Southwold

A long weekend away: the little town of Southwold lies about two hours away, on the Suffolk coast.  We had rented a little cottage, which was fortunate as the weather was rainy and stormy.   This photo shows the classic beach huts and the lowering sky; the wind was really bracing along the front, whipping up the sand.

 

Sunset on the Friday over the pier, rebuilt in 1987 in whimsical style.  The sea looks calm enough here, the low autumnal light mellowing everything in sight.

Gun Hill, so named because of the line-up of early 18th Century cannon.  The story has it that the Germans classified Southwold as a fortified town on account of these ancient weapons, leading to heavy bombardment during World War 2.

Saturday was forecast for rain later, so we drove down and across the river to Walberswick.  The church was deroofed during the reformation, but the tower still stands.  Setting out across the reed-beds, my husband, who knows his birds, immediately spotted a marsh harrier.

Sunday was brilliantly sunny, but with relentless high winds.  We headed to the flagship RSPB reserve at Minsmere.  Here, bird-watching takes on quasi religious dimensions.  Visitors wear special clothing and many are equipped with huge camera lenses and telescopes. 

We were amazed to see these waxwings serenely ignoring three people in camouflage jackets scanning them from close quarters.

 

 

Visitors to Minsmere treat the wildlife with total respect, with the result that deer do not remain alert and make their escape, but continue browsing.  Likewise this little squirrel, enjoying the berries at its leisure.

We very much enjoyed all the thought and care that had gone into the reserve, especially the bird-feeders right outside the tea-room windows, so that watching did not have to be interruped by lunch.
I'm not a bird-watcher yet, but maybe I could become one.

Knitting Lace

Sunday found me sitting in the basement classroom of Loop, a knitting shop in Islington.  I knitted contentedly on the sample square while listening to Franklin Habit.  Next me was Jean Miles, whose daily blog-posts are a constant source of lively ideas and amusing reflection. 

The fact that this class lasted three hours,  delivered without a break, but at the end the students were not ready for it to end, is some testament to Franklin's ability to engage and inform. 

We learnt a huge amount about the distinct traditions of lace knitting - and also about Franklin's grandmother and her values.  We passed around some exquisite examples of lace knit by Franklin himself.

Here he models an example of vintage lace edging on a nightcap for a man,  worn with a lace stole channeling Jackie Kennedy, over beautifully tailored tweed.

In the group one participant identified herself as a beginner, while at the other end of the spectrum was Jean, whose Shetland lace knitting is legendary.  Franklin was undaunted.  His particular skill lay in steering back to his lesson plan, while allowing comments and questions.

We emerged into the bustle of Camden Passage and enjoyed lunch at "The Elk in the Woods", where the wallpaper certainly lived up to expectations.  How strange to sit across a lunch table from Jean, enjoying the warmth of her lovely smile.  Bloggers share so many details of their lives with the world, and yet we had never met before.

All too soon Jean hurried back for the next class, while I was free to browse the shop.  I could have bought many things, but chose these three balls of fine yarn, because the colours are so subtle.  Quite what they will turn into, I do not yet know.

 

Goldengrove unleaving

 

Taking advantage of our new freedom, we caught the train north to Cumbria, just to see the leaves turning.  And we were not disappointed, though it has to be said that it was not warm.

We went to the Whinlatter forest park and from there walked up to the summit actually called Whinlatter.

Another day we walked up and round the Wythop valley, a place of remote farms and woodlands.  Imagine if this was your wash-house and you had to boil your sheets in this "Copper". 

Then we walked through Lanthwaite woods on a gloriously calm and clear day, round the foot of Crummock Water and to lunch at the Kirkstile Inn.

The staggering colours in these trees, lit up by the brightness of the sunshine.  We felt blessed.

 

Double, double...

I've discovered a new hobby: natural dyeing.  Spurred on by re-reading "Niccolo Rising" by Dorothy Dunnett, in which the dye-yards of Bruges, and the availablity of alum get more than a mention, I think to recreate the scene in my own kitchen.  Alum is still not readily available so I have to improvise.

