60 Going On 16

Back to the lost domain

When I first visited Cothay Manor in Somerset last year (and which I wrote about here), I was reminded of Alain-Fournier and the lost domain of Le Grand Meaulnes. I went to Cothay again today and this wonderful house and its beautiful gardens worked their magic once more.

It was a glorious day, with proper sunshine and a cloudless sky, and I was with my Dear Friend, the Only Other Blonde in the Village (who, strictly speaking, is now the Only Blonde in the Village, since I stopped highlighting my hair - after 40 years or so - and discovered that I was no longer any sort of blonde, merely a light brunette). The Dear Friend is off to France next week and, as she will be celebrating a milestone birthday while she is away, we thought that a brief escape from the Village that Time Forgot would be in order, before she goes en vacances.

Cothay was the ideal spot: not too far to drive on a hot day and an antiques and decorative arts fair taking place all weekend. Tickets were extraordinarily good value at £5 a head and, as many of the stands were in the house itself, we were able to step across its ancient threshold for the first time. (And, yes, the interior is as magical as the exterior.)

I was sorely tempted by this vintage silk sari length:

but commonsense prevailed and I held back. And then I spotted this tiny chap:

while the Only Blonde was rather taken with the cricket print, propped against his chair.

We were transported back to a 1940s childhood by a Margaret Tarrant vintage print (think elves in pointy hats, anthropomorphic woodland creatures . . . ). But there was more. This dear old dog on wheels:

and then this fellow, ancient and one-eyed and, presumably once loved:

I want someone else to fall in love with him and take him home. The fair runs until tomorrow (27 June) so there is time; there is hope! 

Cothay still feels very much like the family home that it is; there is a quality of intimacy about it. Sheep wander across the drive:

and dogs (witness this properly Golden Retriever; NB golden, not almost white)

and hens are always in evidence outside the cafe. The hens are not a bit shy and are very well fed; they know just how to endear themselves to visitors:

We didn't do badly either. Large coffees and excellent rolls (ie delicious and very generous fillings). I treated the Dear Friend to a birthday special: a Coronation Chicken-filled roll, which seemed appropriate and which is probably the nearest I will get to anything vaguely Jubilympical. (See how I cunningly avoided using the 'O' word? I have no desire to be clapped in irons or carted off to the Tower or dragged through the courts by any of the sponsors . . .) Coronation Chicken is all the retro rage at the moment. Apparently.

After lunch there was still time to wander round the gardens. We had been talking about Monet's garden at Giverny, which we had both visited, when we spotted this:

and, for a moment, we truly could have been 'lost in France'.

But no visit to Cothay is complete without a sighting of the resident unicorn, which - of course - has magical powers, so I make no apologies for including another photo this time round.

It will take all my willpower not to return tomorrow. But I will be back, hopefully on 9 June, to see Richard III al fresco and, on 16 June, for a garden, plant and food fair, which is raising funds for The Daisy Garland, a charity that provides vital and pioneering support - focusing on the Ketogenic Diet - to children with epilepsy and to their families. You can read more about this year's events at Cothay here.

Meanwhile, an idea that came to me during that very first visit has reappeared; perhaps I should discuss it with the unicorn.

Ebb and flow, yin and yang, coming and going

I started writing this blogpost on 12 April and it is now the 22nd; blame it on the labyrinthitis, which, really, I could have done without. My GP tells me to expect up to six weeks of vertigo etc etc. Oh joy, oh rapture. She didn't mention that I would also get a streaming cold to add to the mix. Meanwhile, outside it is cold, wet, windy and grey - plus ça change - and it's almost May. Sometimes, I struggle, I really do, to love this country. Anyway, back to where I was ten days ago.

The spring holiday has been something of a bumper time for visitors at 60 Going on 16 Towers. The Dear Family (ie my daughter and her husband) were here until the morning of Easter Monday, leaving just enough time for a swift turnround before my Dear Friends, Mr and Mrs Gaucho, and their Border terrier, arrived from Scotland via the Cotswolds later that afternoon for a few days. They have now headed off to stay with a cousin in South Devon and I've been preparing one of the guest bedrooms ready for the arrival on Saturday of another Dear Friend, the Duchess. 

The Gauchos, the Duchess and I go back a long way. As Mr Gaucho said when we went out to dinner on Wednesday: 'You are my oldest friend . . .' And Mr Gaucho is most certainly my longest-standing male buddy. We first met c1970 at the architectural practice that he had joined as a newly qualified architect. I ran the practice library, ordered drawings, kept the accounts, did the PAYE, and grudgingly made coffee for the all-male architectural team (until I rebelled and the senior partners had to install coffee machines so that the chaps could make their own coffee). The Duchess arrived at the same practice c1972.

