the market. Recently, I have begun to get a bit bored with all the strapless wedding gowns. They all seem so similar to me. Perhaps that’s why this one captured my fancy. If the Songwriter and I were walking down the aisle again this month, this just might be the one I’d choose.

You can see more HERE.

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Emma

Here in the states, Masterpiece Theatre is currently airing a brand new adaptation of Jane Austen’s, Emma, and it’s a winner. Wonderful performances, with sets and landscapes that are absolutely swoon-worthy. Romola Garai makes the most gorgeous Emma; she plays her with just the right balance of irritating conceit and utter charm. I really think this will be the definitive production of Emma for me from now on.

You can sneak a peek HERE.

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Marvelous Meryl

And on the subject of film.... I am so enjoying watching marvelous Meryl Streep pick up award after award for her perfectly delicious performance in Julie and Julia. So well deserved! How I hope she wins the Oscar!

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Masks

I adore this Cotton Milk Mask from Mario Badescu. If you’ve been playing outside all day in the cold, it’s just the best thing ever.

Go read about it HERE.

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Dogs at Play

Watching Edward and Apple play every day, especially in the snow we had a couple ofweeks ago, is just about the most fun I can think of. Pure abandon. I have recently discovered a blog where everyone can enjoy the happy sight of dogs at play, on the beach no less!

Go take a look HERE.

I dare you not to smile.

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Shoes

These wonderful handmade shoes remind me that warmer weather will be here soon. I can see myself wearing these everywhere come Springtime.

Go see them HERE.

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Winter Walks

And finally, walks with Edward are fun at anytime of the year, but the winter ones are best. We both want to run. This passage by from a poem by Amy Lowell captures the joy Edward and I both feel when we’re out for a walk in the icy air.

"So with the stretch of the white road before me,

Shining snow crystals rainbowed by the sun,

Fields that are white, stained with long, cool, blue shadows,

Strong with the strength of my horse as we run.

Joy in the touch of the wind and the sunlight!

Joy! With the vigorous earth I am one."

Amy Lowell, from A Winter Ride

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So, how about you?

What have you been enjoying about January?