love those cupcakes

Easter weekend

There's been a fair bit of time spent pottering in the kitchen here, making rye bread (a first which resulted in a loaf weighing a ton and which almost ended up being added to to the rockery in the front garden but turned out to be surprisingly tasty), hot cross buns, a jam and cream filled cake and breakfast pastries.

After all those weeks of being righteously abstemious there's been chocolate in various forms. Meals have been much easier.  I've simply asked, 'What do you want with your chocolate bunny?'

The weather has been perfect for getting outdoors.  I've had a bit of a dig in the garden, where the camellia appeared to be doing rather well and smells from a neighbour's first barbecue of the year wafted over the fence, and planted new acquisitions in some of the many gaps. We've walked, down Manchester way during a flying visit to the parents-to-be and then a longer Easter Sunday hike across the fields round here.  It was made even longer by my insistence on heading in the wrong direction.  We passed a pub and decided to stop for a sit down and a drink but realised we were without funds as the mister was inconsiderately wearing the wrong trousers.  At least Boo could avail himself of the odd puddle or two.

Of course, there had to be lambs.  There were local ones at the farm up the road (with lots about to put in an appearance) and brand spanking newborn ones being hand fed (mum was doing fine, she just needed a bit of support) at the rather wonderful RSPB reserve at Salthome.

I love Easter, me.

 

That was the week that was

 A good week, though if you're lucky enough to be still here, still breathing, every week is a good week.

This one started with flowers from the Boy on Mothering Sunday which were followed by a drive to Saltburn, a quick glimpse of the sea and a 'Little Creatures' felting workshop.  I opted to have a stab (literally) at making a penguin and, in the process, won the prize for breaking the most needles. (I broke so many I had to hide the bits in my specs case.) The penguin wouldn't win any prizes but at least he was greeted with only minimal laughter during show and tell at home.

A midweek baking session resulted in a half batch of Jamie's brownies which didn't hang around the kitchen long, though the other two here didn't really get much of a look in.   

A couple of books were read which, amazingly, I can still remember and recommend.  Wolf Winter has a small remote settlement in 18th century Swedish Lapland as its focus and, with skilful interweaving of reality and the spirit world, seeks to answer the question 'Who killed Eriksson?'  I'm a big fan of Patti Smith and Just Kids is her memoir, making good the promise to photographer Robert Mapplethorpe to write their story, from their meeting in New York in 1967 to his death in 1989 and everything in between.  

We watched Nightcrawler, a film about decidedly creepy petty criminal but desperate for a job Louis Bloom, who discovers there's a living to be made filming crime scenes for TV news channels.  This is a dark, edge of the seat thriller, at times cringeworthy, at times grisly, at times oddly funny, with a slimmed down Jake Gyllenhaal in the central role.  Recommended.

There was a short break in London, primarily to visit the V&A's Alexander McQueen: Savage Beauty exhibition. Whilst I was hoping for more biographical detail, the exhibition (photographs not allowed, sadly) was well worth the trip and, to quote Ross from Friends, O is definitely for Oh, wow!  Afterwards, I met up with the Boy (who'd had an interview in Leeds earlier) and, with no definite plans, the remaining time in the capital was spent eating, nose following, pavement pounding (and acquiring the mother of all blisters), browsing, sign spotting, coffee drinking, dog admiring, book buying.

The week ended with a visit this morning to the market in the big park down the road followed by a rendition of the birthday song.  Yep, my amazing father in law is now just one year off a century. 

 

 

This week in verbs

First, let's get the medical stuff out of the way.  That photo shoot wasn't so bad (and thank you so much for your good wishes which really did help), in a 'it's not what I'd choose to do to while away an afternoon and these paper knickers are enormous, I hope they don't fall down' kind of way.  

But it's done.  Yes, everyone was lovely and yes, I could have watched the camera's journey on the screen in front of me but I prefer to think of my insides as an Operation game board, complete with bread basket and butterflies in stomach, and kept my eyes firmly shut.  This wasn't, erm, a deep dive (for peace of mind I sort of wish it had been) and thankfully nothing nasty was discovered lurking (though I'm not sorted yet and have a further appointment next week).  I dunno, you think you're doing okay and then something else drops off.