Mr Gaucho met the young woman who was to become Mrs Gaucho in the early 1970s and I just knew from the way he spoke about her that something special was happening. Which it was. Later, I was witness at their wedding and a proud godmother to their firstborn - a daughter, now a mother of four herself. 

'I'm trying to remember where and when we first met,' I said to Mrs Gaucho.

'You were standing at the top of the steps to your (basement) flat,' she replied.

That was here. (Not during the siege itself, you understand; that came later and there wasn't any hanging around at the top of the steps when that was going on. It was a matter of ducking one's head down and running as fast as possible, accompanied by a police officer, until one was safely inside the front door.) So we raised  our glasses to decades of a very happy triangular friendship. These don't always work but ours has, brilliantly, and I am proud to count Mrs Gaucho among my closest female friends.

For much of the year, I am entertaining canine guests, whom I love dearly, but conversation is, inevitably, somewhat one-sided. So the arrival of family and friends means proper, grown-up, human coversations about cabbages and kings, as well as the usual catching up.  In the past week or so, we have meandered, among many things, through writing, art, flowers, photography, politics, architecture, favourite blogs, and books, and food - in particular, food writers, most notably, a favourite food writer, Claudia Roden.

Mrs Gaucho, a fine cook herself, and I have both had the privilege of standing in Claudia Roden's kitchen, watching her at work, listening to her flow of stories, learning . . . For me, this was in the mid-1980s, when the company I was then working for published  a selection of recipes from A New Book of Middle Eastern Food. Watching, listening to, learning from and reading Claudia Roden changed the way I cooked and thought about food and Mrs Gaucho said she thought I might enjoy this recent post by Eat Like a Girl, who - almost three decades later - had also been standing in that same kitchen, watching, listening and learning. (I did enjoy it and I thought you might too.) 

Right, I have caught up; it is now - today.

While she was here, Mrs Gaucho and I put our heads together to create the foundations of her blog, something she has been wanting to start for a long time. I'm pleased to report that the running wave is now launched and I am looking forward to regular updates. Mrs Gaucho loves words and images as much as I do (and we like the same music) and I feel sure that you will find the running wave to be a source of delight.

Here's to friendships, tried and true, that stand the test of time. And to Claudia Roden. Why not?

Blessings

I'm not usually lost for words but found myself struggling to find anything to write about this Christmas. As a family, the usual midwinter celebrations were overshadowed by the loss of one of my nephews a fortnight ago and his funeral a week later. He would have been 50 today, Christmas Eve. I was in my brother's home the day my nephew was born - in his parents' bedroom - and held him in my arms when he was less than an hour old.

Many tears were shed at his funeral, not least by his two stunningly beautiful teenage daughters, but afterwards, when friends and family gathered to celebrate his life, there were smiles and laughter. There were tales of one escapade after another and how he had made us laugh, often. His oldest friend sent a wonderful tribute from the USA, where he now lives - a string of hilarious anecdotes from their growing-up years. 'He was,' said the friend, 'the funniest man I ever knew.'

And that, I thought, was quite a legacy.  

* * * * *

Festive preparations were, inevitably, sidetracked. I was already planning to spend Christmas with my family in the Chilterns but had to bring my departure date forward by four days to attend the funeral. Only when I unpacked did I realise how distracted I had been, with lists, presents, addresses, suitable clothes and much else besides left behind in Devon. Heigh-ho. It was not the end of the world. And at least I managed to remember to put the Mr C, the cat, and the Edinburgh Boy in the car.

My daughter and son-in-law worked right up until Friday evening, so I have spent the past week being mamma in the kitchen, cooking hearty meals for the returning workers. Tomorrow my son-in-law takes over at the stove, apart from pudding, which is down to me. But, as we are not keen on traditional fare like Christmas pudding, Christmas cake or mince pies - and as a non-meat eater turkey is also off the menu for me - I'm making  triple chocolate brownies from Isidora Popovic's Popina Book of Baking. They are utterly scrumptious but very rich so best saved for special occasions. There will be a touch of nostalgia for too, as Isidora's recipes take me back to our old home territory of Portobello Road, where she set up her first market stall ten years ago.

And then we will try very hard to unwind for a couple of days, before a round of visits to other members of the family and to friends.

