love those cupcakes

This and that

The weeks are certainly flying by.  One minute you're moaning about the heat and eye searingly bright sunlight, then you blink and find yourself hurtling towards the end of the year, with Perry Como's rendition of Joy to the World blasting out whilst you press the pause button to drink your soya latte in the coffee shop.  It's probably a sign of old age.  Everything else seems to be.

Life's been busy, with mostly mundane but necessary stuff.  These days, we 're spending more time at home and I don't walk as much as I probably should (the mister is still managing the dog walking so I'm not yet needed for that) but I enjoyed a solitary wander and leg stretch round the neighbourhood, having a good old poke about in the hedgerows and stopping to exchange pleasantries with a friend's horse (who, I'm sure, would have preferred to have been on the receiving end of something rather more edible). 

It's still colourful out there, despite all the rain and sog (which has been nothing like as extreme as that being experienced in other parts of the country), though you do get a sense of a season on the cusp (one morning Jack Frost had covered the the car windscreen with the most beautiful icy fronds).  I love the palette at this time of year, though they're colours that don't feature indoors at all. Well, apart from in a vase or pot.   And I'm currently undecided about a ginger coloured shirt (satin, no less) which is waiting patiently in an online basket.

At the end of last month, me and the Boy were very lucky to get to hear Margaret Atwood in conversation at the Symphony Hall in Birmingham. After a tricky rail journey (two trainloads of passengers absorbed into one with only four carriages) and checking in at the hotel much later than planned, we found ourselves with just enough time to squeeze in a much needed dinner at Carluccio's. 

Margaret (it feels like we should be on first name terms, I've read so many of her books) didn't disappoint and I loved seeing her walk onto the stage clutching her handbag.  Honestly, I could sit and listen to authors talk about their work and the writing process until the cows come home.  

Birmingham is a city I'm not at all familiar with (I used to change trains at New Street on my way home from university and I once spent a day shopping there with Aunty M when I was in my teens).  There wasn't much time to explore during this overnight stay but it had a good feel, people were friendly and it was good to see the bull suitably rigged out in readiness for Hallowe'en.

November's book subscription box didn't disappoint, either, with a planner, bookmark, notebook, pen, zipped bag, a pin and Doris Lessing's The Golden Notebook (which has been on my reading list for yonks).  There's just something about receiving a boxful of book related surprises each month and, so far, I've been sent titles I haven't read previously.

 A charity shop forage yielded a copy of Val McDermid's The Distant Echo, a writer I know only through the telly.  This is a crime novel of the 'did they, didn't they and, if they didn't, who did' kind, an easy and enjoyable read, just maybe a tad slow and drawn out in parts.  I'll certainly be on the lookout for more in the series. 

The current book at bedtime is the second novel from Will Dean.  Like his earlier Dark Pines, the setting is Sweden and the story similarly features hearing impaired journalist Tuva Moodyson.  I'm not far into it but already there's a strong sense of place.  And liquorice.

The now four year old littlest visited at the weekend. Whilst he tucked into his breakfast Cocopops, I chatted to him about this and that (just like I'm doing here).  Breaking off from all the munching, he looked up at me and uttered the words,  'Granny, you're really getting on my nerves'. 

Dear Reader, I sincerely hope I haven't had the same effect on you.

 

11th hour, 11th day, 11th month

 

At the going down of the sun and in the morning,

we will remember them.

 

Hallowe'en-y

When I was a child, Hallowe'en was all about carved turnips rather than pumpkins, which were only seen in books (before being transformed into glass coaches).  String handles would be attached for easy carrying and they would be lit with candles (not mine; my parents were safety conscious so I had to use a torch). 

We didn't knock on doors for sweets, either.  The aunties and some of the neighbours would give us cousins small amounts of money as we walked up and down the street with our lanterns and the church used to organise a party where there was a competition for the best turnip. (The photograph was taken in my aunt's house, just before me and my cousin were taken to one of those parties.) 

I won once, with Marley's ghost, though I didn't have a clue who Marley was.  My dad did all the veg cutting which seemed to take forever.  Then he stuck two knitting needles in the bottom of the turnip from which hung one of my brother's white shirts. Wooooo!!!!!!

Earlier today, I hacked away at the pumpkin.  It's now on the step outside the front door, attracting lots of lovely trick or treaters.  Hopefully the sweet treats don't run out.  Last Hallowe'en I had to supplement with chocolate biscuits from the tin.