Of course, the accompanying mister, who passed the hour and a half I was otherwise occupied flicking his way through the biggest pile of National Geographic in the reception area, could be relied on to make me feel a whole lot better when I was ready to go home.  'Oh', he remarked rather too loudly, 'I expected you to be walking like John Wayne.' 

Charming.

And so to the rest of my week:

Choosing from the substantial book and chocolate stashes

Buying yarn and getting stuck into another blanket which is looking remarkably like every other blanket I've made

Shaking up meal times a little with a couple of new lentil based dishes and a flourish of parsley (a soup from February's Country Living for me and this one for the cheese eating non vegans)

Treating the hall to the first bunch of flowers of the year

Starting a plank challenge.  The aim is to strengthen one's core by holding the position (I do the straight arms version) for as long as possible, gradually increasing hold times over 30 days.  Yep, I'm a planker

Chopping up the Christmas cards to make gift tags.  There's nothing like being prepared 

Walking down the lane past the church, relishing the view of the local high spot and being greeted enthusiastically by a very muddy and ever hopeful of a tasty treat Bob

 

To the top of the world

Leaving the Kathmandu valley, it was time to head for the jungle and Chitwan national park in southern Nepal. 

After crossing the river in the early morning mist, we were introduced to our companionable transport for the next few days.

The permanent presence of the army in the park, and the regular patrols by soldiers, has reduced the incidence of poaching significantly and the numbers of Bengal tigers have risen to an estimated 200 as a result.  

Sadly, there were no encounters with Richard Parker or his relatives but exploring on elephant back provided ample opportunity to try and spot other inhabitants of the park.

One horned rhino numbers have also been on the increase in Nepal and we managed to get close to four of them.

Spending time in the nearby village, traditional ways (and the occasional traditional pet) were evident everywhere.

One young woman was mixing together mud and dung to carry out repairs to her house.

Children mostly attend the village public school with its very basic provision although some parents manage to pay for private education.

I was invited to teach a class (didn't see that one coming).  Unlike private schools, where all classes are conducted in English, only English lessons are taught in English rather than Nepali in public schools and often by teachers who have only a limited command of the language.  Everyone was so smiley and well behaved but they didn't understand a word I was saying.  Maybe it was the Smoggie accent (and, in my defence, when I taught for a living, my students were mostly postgraduates.  Just saying.)

Of course, a trip to Nepal wouldn't be complete without a glimpse of Everest.  We chucked the budget out the window and decided to do it in style, in a brand spanking new helicopter with a national hero pilot (he's an Everest rescue pilot and told us a Hollywood film has been made about one of his more high profile rescues and he's off shortly to the US to walk the red carpet). 

Flying out of Kathmandu, our first port of call (to temporarily ditch excess fuel to enable flying at higher altitude) was Tenzing-Hillary airport in Lukla, used only by helicopters and small light aircraft and arguably the most dangerous airport in the world.   It's surrounded by mountains and the runway is narrow, short, and scarily sloping with a sheer drop of over 9000 feet at the end, allowing for no error in take off or landing. 

Nepal is an economy based on agriculture and even the foothills of the Himalayas are utilised for farming. 

We flew high. Very high.

Eventually, a cloud shrouded Everest appeared.

Landing at the highest located hotel in the world afforded more views (and helped lessen the physical effects of being at altitude).

Then it was back to Kathmandu for a few days and some final sightseeing.

Bhutan and Nepal were truly amazing.

And I'm still recovering.

 

Into a tiger's nest

Built in 1692, Tiger’s Nest Monastery (Taktsang Palphug) is one of Bhutan’s most sacred sites. Perched at the top of a cliff, it stands about 3,000 metres (10,000ft) above sea level.  According to legend, Guru Rinpoche, also known as Padmasambhava and the bringer of Buddhism to Bhutan, flew to this exact spot from Tibet on the back of a tigress. He came to subdue a demon and then took residence in a cave where he meditated for 3 years, 3 months, 3 weeks, 3 days and 3 hours.  The monastery was built around the cave which is still there and open for viewing once a year.