 

 

I have a small stock of natural cream yarn, from the Falkland Islands by way of a charity shop.  I decide to dye small samples and a slightly larger skein of each for use.  As what remains to be seen.

 

First up is rhubarb leaf, of which we still have a fair quantity.  This is full of oxalic acid, so is poisonous, but needs no mordant for the wool to accept the dye.  This is my first attempt, and I am rather unimpressed by the muted greeny-yellow. However, it grows on me as I grasp that natural dyes tend to be muted.

Later, I excavate an old rhubarb plant to find masses of orange root, rotted from the centre.  Soaked and boiled, this produces a really strong orange.  It also seems more like cauldron boiling than just the leaf did.  I leave both kitchen doors open and stand well clear.

 

Next, I try strong coffee and tea, both of which produce robust results. 

Vinegar and salt were often used as mordants and prove useful with sloes, which give a lovely shade of pink.  Carrot tops yield  a strong lime green.

Rose-hips and beetroot, so brightly coloured themselves, produce only pallid tints.

Most interesting and informative, in a scientific sense, is red cabbage.  By itself it is as faint as beetroot, but adding vinegar makes it stronger.  However, adding baking-powder to the juice instead of vinegar produces quite a violent chemical reaction, turning the liquid to a jade green.  This dyes to rather a strong colour, although there were also some brown streaks there.  The fumes from this process seemed quite noxious and reminiscent of old-fashioned perm lotion - so probably ammonia?  This seems odd when red cabbage is surely just cabbage and baking powder must be an edible substance. 

As usual, much can be learned from the endeavours of others as published in their blogs.  Red cabbage even merited a scientific study as to whether it could be used as an indicator to determine acids and alkalis.

We'll see where this goes.  A trader in alum is visiting our Guild later in the month.  Whether I can assemble all the dye-stuffs again remains to be seen.

Tea, coffee, rhubarb root, tea, beetroot, rose-hip, carrot-tops, red cabbage green and pink, and sloes.

 

Cartmel

And so to Cartmel.  South of the Lake District, between the Furness peninsula and the M6, is the Cartmel peninsula.  This was at once very familiar and totally unknown to me, because for about twenty years my elder sister and her family farmed there.  So I would call in for tea as I drove North to stay with my parents in West Cumbria, but never spent any time exploring the immediate area.  This seems incomprehensible now, but it is so.  After all, I would have driven three hundred miles from Essex by that point, so sightseeing was not on my mind.

Now, though, we took a little holiday cottage in order to explore the southern lakes.  In fact, we spent the whole week in the peninsula itself.

Cartmel has an absolutely glorious priory dating from 1289.  The original founder fortuitously inserted a clause about it being really a parish church, so it was spared the ruination it might have had in the sixteenth century.  The first view of the great window certainly induces awe. 

Around the priory the village has the full complement of teashops, excellent restaurants and a shop specialising in the sticky toffee pudding.  What more can one ask?

We took walks out along the coast, where stretches of salt-marsh lead to Morecambe Bay.  Over Humphrey Head we realised that we were walking on limestone pavement, and that the flora was that special kind only seen on this terrain.

As we sat eating lunch my husband spotted egrets and a heron.  We saw peregrines feeding.

Passing through Flookburgh, we stopped to buy shrimp and flooks (a flat fish, like plaice) from the home of a fishing family who take their tractor out into the bay and cast their nets.  Everywhere there was a sense of a more ancient way of life still being lived. 

Another day we visited Holker Hall, a charming property still lived in by the Cavendish family.  Very interesting to see somewhere presented without the somewhat uniform manner of the National Trust, much as we love that organisation.  Holker burned down in the late Victorian period and was rebuilt within four years.  Everywhere there is evidence of the woodworking skills of the Simpsons of Kendal.

The gardens are magical, with many eye-catching features such as this fountain.

Another perfect day started with a trip on a steam railway.

From there we walked to Stott Park Bobbin Mill where we learned about the once thriving industry producing cotton spools for the textile indusry, using locally coppiced wood and water power.  It was fascinating to see the original techniques demonstrated, and to see how those wooden cotton reels were turned.