This year I was determined to reduce waste and so we've had pumpkin, carrot and ginger soup with roasted chilli pumpkin seeds, followed by maple frosted pumpkin cookies. 

We're pumpkined out.

So is the cat.  

Once the knocks on the door have petered out, I'll be watching my favourite Hallowe'en film  (he's a tinker, that Michael Myers) and finishing the day with a ghost story.  

I love October 31st, me.

 

Lately in verbs

Walking in the park.  I'm continuing to enjoy the seasonal changes, though that unmistakable and rather wonderful smell of autumn is still absent.  (It probably needs colder temperatures and a hint of woodsmoke in the air.)   

We're lucky to have this public park on our doorstep. There's a walled garden, museum, lakes and a monthly farmers market. The site of the cottage where one Captain James Cook was born can be found here, too. (Yep, arguably the world's greatest ever explorer is a fellow Smoggie). 

Persuading one of the park's many resident squirrels to pose for the camera. It did involve a bit of lurking behind a tree (me, not the squirrel).  Fortunately, there was no-one around to wonder what on earth I was up to. 

 

 

Bringing some autumnal colour indoors.  I associate chrysanthemums with my mother who was always given a bunch of those huge standard bronze coloured ones for her birthday.  They're not so readily available these days but I picked up this potted plant (I think it's a Korean 'mum) in Sainsburys. 

Returning to basics with a spot of simple baking.  I don't venture much into the world of patisserie these days (the mister has a reduced appetite and my jeans are far too snug).  There's the weekly batch of chocolate chip cookies to coincide with a visit from the Boy or the littlest or both, supplemented mid week with something similarly quick and easy, like these buttercream topped buns, or Granny cakes, as the littlest calls them.  Just enough to keep my hand in.

Replacing a fatsia japonica which had given up the ghost.   The original plant had lived outside in a pot next to the kitchen door for years,  seemingly quite content. Until this summer, when the pot became inexplicably waterlogged, the leaves turned yellow before dropping off, leaving a soggy stump.  I've no idea what the problem was but clearly it was time to start again with a shiny new plant.

Meeting my cousin for lunch.  She'd been given an early Christmas present and brought it with her.  

The coffee shop  (in neighbouring North Yorkshire) was dog friendly (one Bedlington, one Cockapoo and two Skye terriers were already enjoying the facilities) and the pup was very well behaved.  Quiet as a mouse, actually, and almost the same size.  Best not mention the outing to Boo who is very partial to a toasted teacake.

Stocking up with a variety of Spring bulbs for the pots in the back garden.  Who knows, maybe this will be the year I actually get round to planting them.

Reading.  Of course.  Book number 55 this year was the debut novel from the creator of the TV series, The Killing.   

Set largely in Copenhagen, this is a crime thriller/police procedural about a murderer with a unique calling card.  It's a hefty read but the pace is maintained throughout, with strong characters, great atmosphere and a complex storyline that kept me guessing right to the end.  But subtlety isn't one of our killer's strong points and the murder scenes are gruesome, though not gratuitously so.  If you like your crime fiction to be Scandi and noir, then this is probably one for you.  If you've a sensitive stomach, best leave it on the shelf.

 

Octoberish

The tenth month of the year. 

One of my favourites.

In all honesty, I could quite happily hibernate every summer, only emerging once the diary page has been turned over to October 1st.  

Nights are now drawing in (as my dad used to say, it's getting late early), temperatures are droppping, leaves are falling, the hot drinks menu in the coffee shop has suddenly perked up and I've succumbed to the urge to dabble in the magic that is jam making. There's just a modest stash of jars on the shelf as no-one else here is a fan, but seeing them sitting there is oddly comforting.   Elderberries from the tree at the bottom of the garden have been turned into immune system boosting syrup which is proving to be deliciously colourful atop a bowl of porridge.  

October is also the month which will forever be associated with my mother's birthday.  Or, to be more accurate, birthdays. 

Until her 60s, she celebrated  on the 25th.  Then, a copy of her birth certificate was required to support her first passport application and she discovered the date her birth had been registered was the 23rd.  My dad suggested she celebrate on both days thenceforth.  So she did.  

When the (now 4 year old) littlest visited with his mama recently, we spent an afternoon in the Priory near the Boy's apartment.

Leaving the littlest defending goal and his uncle attempting to score for the Reds, I wandered the otherwise deserted grounds where the hues of late summer were vying for attention alongside the autumnal palette.

