To buy a fat pig

A hot day in August and I'm still enjoying the sights and sounds of my new environment. The weekly market always provides a bit of local colour and plenty to meditate on...

 

A few persistent stallholders remain. The rest of the stalls are packed up on trucks, the last vestiges of another successful market day piled into the back and the doors slammed shut. “Strawberries, 3 for 2 quid” yells the desperate man on the greengrocery stall. The day has turned warm and sultry. The produce has been standing in the hot sun for hours now and nothing left will survive – best to sell it now at any price.

 

A woman walks past me with a laden shopping bag -  bag for life – and a broom. She is hot and dishevelled but her day’s shopping is done and she is ready to go home for a well-deserved pot of tea. A few women in pretty cotton dresses still linger around the remaining stalls, looking for bargains and enjoying the last of a fine day out. Market day! An old-fashioned mid-week treat. Half past two on this warm afternoon. The clock chimes prettily on the old clock tower in market square as it has done for centuries. The town relaxes again after another busy day and the stall holders count their takings, swelled by the crowds of eager tourists at this time of year.

 

The scene is reminiscent of a Hardy novel. Women drag heavy shopping bags; men loiter on the hot, dusty pavement outside the White Lion, trying to quench their thirst after the exertions of the day. Only the livestock are missing from this familiar scene.

 

“To market, to market, to buy a fat pig...” No pigs on offer today except ready sliced and packaged on the butcher’s stall. But the market stall reflects the ongoing commerce which is still at the heart of this noisy market town – the buying and selling of fresh fruit and vegetables, meat, organic produce and household necessities, from new watch straps to garden twine. No fat pigs but plenty to eat. It seems that every alternate establishment along the busy High Street is offering something to eat or drink. Every cafe table is full, the occupants sitting over their beef stew, fanning themselves in the heat or seeking a spot of shade in the garden of the public house.

 

“Home again, home again, jiggety gig” goes the rhyme. The wheels turn and it will soon be Wednesday again: time to relive yet another market day in the life cycle of this friendly, easy-going community. For now, everyone is content to go home, the stallholders to gather up their belongings, stack their trestle tables, empty pallets and leftover stock and the shoppers to take their produce home, fill their larders and gloat over the pennies they saved once again. Everyone is happy. The stallholders know they got a good price and the shoppers are equally certain of their good fortune. Win-win.

 

And the pig? The pig slips greasily through the crowd to escape for another week, unscathed. It was not always so lucky in times past.

 

Home Alone

Retirement has crept up on us, unnoticed in the busy days and months of relocation. We have become used to our strange new rhythm of life, conducted in harmony, together, one smoothly oiled unit again.

Today is different. Parted for once, to follow diverse pursuits – he to explore the new world of outdoor painting with a newly discovered group of kindred spirits and me at home, armed with pastry, a rolling pin and the best of local Welsh ingredients to try my hand at home baking in my new Welsh kitchen.

The hub of the home! That’s what the kitchen has again become in many people’s minds. A 21^st century ‘back to the country’ phenomenon, reinventing what, for centuries past, has been normal, traditional and so ordinary as not to be noticed. Now, however, it is all the rage.

 

The cottage seems empty today. I saunter about, enjoying my new little ‘kingdom’ – queendom, perhaps. I can do what I please today. Hard to get used to after days, weeks, months with a newly retired husband. I can do nothing... or I can do anything I want to. But I have been shopping in readiness for this day, buying fresh peppers, cheese, mushrooms; I have extracted meat from the freezer, prepared my ground well. So my course is set. It is a strange choice, maybe – a day of baking in the kitchen: in traditional ‘women’s territory’! But it’s my choice and I am relishing the luxury of an uninterrupted day with time to ‘get on’. Today I am safe to be left at home alone; next time, maybe, who knows? I may get up to mischief...

The Gannet

The bird falls out of the heavens, gleaming white, down, down, plummeting into the deep blue ocean, free falling, no parachute, white on blue. Smack, it hits the water, takes a moment’s rest, then up, up again. It soars into the clear, blue sky, a lonely gannet, all alone in the forefront of my view.

 

In the distance a misty haze hovers around the hummocky mountain ridge on the other side of this huge, blue bay. The foreground is in sharp focus, the distant hills less certain, an air of mystery and fathomlessness shrouding them and stealing my attention.

 

The clear, blue sea and my gleaming white gannet are fascinating. They arrest me and hold my attention for some time, as I gaze wonderingly at the spectacle in front of me. A vast expanse of endless blue and a plunging speck of white energy – dazzling white and brilliant blue – take up the foreground. But the mountains are something else. Their misty quality is tantalising, intoxicating and atmospheric. They hold my gaze and fill me with a sense of speculation – what are they?