  From there we took a hike up Gummer's How, at the end of Windermere, where the views and the ascent are breath-taking.  Very evident here are the autumn colours of the bracken.

We were sorry to leave.




 

Time Out...

For some time now we have been planning to be in the North for September this year.  We certainly didn't want to be at a loose end here as the schools went back and term started.  So, although it felt as though we had just got back, we headed to Cumbria again.

In our fantasies we are the sort of rugged individuals who can set out on a long-distance footpath, carrying only minimal luggage, and taking pot-luck as to where we sleep the night.  The reality is somewhat different.  There is a path running the length of Hadrian's Wall: this seemed like as good a place as any to begin with.  And we needed a section where the actual wall is still in evidence.  We know that between five and ten miles is our limit for the day, and we needed public transport links to get us to there and back again.

So we hopped on the little train up to Carlisle and changed to the one that runs across the country to Hexham.  Hexham Abbey is very atmospheric, with Roman remains and Celtic crosses.

We were very taken with this coffer, right by the stairs the monks would have used to access the church by night.

In Hexham is a wonderful bookshop called Cogito, where I picked up a leaflet for Persephone Books, a publishing house reissuing writing from between the wars, mainly by women.  Their website is an aesthetic delight, as their shop must be.

Roman memorial in Hexham Abbey

Next day we caught the bus up to Chesters Roman fort as our starting point.  Soon we passed this very impressive stable block, which is looking for a new owner, for non-residential use only.  Imagine the possibilities.

It did not take long for the weather to change from high cloud to the kind of strong wind and penetrating drizzle which must have made the Wall a favourite posting for the legions.   At Brocolita, there was  a temple to Mithraus with pierced stones through which a light would have shone for added drama.  There was also a coffee vendor doing a brisk trade in hot chocolate and warning people that the wind could lift off the froth like a custard pie.

Section of Hadrian's Wall

We squelched onwards into the wind.  Ahead the ground rose over Sewingshields crags - and the wall rose with it.  This was a very spectacular section.

Celtic cross in Hexham Abbey

Eventually we reached Housesteads where we were to pick up the bus back to the train. It had taken us about six hours to walk that short stretch, although  walking into the wind made it seem much longer.  We were very glad not to have to set out again the next day.  So much for long-distance footpaths.

 

Catching up...

Thank you for all your kind wishes on my retirement.  The truth is that we would have been on holiday at this point in any year, so the reality of being without a job now has not yet sunk in.

We decided to spend a week in the little valley of Troutbeck, which leads out of Windermere towards Kirkstone Pass.  This is classic Lakeland, allowing us to walk from the door on to serious hills.  Our rented cottage was called Granary Cottage, and that is what it was: the end of a building with outside steps leading to the first floor living area and kitchen.  All Lakeland farms would have had similar structures.  Below was the bedroom and shower room, a less happy arrangement, as this may have been a root cellar or open cart store before conversion.  Next door was this rather wonderful spinning gallery.  Troutbeck is full of such survivals.

A view of Troutbeck strung out along its valley, and one of the fourteen wells serving different settlements.

From this base we walked up to Ill Bell, along a long high ridge.  Although it was a cloudy day, the views stretched out to Blackpool Tower to the south and Great Gable and Scafell to the north-west.

Just below us lay the valley of Kentmere, where the reunion of my Great-grandfather's family took place some years ago.   We strode down the valley, coming across a shepherd and his lad who had been gathering sheep from the fells for six hours that day, with another long day in prospect on the opposite valley side.  The huge straggling flock had been brought down for the clipping.

Another day took us out across Windermere to Wray Castle, now awaiting development, but as what?
We walked down the lake shore, picking up a steamer at Bowness to come back up the lake.

After our week away, we returned to our own cottage on the Solway coast which was enjoying good weather for once.  My husband wore his pedometer on our walks and, encouraged or misled by the "Calories used" section, we went out for tea at the Lodore Falls Hotel.

This is tea for one person - but we managed to clear the plate!