No trip to Bhutan would be complete without a sight of the monastery and so we set off very early one morning.  From the car park, the white buildings of the monastery were just about discernible through the mist.  With no expectation of reaching anywhere near the top but, having been advised that reasonable views could be had at the halfway-ish point, the aim was to try to reach the cafeteria there.  

We eschewed the ponies which were available to carry people two thirds of the way and set off on the steep and at times (too many times) precarious path.  

 With frequent stops for water, a nibble of an energy bar and to catch our breath (hiking at altitude certainly affects the lungs more than the legs), we managed to reach the target of the cafeteria and, despite the lingering mist (and I was so grateful not to have to walk in bright sunlight and overpowering heat), were rewarded with a much better view of the monastery. 

 Of course, the ever present dogs were hanging around the picnic tables, hopeful of a biscuit treat.   And there were puppies!

 I could have quite happily stayed to play with the pups but was encouraged to press on upwards, 'just to see how much further we can get'.  

Eventually, we arrived at the start of the approach to the Tiger’s Nest - a rocky outcrop overlooking a vast chasm, with the monastery on the other side.  There were stone steps (and no handrails) carved into the exposed cliff face heading down into the ravine. Descending via the steps, a waterfall, festooned with prayer flags, came into view with the path continuing directly across it.  Once beyond the waterfall, gruellingly steep steps, over 800 in total, climbed towards the entrance to the monastery.

I'm not sure how it happened but, dear Reader, we made it to the top and in good time, too.   Photography is not allowed inside the monastery where we received a blessing from one of the monks and took a peek inside the original cave, thinking ourselves lucky that we'd picked the day of the year that it's open for viewing.

 The descent was much easier, for me, at least,  and I ended up about twenty minutes ahead of the mister, in the company of three German tourists.  

And, of course, a dog. 

 

Signing off

It's been ten months since that amazing Antarctica adventure*.  

So, for the next few weeks we're swapping views of these hills

 for these.  

Eight flights, several countries and opportunities to look for elusive wildlife.

Back soon.

 

*  And no prizes for guessing which big crybaby blubbed watching this.

 

So far, so good

'I'm so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers'.

(L M Montgomery, Anne of Green Gables)

 *******

At last it feels like autumn is really here and just a week into the new month I've:

• drunk the first spiced latte of the season whilst admitting that I sometimes give a fake name to the barista ('Pumpkin spice latte for Eve').  I'd really like to be Araminta but they'd never spell it correctly here
• enjoyed a long solitary walk locally, passing a friend's horse (and hard to spot pony) grazing in his paddock next to the building site where the first of 900 houses (oh, joy) are in the process of being constructed
• noted the irony of 'Silence is golden' playing at full volume on the builders' radio
• kicked my way through the piles of leaves in the lane leading up to the church 
• been greeted by Bob (no idea of his real name but with those dreadlocks what else could he be called?) in the field next to the church and parted and de-twigged his overgrown fringe 
• finished a scary book which started well (happy family, missing 4 year old, mysterious figures appearing in photographs, whisperings and ghostly goings on in the family home) but which changed direction towards the end and degenerated into slasher horror 
• baked bug eyed gingerbread men using this recipe which results in deliciously chewy rather than overly crunchy treats
• bought a chunk of cocoa dusted Yog Nog soap (it's made with soya yoghurt ) from Lush which smells of nutmeg and cloves and I just want to eat it.  I won't.  Probably.  (By the way, that isn't a giant piece of soap in the picture, it's just a teeny weeny rubber ducky)
• settled down in front of the fire.  This house isn't blessed with the real thing but even gas powered flames give a cosy feel 

I love October, me.

 

 

 

Beside the seaside

I've been visiting Saltburn-by-the-Sea all my life.  It's a town on the coast just down the road from here, easily reached by car, bus or train so an ideal destination for day trips.  When I was in my teens, my parents bought a caravan there so that me and my friends had somewhere to hang out at weekends and holidays, and stays became longer. I remember four girls pretending to be French, reading poetry aloud till daybreak, beach parties, lost caravan keys and my poor dad being hauled before some complaints committee as a result.  Happy days.

