love those cupcakes

Passage to India, part 3

The journey to Gujerat was reversed and we travelled for many hours by jeep, car and eventually plane back to Mumbai.  The usual Indian traffic was negotiated, daily life and traditional methods observed, with stops en route for a leg stretch and to meet and chat with villagers.

After an overnight stay in Mumbai, it was time to hit the skies and roads once again as we journeyed towards Madhya Pradesh in Central India.  

Driving through the forest gave ample opportunity to spot birds, gaur (the impressively horned Indian bison), deer, monkeys, wild dogs.  We searched and searched for tigers (they cover vast areas) but, whilst there was some evidence of their presence, they remained out of sight.  

One afternoon, after driving in the jeep for maybe 10 minutes, a leopard suddenly came into view, emerging from the bushes, just ahead of us on the track. 

Our tracker advised they are elusive creatures and spotted only fleetingly, high up in trees or on top of rocks or up in the hills in the distance before disappearing from view. 

This one was uncharacteristically sociable, keeping us company for about 90 minutes, just chilling, pooing, grooming.  Oh, for a cuddle.

It was a lucky day. 

But.  The main aim of the trip was to see a tiger..........

 

Passage To India, part 2

After the whistle stop tour of Mumbai, it was time to go in search of wildlife.  After a  short-ish flight, we hit country roads for six hours and then travelled by jeep for the final stretch to reach the edge of the forest in Gujerat. 

We arrived, miraculously unscathed.  Traffic in India is unbelievable and probably best experienced as a passenger (maybe even as a driver) with eyes closed.  Roads outside of the big cities are, at best, just wide enough for two vehicles travelling in opposite directions to pass each other. 

There are lorries, cars, overfull buses, bullock driven carts, motorbikes (no-one wears a crash helmet and often families including babies ride pillion), bicycles, tricycles and the ever present cows.  Road markings (where they appear), traffic lights and the usual rules of the road are 'optional'.  Basically it's a free for all.  Road users do as they wish.  And that can mean driving head on towards oncoming traffic on single lane roads and holding your nerve, trusting that the driver rapidly closing in you from the opposite direction will lose theirs and veer out of the way at the last minute.  Oh, and drivers flash their lights and honk their horns.  Constantly. 

So, Gujerat, India's westernmost state, with protected forest areas providing a home to a variety of wildlife.  Sambhar and spotted deer, langur monkeys, jackals, more than 200 bird species, crocodiles, elusive leopards, snakes and so much more.  

A new routine was quickly established.  Days beginning before sunrise, being driven by jeep through the forest for five or six hours, returning in the afternoon and staying until dusk, heads turning in all directions, eyes scanning for any movement.

The forest is also home to the Maldharis, the tribal herdsmen and their families who live alongside the wildlife, tending their cattle, occasionally losing some to predators, earning a living from the sale of milk.

But undoubtedly the biggest draw to this part of India is the chance of spotting an Asiatic lion.  Smaller than its African relative and hunted almost to extinction, there is currently a small population of several hundred lions living in the forest, the last remaining in the wild, subjects of conservation attempts but still hugely at risk, from disease, from poachers, from tribesmen protecting domestic cattle.

With high hopes and little expectation of seeing any (this wasn't an African safari), patience was rewarded late one afternoon when we were treated to  the spectacle of a sleepy lioness and her cub, resting in the shade of the undergrowth.  

Did I cry?

Er, do lions poo in the forest?

 

Filling in the gaps

It's been a mixed bag of late here.

The bank holiday ended with me and the Boy taking one of our cats to the emergency vets after he'd been attacked by a huge (well, compared to our two) and vicious new kit on the block.  Turned out the perpetrator had just missed his jugular.  So eight lives remaining.  

The staff on duty were certainly kept busy that night and we were kept well and truly entertained whilst waiting for our feline to be patched up.  There was a fox under the reception desk, in some cases it was difficult to decide who was the patient, the animal or the owner, and have you ever waltzed into the vets with your little dog in one hand and a glass tumbler full to the brim with cola and clinking ice in the other?  

Poor Buzz is now sporting an impressive wound on his neck that resembles a bullet hole (not that I've actually seen one but I've watched plenty of crime dramas and read Jo Nesbo).  He's not at all happy to be housebound (cue much caterwauling) and has been subjected to so many salt water baths, he's at risk of being pickled.

But it hasn't all been doom and gloom.  Sometimes, a short drive and some solitary time in the fresh air is all that's needed to put aside, at least for a little while, all the unsettling stuff that's happening in the world (and closer to home) and lift the spirits.

There was also the  treat of an afternoon tea (yep, a vegan version for me) with my cousin to celebrate her birthday (I love buying presents that you get to share).   This was a first visit to the venue, the town's only Grade 1 listed building, since its recent controversial renovation.  Last used as a boys' grammar school, it had been empty and neglected for years and the surrounding grounds overgrown.  The land either side was cleared of trees (there was a public outcry but once they're gone they're gone) and  is now occupied by new housing and a soon to be completed hospital, with the result that the hall now looks so much less imposing than it once did and, despite having stood in that spot since 1683, sadly out of place.    