Meanwhile, back in Devon, one of my canine guests, will be sporting the fruits of my crafting labours on Christmas Day, because, yes, I do make things - I knit and sew but tend not to write about my efforts because this isn't, by any stretch of the imagination, a domestic arts blog, of which there are very many - and a good many excellent ones. Anyway, I hope Little Miss P appreciates her present. For a small item, it was a bit of a pig to knit and I had to check on Ravelry to see if any other member had made it and whether they had also encountered problems. To which the answers were yes and yes - but one or two had posted useful tips and I just managed to finish the coat in time to gift wrap it and leave it under her owners' tree before I left for Christmas.

So here is Little Miss P having a final fitting and, could she speak,  I am sure that she, together with the Ednburgh Boy, would want to join me in wishing you the blessings of the season, wherever you are and whatever and however you are celebrating.  

Thank you for being such loyal readers during what has been something of an stop-start year for 60 going on 16. Next year, I hope to get back into my stride, thanks to the yoga and the choir and all . . . and the fact that at my (much-delayed) first annual post-Massive Inconvenience check-up, the consultant was delighted to tell me that I remain cancer free. Tomorrow, we might just be raising a glass to that.

Earlier today, I watched - as I do every year - the Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols from King's College, Cambridge, and this year's festival included BC: AD by the late poet, U A Fanthorpe, read by a young undergraduate. Fanthorpe was a Quaker and this clever, thoughtful poem reflects her particular and quiet faith. Even though I do not follow the same path, I was drawn to its deceptive simplicity. As with all good poems, it presents us with the familiar in an unfamiliar way and is absolutely to the point. If Fanthorpe's poem is new to you, think of it as a virtual gift from me.

BC : AD

This was the moment when Before 

Turned into After, and the future's

Uninvented timekeepers presented arms.

 

This was the moment when nothing

Happened. Only dull peace

Sprawled boringly over the earth.

 

This was the moment when even energetic Romans

Could find nothing better to do

Than counting heads in remote provinces.

 

And this was the moment

When a few farm workers and three

Members of an obscure Persian sect

Walked haphazard by starlight straight

Into the kingdom of heaven.

U A Fanthorpe 

On built-in obsolescence and the joys of vintage

So, there I was, having a brief break from it all in the Chilterns, iBook open, all ready to jump back into regular blogging, when something went wrong. Something horrible and technical, which meant that my beloved iBook, which has been half way round the world and back with me, might not work again. After a bit of deep breathing and giving myself a good talking to ('calm down, dear, it's only a laptop . . . '), I decided to use my oldie's bus pass and take the scenic route from where I was staying to, er, Reading. As you do on a Bank Holiday weekend.

Because Reading has an Apple Store and where there's an Apple Store, there's a Genius Bar. And I apologise to those of you who have PCs rather than Macs because this will mean not very much to you. Suffice it to say that the cool young things at the Genius Bar will tell you, among other things,  a) what's wrong with your Apple whatever and b) whether Apple can repair it or not. I think you already know what's coming. My iBook must be all of five or six years old so, no, Apple doesn't stock the required part any longer and cannot repair my writing companion.

It's not that we're joined at the hip, or anything like that, but I was a little sad. The sky was the colour of lead and the weather cold, windy and wet as I waited for the return bus to arrive and thought of all the places we'd visited together and the fun we'd had and the thousands of words I had pounded out on the keyboard. That's my iBook up on the right-hand typebar, doing its stuff in sub-tropical Kerala. Sigh . . . 

All is not yet lost and there is always the possibility of tracking down a relacement part somewhere and the asking my Apple guru to see if he can fix it. But still, five or six years do not exactly warrant a long-service medal, do they?

The iBook disaster came in the same week as the dishwasher at home ground to a halt and a CD - it was, natch, a library CD and not one of mine - got jammed in the (wrong slot) of the radio/CD player of my trusty old Subaru, the day before it was due back. (It was disc two of Jonathan Safran Foer's Eating Animals, as it happens.) The nice man at the Subaru garage said he would sort it out, which he did, and when I went to collect the car, he produced not one but two jammed CDs, one of which bore the grime of years.

'How we laughed,' he chortled.

I looked at the CD.

'Not mine,' I said, feeling affronted. 'Do I look like the sort of woman who would have a cheapo cover version of big band ballads? Must have been the previous owners.'

In which case, it has been stuck where it shouldn't be for oh, about 10 years. The previous owner bore an impressive and historic title and was a Deputy Lieutenant, so über posh, but with surprisingly naff musical tastes. 