Last weekend, when the Girlie and her mister were home, we decided to spend the afternoon in Saltburn and caught the tail end of the monthly market, managing to buy garlic, shortbread (rhubarb and custard and ginger flavours) and a scented geranium before the stallholders packed up.  There's a very good charity shop across the road from the deli we lunched in.  I resisted a box of sewing patterns from the 80s (think lots of padded shouldered and headband wearing brides) but a couple of books might have been purchased.  We rode the Victorian tramway down to the beach, passing the yarnbombers' somewhat droopy knitted poppy wreath and the ice cream van. The donkeys (members of an award winning team, no less) were coming to the end of their shift and a little dog looked hopeful of his owners dropping a chip or two. Back home, another dog wondered why he'd been left behind.

 

Fresh air

When I was growing up, it didn't do to breathe in too deeply, surrounded as we were by industry (we're not called Smoggies for nothing) and everywhere and everything coated in a layer of black gritty dust.  But times have changed, the iron and steel and most of the chemicals are long gone and we now live on the edge of town with ready access to fields and lungfuls of properly fresh air.

Instead of turning right as we left the house for a walk the other day, we turned left, away from the little park and down the lane towards open countryside. 

The Boo was happy to lead the way though always chivvying to stop dawdling with the camera and just get a move on.

 Past the farm

and along the cornfield

with a familiar landmark always visible in the distance.

 

Stopping every now and again to watch the wildlife going about its business

and to nibble the ripening brambles

before veering off the pathway and plunging through the trees and undergrowth

to the edge of the lake.

Many local people don't know this exists, it's so well hidden.

Originally a trout lake, it formed part of the Grey Towers estate, once the home of Arthur Dorman of Dorman Long fame.  His old house is now luxury apartments.

 Yes, there he is,

and his family, too.

Then it was just a matter of hopping over the stile, 

 walking through the sheep field

and down the road towards home.

I love spending a couple of hours breathing in the fresh air, me.

 

Lately

There's been an afternoon lounging in the freshly painted summerhouse with the current book (which is taking forever to read and that Anne Boleyn is starting to get on my wick just a tad), a bag of yarn (for another one of those round after round blankets, the only crochet I seem to be able to manage) and a delicious freshly baked peanut butter brownie or two. Okay, I ate three.  It felt a bit like playing house (look, I've even added a new dustpan and brush for some gentle sweeping) when I was little, with the clothes horse and a blanket, but a bit sturdier. Must get a radio in there, though.  I had a visitor who was clearly hopeful for something a little more energetic than reading.

The mister is now mobile without crutches so I've been made redundant from the twice daily dog walking duties. Yes, I know I could tag along but a) the mister is still walking too slowly (sauntering at an odd angle, more like), b) I like having total control of dog and lead and c) I really don't want to be that couple. So, I  need to work out a new routine as I've rather enjoyed all of that getting up and being out and about regardless of the weather, though the disposal of dog poo and the dodging of the frighteningly large snarly dogs (yes, Barney the enormous German Shepherd, I mean you) I certainly won't miss.  

The Boy and I took advantage of one of the mister's 'rest periods' (these invariably involve hoisting the not quite mended foot onto a side table topped with a folded blanket) to give Boo a run along the beach (and Boo being Boo, a fair bit of seagull chasing and wave jumping) one evening, rewarding ourselves with the obligatory parcels of chips (after queuing for ages as it seemed the world and his wife had decided it was the night for an easy supper).  Walking along the pier we noticed that the yarn bombers have been busy with the needles yet again, this time celebrating something called The World Cup.  (These pictures are courtesy of the Boy's phone.)

As well as having a lovely little park right on our doorstep, there's also a wildlife pond just round the corner from our house and the cutest family moved in recently.   Last year's ducklings sadly didn't survive as the pond (originally part of a long since demolished country estate) was so overgrown and, with the water fetid and undoubtedly toxic  (well, it was more of a sludge),  they didn't stand a chance.  But, with the help of a local builder, it's had a much needed makeover and looks and smells so much better.  

We've fitted in a visit to a newly opened tea shop in the market town up the road.  I had to be happy with a giant cup of green tea as, surprise, surprise, there was nothing vegan on the menu so here's a picture of the Boy's slice of salted caramel cake.

There was an unmistakable, arguably over the top, vintage theme.

Or to quote the Boy, 'It looks like a blog vomited in here'.