 

What sheep graze on their grassy hillsides and rocky crags? What whitewashed cottages nestle in their folds? Who lives there and how do they exist in such a remote spot? What streams course down these steep hillsides and trickle unceasingly into brown, bubbling waterways in the valleys? What is unknown and unseen is more captivating, then, for me than what is bright, obvious and initially in my vision. Life’s mysteries have a greater power to capture my mind than her more obvious gifts, it seems. What would be left of life without that innate sense of wonder and curiosity?

The Mixed Border

What could be better than a glorious summer’s day in June? This year you have to make full use of them when they turn up! Add in birdsong, a freshly mown, green velvet croquet lawn in a walled garden of mellow, red brick and a mixed border. That’s even better! I am a lover of mixed borders.

 

Over in the corner a man in a striped T shirt is bent over one of the tall plants, doing what he knows needs doing. He is healthy-looking, wiry and tanned. He is accustomed to the outdoor life and he just knows what to do. He is an expert. You can see it by the results. Now he kneels on the grass, gently pruning off the dead leaves of a magnificent yellow lupin. At this stage in the summer the carefully spaced array of yellow lupins are the most striking plants on display. I love lupins. These are the colour of natural sea lupins but they are prolific, their tall stems overflowing in a profusion of pale yellow blooms, their graceful green fronds shimmering slightly in the tiniest of breezes.

 

I am fascinated by mixed borders and the skill and patience of the wise old gardeners who design them, poring over seed catalogues in winter, researching, planning, propagating, ordering, planting seeds, thinning seedlings, protecting from frost, planting out, watering, feeding, nurturing and just waiting, full of wisdom and patience. Then, somehow, right on schedule, old plants are rejuvenated, clumps of last year’s dead wood yield bright new shoots, new seedlings appear and everything grows, develops, reaches up for the light, blossoms and then, hey presto, as if by magic, a garden appears. The tallest plants are at the back, tiniest plants at the front – all in order: bright, eye-catching daisies, tall clumps of delphiniums, bluer than blue, countless varieties of delicate species of geranium, miniature irises, purple-headed aquilegias, drifts of yellow, nodding poppies and pansies in tiny clumps. My garden does not look like this.

 

How do they do that? The roses, clinging to the wall, spread their graceful foliage along the warm, red brickwork and shower yellow rose petals on the earth beneath them. The gardener advances down the row of lupins, slips a pair of well-worn secateurs into his back pocket and stands back to admire his work. A lucky man! Thrice-blessed with wisdom, patience and this glorious garden! I am grateful for his gifts and happy on this wonderful June day to share with him the magnificent outcome of his superior talents.

 

Powys Castle, Wales

Shades of Grey

So, how is your summer so far? If, like me, you live in northern Europe, you may feel a little cheated, apt to complain or demand your money back. Me too. After a long, bitter winter, following on from a wet, almost non-existent summer last year, this year's spring and summer have been a bit of a bad joke.

 

But, complaining achieves nothing. There are forces out there we just don't (yet?) seem to have the technology to deal with. No point in bashing your head against a brick wall. The weather, it seems, just ain't gonna change. So, try another tack... How can I enjoy it anyway? Well, here in Wales, close to the beautiful west coast, and surrounded by glorious green mountains, I am learning a new technique. One defining feature of my personality is that I love the open air. Another is that I am incurably a 'colours' person. Sadly, I love warmth too, but let's just put that one on one side for the time being...

 

Open air - well, it's still out there! It's just a tad chilly and I feel the cold quite badly. Solution: instead of wearing winter clothes and feeling cold (as I do for most of the winter), I can wear my winter clothes and feel warm. After all, it's summer! Moving here has been an experience, although the bad summer doesn't seem to be limited to Wales.

 

Last week, in our attempt to explore the local community and what it has to offer, we had a night out at a recently completed chapel conversion. The new community hall offered us a first-rate night out, with a chamber quintet all the way from England and some wonderful local musicians, together with tea and biscuits in the interval and some of the friendliest local people you could wish to meet. Coming down from the tiny gallery still incorporated into this wonderful converted chapel building, I noticed that the locals are well equipped this year to survive our novel summer weather. Sun-dresses? Strappy tops? Flimsy summer sandals to celebrate this special night out? Not a bit of it! One elderly lady struck me as particularly sensible and well-adapted - a smart outfit as befitted the occasion, but topped with a woolly hat! I'm still on a learning curve myself, but in our entrance hall at home hang a selection of summer and winter attire, a sunhat (for optimistic days) and a brown woolly hat which I don for brisk, blustery walks along the seafront. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em!