The littlest paid a visit and off we went to a PYO flowers event in a beautiful walled garden in the adjoining county of Durham.  Of course, he wasn't the least interested in tulips, much preferring to just run and run.  And then run some more.

 

 

Easter parade

When I was growing up, Easter was a time for being with family (when they weren't serving in the shop), wearing a new outfit on Easter Sunday (there was always a hat included), enjoying traditional food, collecting egg shaped treats to display on top of the piano (I hadn't yet developed a taste for chocolate) and finally, thanks to half day closing, an afternoon's drive to somewhere not too far away on Easter Monday.

These days we still do pretty much the same kind of stuff.  Whilst there was no new outfit for me, in another part of the country the littlest was so attached to his new titfer, he was puzzled at the suggestion that he remove it at bedtime.  

Our long weekend started with sticky hot cross buns for breakfast on Good Friday, followed by a trip to the beach, dinner in a Turkish restaurant, an Easter Sunday afternoon tea at home (which provided an opportunity to make biscuits using a new rolling pin) and after which a certain vegan glutton was chomping on Rennies like nobody's business and sleeping sitting up, finishing today with a couple of hours blowing away the cobwebs and cooing over the lambs (oh, teeny tiny Tink) at the somewhat incongruously situated (it's surrounded by industry) local RSPB nature reserve.  

I love Easter, me.

 

 

Weekending

I haven't worked for years now and every day is a Saturday.  But, even so, weekends still have that special feel about them.  

This last one has been especially enjoyable, with visitors of the family and feathered varieties, local walks, fundraising bakes, cards and presents, a farmers market to replenish stocks and pat dogs, tasty home cooked food and lots of it, coffee shop stops, charity shop finds.

The weather was glorious.  The sun shone, the sky was blue, though for this lover of deepest, darkest winter, polo neck sweaters, the comfort blanket of choice, still featured.  

Someone had the hump. 

Nothing that a good long roll in the muck couldn't fix.

 

Out and about

It feels like we're hurtling towards Christmas at breakneck speed.  The lists here are being constantly added to, though it's all too clear that some tasks (like 'paint the living room' and 'buy and have fitted new interior doors') are unlikely (as in not. a. hope. in. hell.) to be ticked off any time soon.  

Lists left safely at home, the Boy and I spent a couple of days in London at the end of last week (we've since caught up with the Advent calendar windows opening).

Predictably, we packed lots in: walked the festive streets of the capital from morning till night, took much needed pit stops to eat good food, drink good coffee, people (and dog) watch and eavesdrop (' A miracle will happen, it will'), bumped into (literally) the Richard part of Richard and Judy, turned down the chance of meeting Mark Rylance (he may be an Oscar winner but, apologies to any fans, his voice just grates), popped into the Monacle Christmas market, fraternised with a couple of reindeer (surprisingly dainty droppings for such large animals), acquired more books (resistance is futile), snooped on a wedding, admired the window displays, Christmas lights and decorations.

We came home footsore and laden with goodies, though one tasty looking treat from here somehow ended up in the wrong mouth.

He's wily, that Boo.

 Now, a question.

What do you do when you find yourself at your first airport for your first trip abroad?

Answer:   

You make a run for it.  Of course.

 

In like a lion, out like a....

On the last day of March and on the way back from buying buttons in the market town up the road, we noticed some new arrivals in the field near home. Luckily, the public footpath goes through the middle of the farm so, after parking up and enduring a noisy greeting from a couple of sheepdogs, we walked past the drift of daffs, through the mud ('I'm glad we're in your car', someone was heard to mutter) and had a gander at the expectant mothers before cooing over the lambs which, predictably, were either fast asleep or camera shy.  I managed to snap one and then, as no-one was looking, I picked him up, popped him in the car and named him Gerald.  

Don't worry. That last bit only happened in my head.

 

One of those weeks

You know the ones, when....

You buy flowers, you buy some more and then you're given an enormous bunch on Mothering Sunday.

You run out of vases and have to employ a coffee pot to display the overflow.

You add to the substantial TBR pile with yet more bargain reads. And then some.

You realise you've already read at least one of them.

You stop, look round and finally accept that you'll never write that 'My journey to minimalism' post.  Me and my stuff?  We're meant to live together.

You arrange a working lunch in the local art gallery with your friend, only to pass like ships in the night because someone who isn't you got the time wrong.

You just can't seem to shove in enough broccoli.

You meet your Girlie and the littlest for a day in York.  No plans, just time to wander, catch up, eat good food, drink good coffee.

You share an otherwise empty train carriage with the shiniest, most well behaved traveller and his owner on the journey home.  Ah yes, the perks of first class rail travel.

You stumble down pothole ridden paths in mud laden boots in the dark one night with a complaining  ('will you just let me off this lead?') canine and a moaning ('will you just point the torch over here?') mister to try to catch sight of a steaming beauty.  And maybe, just maybe,  you did. 

