Round My Hometown

At present I'm getting reacquainted with the place I grew up, I moved away for University at 18 then only came home for fleeting visits between then and now. In almost ten years not much has changed but it feels different to me in the way childhood homes can when you have lived away for so long. Shopfronts have moved, closed, or been updated and I'm no longer one of the herd of ravenous teenagers who descend upon the town centre each lunchtime. When I lived in Nottingham I frequently felt homesick for Lincolnshire, less so in Ashbourne which was similar in many ways - only hillier! There are plenty of places in my hometown to go treasure seeking - a gang of charity shops, frequent markets, antique shops dotted around but just as importantly many places to stop off for a cup of tea and a chat with old friends. I love Lincolnshire for itself, but the people make the place - the family and friends I have here - it is great to have chance to recharge my 'home' batteries for a little while, though I'm already thinking of adventures down the line . . . . . . 

Hope you all had a brilliant bank holiday weekend!

In Bud

T and I moved out of our little Ashbourne house on the 14th of April, it was sad to say goodbye to such a sweet old place but it was time to head forward. We're each living with our parents while we search for a place to live in Nottingham - we're going back to the city we met in, and hopefully returning to plenty of new and exciting opportunities too.

So I'm back home in Lincolnshire at present, which is no bad thing! I am making the most of some time with my family, enjoying the peace and quiet of Keepers Cottage, and taking Ted the Border Terrier for walks in the woods around the house. Spring is most definitely in full swing here; Primroses and Forget-Me-Nots have popped up all over the place, the Bluebells are readying their purple loveliness for display and even the Daffodils are resolutely clinging on. When the wind blows in the right direction you can pick up a definite trace of the wild garlic surrounding the garden, although it hasn't yet reached it's most pungent! I've been seeking out a few recipes to put some of it to good use. Everything is coming into bud and even the white-flowered weeds in the wood make a gorgeous carpet. I love Spring. 

Mug Shot

I was packed off to University with a box of crockery we picked up at Argos, it soon transpired that my little matching set was identical to those of half my flat. We never knew whose mugs/plates/bowls were whose and in a student kitchen with dubious standards of hygiene it was a touch hit and miss when making a cup of tea! I think this is what kicked off my love of distinctive, pretty mugs - nobody could pinch my super clean, shiny ones now that they were so different from everyone else's. I never found carefully grown mould on top of congealed cuppa-soup again. Well, almost never. 

Mugs are a personal thing; witty-banter talking point mugs, plain jane white stoneware mugs, retro charity shop offerings, mugs with cats, mugs with dogs, the gaudy patterned sort, delicate bone china granny-mugs. We all have a preference, and when you think about it your favourite mug (as long as it stays in one piece, there is always an inevitable dropping incident) is a constant companion; it weathers cold mornings, flu season, tea and sympathy, bad days and busy days as stoically as the occasional 'just because' breakfast in bed. If mugs could talk . . . . Think of all the conversations they have overheard, snippets of life they have witnessed and gossip they've gleaned from being central to cosy catchups with visiting friends and family. The likelihood is they've seen you first thing in the morning minus the miracle of a shower, a hairbrush and a coat of mascara too. 

The boy frequently grumbles about our jam-packed mug cupboard - but he made a few additions of his own when we pooled our resources seven years back, in fact he owns a witty-banter talking point mug with a fart-based quote that I'm loath to make tea in for anyone besides him and my Dad. I took out my entire mug stock last week, determined to prune half a dozen or so to take to the charity shop and could  have sworn I heard the cupboard creak in weary relief. There was much shuffling and muttering, a hot spa dip for them all and then half an hour chilling out on the draining board before I returned them all to their rightful home. They know too much!     

Georgina

We have snow again, and plenty of it - the strong winds have been creating odd little drifts and although it is late March I'm transported back to December somehow. I had a wonderful childminder growing up - she was, and is - truly one of a kind. An Irish woman from county Cork with a heart the size of the moon and occasionally a very matter of fact turn of phrase. At Georgina's we would spend days like today building indoor forts of blankets and sofa cushions, hanging out by the log burner munching toast and playing Contraband, or bundling up in ski jackets to brave the cold and bounce on the snowy trampoline in the garden. There were endless snowball fights and soggy walks home from school which meant squeaky shoes and wet socks in the porch then a race for the comfiest chair by the log burner. The kitchen was a place of wonder and there was always something bubbling away on top of the stove or baking inside it; we made biscuits and bread, dropped scones and fairy cakes, tarts and even doughnuts. Christmas was a riot of badly topped mince pies, cheese straws and cards sporting lollystick frames around cut-outs from the previous year's festive brochures. Pancake day equalled barely contained pandemonium in which we'd all queue up eager to help stir the mixture and flip our own pancakes before Georgina slid them deftly onto our plates, it inevitably lead to some batter based disasters, I vividly remember only narrowly avoiding wearing Jonathan's pancake when he got a little overenthusiastic with the flipping action. 

Random recollections but I often think of Georgina on snowy days!

Go well, Belle

Belle was the most adorable puppy I had ever laid eyes on; her ears were too large to be allowed, she had a permanently quizzical expression and the pads on her little paws matched her bright pink tongue. It was love at first sight. She was a long haired Weimaraner, a present from my Dad to my Mum for her 40th birthday, and she grew up quickly into a gangly, wiggly, overenthusiastic member of the family. To say she had a presence is an understatement - tripping hazard would be more accurate - Belle was everywhere; underfoot in the kitchen, sprawled out at the bottom of the stairs, nudging at knees for a fuss while making short work of anything on the coffee table with her very waggy tail. If you gave her half a chance she'd be on your lap, failing that she'd offer you her paw until she had your attention. I missed her so much when I left home to go to University but each time I was back for the weekend I'd wake in the middle of the night to hear her scratching at my door to be let into my bedroom, once inside she'd shoot me a look as though to say 'What took you so long?' and then lay down to snooze. Like Peter Pan she never really grew up, she kept her puppyish nature right up to being 11 or so and never grew into her ears either.

Yesterday afternoon, after almost 12 years as part of the Cope clan, Belle was put to sleep - it was her time to go - old age caught up with her and there was a rapid decline in her health since Christmas. Pets can't live forever and it is always so sad to say goodbye but it is worth the heartache now to have had the years that came before.