 

Colour? Well, the mountains are still a glorious green, the sheep are still gleaming white, especially the newly shorn, shivering ones, but the sky is often grey and the hills are sometimes shrouded with grey mist, upsetting my natural colour sense which is more adapted for the Mediterranean. As for the sea, I am learning to appreciate a whole new colour range -  misty grey, light grey, deep-dark-depressing grey, grey-black, grey-blue, grey-green, blue-grey and just plain, unadulterated grey. In the end it drove me to poetry. Well, what else can you do, sitting in the car in the drizzle, with a thermos of hot coffee on a summer's afternoon...?

                                           So Many Shades of Grey 

                                                Grey blue sea

                                                Calling me
                                                Blue grey sky
                                                Flying high
                                               Grey brown stones
                                               No-one owns
                                               Yellowish grey
                                               Sand-filled spray
                                               Greyish blue
                                               Distant view
                                               Greyish green
                                               Hills between
                                               In the rain
                                               Grey again
                                               Shades of grey
                                               Glorious day!

 

 

Not the best of poetry, but it made me feel better. You should try it sometime.

 

 

 

Lights Out

I glanced across at him, noting his kindly face and gentle smile, reserved, not pushing himself forward but attentive to his wife’s conversation, and reminding me suddenly of a friend. In former times my friend was just such a man as this, with a lively sense of fun, a zest for living and a lot of wisdom about our time on earth, how to enjoy the moment and seize the day. Sadly, at this present time, my friend is a shadow of his former self, immersed in a deep depression, inattentive to his wife’s grief, and unaware of the joys and possibilities of the present moment.

 

We moved on from the cafe, strolled through pleasant gardens and seated ourselves on a bench to enjoy the view. Again, my attention was drawn to my companions in this lovely setting, a couple enjoying the gardens, him on foot, her in a wheelchair, pointing out flowers in the border that took her fancy, as he pushed her along the grass. As they passed us she greeted us cheerfully, a smile on her face, and we exchanged joyful appreciation of the lovely garden and the warm summer weather. She was enjoying herself, despite her obvious disabilities – enjoying the sunshine, the flowers, the fresh air and her husband’s company.

And my friend? He enjoys nothing. He may recover. I hope for his sake and for his family that he does. I hope at some point the mists will clear and he will see life clearly again, as it is, full of light and shade, good and bad, but for all its trials, worth living and offering hope and possibilities. Like the lady in the wheelchair, he will be able to enjoy at least his partial good fortune and the good things in his life. A physical sickness, a deformity, a sensory limitation, or a disability is a sad thing, limiting our enjoyment. But a depression is a terrible affliction, turning out the light and wiping the memory clean that once knew how to turn it on again.

What Colour is Your Toothpaste?

My toothpaste is turquoise – it used to have blue and white stripes. I quite like turquoise but it’s different. Turquoise is gentle, whimsical and imaginative. Blue and white stripes make you feel alert and vibrant and set you up for a positive day’s activity.

In my kitchen I fry the onions to a pale golden colour. My left arm reaches out for the handle of the wall cupboard to my left. What I am searching for isn’t there. Why not? Wrong kitchen. Wrong cupboard. Another life. My instinctive reaching out for what I need used to result in gratification – the herbs or spices I needed next, the cheese grater or the sieve. Now it’s all wrong. I must engage my brain and reject my body’s natural impulses.

In the bedroom – well, surely bodily impulses must rule there! But no, in the night I wake and direct my gaze towards the illuminated, red numbers of the radio alarm. Is it nearly morning? Should I stir and make a cup of tea? Or is it merely another waking phase at 3 a.m. in my current, rather annoying and restless sleep patterns? But the answer is delayed. My brain turns the problem over slowly, painfully and  finally arrives at the answer. Since yesterday the bed has been raised a foot, from its earlier state as a makeshift mattress on the floor to the superior position of a real bed with a wooden frame, a headboard and a footboard to bump your shins on as you round the foot of the bed. More change. The new wardrobes have been erected and are very beautiful and the bed can now take up its permanent position. The carpentry workshop has been transformed into a bedroom. The clock now stands beside me at eye level on a smart new bedside chest of drawers, instead of on a pile of bed parts on the floor where my eye was instinctively searching for it.

This is all change for the better. We have chosen our new existence. We have discarded other options and chosen this one. It is a good choice and we are happy. But sometimes the mind and body, let alone the subconscious, are not so easily satisfied. Changes can be good; changes can be bad. But all change has consequences and on a subconscious level there is strain. Maybe it is simply that the tree outside the window of my new home is two feet taller. Maybe the birdsong is different. Maybe the neighbours speak with a different accent and I buy my groceries in a different shop. It doesn’t matter; I will get used to it. But inevitably there is strain; there is stress. My toothpaste is turquoise – and my inner self knows it isn’t right. This is going to take more time than I thought. Moving house is quite a project, it seems...