The dishwasher was fixed too, thanks to a local family firm of electricians who come out at short notice, put things right in a tick, and do not charge an arm and a leg. I know, a vanishing breed.

Thank goodness, however, for our continuing - and growing - love affair with vintage fashion and secondhand pre-loved clothes, which has made increasing sense in these cash-poor and eco-conscious times and which continues to give many a fine garment a new lease of life (unlike my poor old iBook). I've written in the past about my Biba and Bus Stop 1960s clothes bonanza but, despite all those amazing - and affordable - new clothes, my girlfriends and I often added vintage accesories from markets like Portobello Road. It worked especially well with Lee Bender's Bus Stop designs, with their echoes of 1940s styling.

If, like me you still have a passion for fashion but a very tight budget, it's a great way to give a shrinking wardrobe a lift. My Dear Old School Friend, who is tall and slender and always looks a million dollars, never buys new and can work a charity shop dress rail like no-one else I know. As her daughter-in-law remarked, 'Who else could spot an Amanda Wakely number going for a snip in an Ilfracombe charity shop?' Amanda Wakely? Ilfracombe? Who'd have thought?

Anyway, I've been watching the way she works and I think I've picked up a tip or two. This summer, I bought a stylish little black shirt by Nicole Farhi, two Oska linen jackets and two designer-label white linen tops, for the total sum of £22, courtesy of charity shops in Devon and Somerset. And while I was staying in the Chilterns, I trotted along to one of the nearest town's four charity shops - ostensibly in search of a book or three. But this is celebrity land and these shops are positively heaving with brand new designer clothes, bought on a whim and never worn. So, instead of books, I came out with a thing of rare beauty: a Diane Von Furstenberg two-layered skirt in immaculate condition - cotton underskirt with a patterned and hand-beaded silk overskirt. Cost? Embarrassingly cheap at just £5. Now I just need the right party to come along so I can wear it to dance the night away - but the design is timeless, so I'll get years of wear out of it. In the meantime, I'm going to hang it up where I can look at it and admire all the work that went into designing and making something so very lovely. 

If only iBooks worked the same way.

(This post is brought to you courtesy of my Big Mac, which is also five years old . . . )

Mozart on BBC R3 - genius!

So, I've had a short cyberbreak, a breather, away from blogging, tweeting and the rest, which I have to do from time to time, otherwise . . . well, otherwise, time spent in front of computer just seems to escalate and then I'm not sure that I have anything to show for it.

What I have been doing, instead - apart from quietly revelling in being well again - is listening to a prodigious amount of music. Mozart to be precise. Wall-to-wall, round-the-clock Mozart. And it's all thanks to those rather wonderful people at BBC R3 and the station's current Genius of Mozart ("Every note he wrote") season. I would happily pay a king or queen's ransom for output of this quality, which BBC R3 is, quite possibly, alone in providing. (Seriously, could you imagine a series like this on a commercial station? Herr Mozart would be competing for airtime with endless commercials and there wouldn't be a snowflake's chance in hell of an opera or three, entire and uninterrupted.)

There have been so many memorable programmes and performances, so many fascinating commentaries and discussions, that one is left almost reeling (but in a good way). For example, as I write this Idomeneo, re di Creta is just about to start - a complete performance. Bliss!

Yesterday afternoon, however, was a true high point for me: another complete performance - Così fan tutte, with Dame Kiri Te Kanawa, Sir Thomas Allen, Agnes Baltsa et al, and the orchestra of the Royal Opera House, conducted by Colin Davis. I only have to hear the opening notes of the overture and that's it, no-one will get any sense out of me for the duration and throughout Act 1 in particular.

And is it possible, I wonder, to listen to the trio, Soave sia il vento, without shivers running up and down the spine, no matter how often one hears it. Every time I do hear it, I remember the first time, which was 40 years ago, at a cinema with my then Significant Other, watching Sunday Bloody Sunday . . . it was the Lucia Popp version. 

Fast forward 16 years, when I saw it on stage for the first time - at Glyndebourne (and I can tell you that it was a bit of a shock to realise that this was almost 24 years ago. How could that be? It was just a few years ago, surely?) It was my third but, sadly, my final visit to Glyndebourne, for tedious reasons that are not worth exploring here. (Thank goodness for the Glyndebourne website, without which I could not have pinpointed the year).

Those of us in the UK can still catch yesterday's programme here, in full, on BBC iPlayer - but hurry, there are just six days to go. For those of you beyond these shores, here is Soave sia il vento, from a more recent Glyndebourne production (2006):