 

Week's round-up

The robin parents were frequent visitors to the garden, or more specifically the bird feeders, earlier in the week, filling their beaks with seeds and mealworms before returning to their home somewhere in the tangle of ivy and shrubs alongside the garage.

This one was snapped taking a breather on the towel I'd left outside the kitchen door after a plant pot painting session.

There was a noisy kerfuffle one evening from the depths of the shrubs.  The birds haven't been seen since.  We fear the worst.

On a happier note, actual tomatoes have appeared in the plant pots in the garden.  Admittedly, I've probably sported larger pimples and we're not going to be harvesting any time soon but still, I grew these from seeds.  Go me.

Staying in the garden, the roses have flourished this summer, in spite of all the neglect, with some blooms the size of saucers and more than enough for cutting and plonking in a vase with sprays of alchemilla mollis (efficacious in the treatment of hernias, perforated eardrums and overly large bosoms, apparently).

Tucked away in a corner at the bottom of the odd shaped plot here, the little summerhouse has received its annual spruce up.  The perfect spot for a sneaky hour on a sunny afternoon with the current read.

For someone else, summer in the garden is all about playing with a string of smiley sausages.  Which almost always means trampled plants.

In the kitchen, several baking sessions resulted in a rhubarb crumble, a very gooey chocolate cake, easier on the fingers cheese and chive scones and cherry and almond rock buns.

And Friday night here is usually pizza night, even for the vegan.

The current book at bedtime (and sometimes earlier), Margaret Atwood's Alias Grace, is an absolute cracker. 

Based on the true story of young servant Grace Marks, who in 1840s Canada, was found guilty with stablehand James McDermott of murdering their employer and his housekeeper.  McDermott was hanged whilst Grace, just sixteen years old at the time, had her sentence commuted to life imprisonment.

The story focuses on the imprisoned Grace and her somewhat guarded account of her life thus far as told during interviews with Dr. Simon Jordan, hired by a group of do-gooders intent on securing a pardon from the Canadian government.  Grace is an admirer of the quilts she comes across in the various households she finds herself employed (each section of the book is named after a quilt pattern - Puss in the Corner, Young Man's Fancy, Broken Dishes and the like), is proficient with a needle and thread (such small stitches), takes pride in the execution of her domestic duties (such detailed description which left me eager to get the washing pegged out on the line and drying in the sun) and knows her place.  But maybe all is not as it seems. Highly recommended.  

 

Random snippets from the lakes

After a gap of far too many years, we decided to take a trip up the A66 to the Lake District.

Our base for the week was a gorgeous little cottage (originally housing for gunpowder mill workers) on the riverside in southern Cumbria.

 

With gently flowing water, trees and a bridge just outside the front door, 

it was the perfect location.

Interesting neighbours, too.

There were opportunities galore for filling lungs with fresh air, gazing at stunning scenery, tramping across fells, wandering through woods, sauntering around lakes and just drinking in the peace and quiet.

Throw in picturesque villages to explore, waterfalls to visit,

streams to splodge in,

signs to read,

the home of a poet to investigate, 

and we had the ingredients for a wonderful week.

Motoring up 'The Struggle' and Kirkstone Pass was challenging, 

ditto avoiding the many jaywalking pedestrians,

but the views of Windermere from the summit were worth all the braking and pulling over into hedges.

There were treats, planned (yes, I'm talking shopping) and unexpected.  On the last day, we made our way towards Ullswater

and Pately Bridge

and drove down an increasingly narrow and winding lane, looking for the farm I'd read about which sells yarn produced from the farmer's own sheep and goats.  The timing was ideal as I was roped in (I didn't need asking twice) to help with bottle feeding a pair of Herdwick lambs (oh so very cute). Sadly, their mother is no longer producing milk but one of the lambs hasn't taken easily to being bottle fed and he just hung back (honestly, I was this close to weeping).  Sadly,  there are  no pictures, it was all so spur of the moment,  but they looked pretty much like these youngsters.

So, that yarn I bought.

Along with several balls of Herdwick double knitting, there's the softest angora. 

Want to see it?

Cleaned and spun, of course.

The week away turned out to be the calm before the storm and returning home was a case of coming back to earth with a bang.  The previous day there'd been a full on, break the door down emergency with the aged aunt who is currently in hospital.  Intensive home care services will kick in after a short period of residential care which hopefully will be a change for the better given the escalating difficulties we've been experiencing.

I'm still in the process of arranging what I think is referred to as 'professional trauma cleaning' of Aunty's bedroom whilst the Boy and I have taken advantage of her absence to continue sorting her house (and thankfully there's been no further sign of her four footed tenants).  

I've insisted, given the evidence of 'trauma',  we turn up wearing homemade protective gear.  With no access to hazmat suits, we tie Tesco carrier bags over our shoes, wrap scarves round our faces and wield Fabreze sprays.  Now if only I could remember where the swimming goggles are stored.....