The colours of October are undeniably stunning -  the reds, yellows and oranges.   Though I'd have to say I wouldn't be seen dead wearing any of them,  nature does showcase the whole range  so very well.  It's an absolute masterclass on change.

Oh, yes, I love Octobers, me.

 

 

Books and stuff

I love books, always have. 

Life without books?  Imagine that.

Proper books, that is, with paper pages, enticing covers, spines that crack as you reach the halfway point.  Kindle?  No competition.

Unsurpringly,  I find it nigh on impossible to walk past a book shop, book box or book pile and there isn't a week goes by when yet another volume is added to the stash.  Consequently, there are stacks in just about every room in the house (not the bathrooms because, well, water and yes, I've learned the hard way).

When we moved into this (then newly built) house almost thirty years ago, my collection had to undergo some radical pruning. Our previous homes had been older properties with fireplaces and alcoves just crying out for floor to ceiling shelves and so the book stash just grew and grew.  A bookseller in the market town up the road had agreed to buy many of those I'd reluctantly relegated to the 'Go' boxes.  The mister handed them over.  I sat in the car and cried.

Now, I rely on freestanding bookcases which limit the numbers so I've had to develop a habit of passing on books I've read and am unlikely to want to revisit.  (Theoretically, the  same applies to those I've not read and in all likelihood never will.)

Storage was recently supplemented with the purchase of a book trolley.  Well, a trolley;  it's not marketed specifically for books.  

And, courtesy of a birthday gift from the Boy, it's now a case of going into full-on librarian mode here.  Shush!

My book collection is, erm, eclectic, largely fiction with the current genre of choice being crime.  Scandi noir, preferably.  Actually, the more noir the better. But, as I say, I happily dip into other types of books, though that dipping rarely includes science fiction and never poetry.

There are no valuable first editions (as far as I'm aware) or rarities on the shelves but the books I've hung onto include some from when I was a tot (Monster Book for Tinies, for instance), some which were such a big part of my childhood (Jane Shaw's Susan series was my absolute favourite), some which are connected to special places and particular times (like 'The Well of Loneliness' and the first of many visits to New York  or 'The Collector' and a long ago summer spent on a Greek island), some which have been re-read so many times I could probably recite whole passages (Rebecca and Chocolat and The Otherwise Girl  to name but three).

According to Typepad, the current book at bedtime is my 54th this year.  Not bad going, I suppose, though I probably couldn't now tell you what many of them were about. 

Most books are purchased through the big online sellers, the local Waterstones, charity shops, the supermarket and those meet the author events which the town's library service are so good at organising (it's by attending the latter that I've built up a modest collection of signed copies)

Recently, I stumbled across Books That Matter, a feminist book subscription box.  Each month, a themed (and beautifully wrapped) box arrives containing one book by a female author, a bookmark and other treats from individual makers.  So far, I've received two of the boxes and been impressed with the contents.  October's theme is an exploration of the role of witchcraft in women's history and suffrage.  i can't wait for the postie's knock.

Of course, I've acquired a copy of Margaret Atwood's sequel to The Handmaid's Tale (a bargain from Tesco) and a copy of the latest in the Harry Hole series is waiting patiently on the TBR top shelf.  

Recommendations are always tricky; reading preference is intensely personal, and what appeals to me may well not appeal to others.  As my mother used to say, we're all different and that's a good thing. 

But I've compiled a short list of some of the standout books from those I've guzzled recently so, without further ado, and in no particular order, here they are:

The Lost Man.  I really rate Jane Harper as a writer and I've enjoyed all three of her novels but I think this is her best yet.  There's such a strong sense of place (the hostile environment that is the Australian outback), you almost feel the heat coming off the pages.  This is the story of a family, isolation, secrets and an unexplained death.  Go find a copy.

The Wolf Border. Rachel knows about wolves. She's spent the last 10 years living alongside them on an Idaho reservation but is tempted back to her native Cumbria to oversee a project which aims to reintroduce the animals to the UK countryside.  This is a story of re-wilding but it's more about family, relationships, decisions.

The Taking of Annie Thorne.  If you're a fan of Stephen Kng you'll probably enjoy this one.  Or maybe you won't (some readers have dismissed it as something of a rip-off).  It's more (gentle) horror than thriller and a story with two timelines.  One night, little Annie Thorne went missing.  Two days later, she returned.  But there was something very wrong.   Many years afterwards, is her brother about to find out what happened?

The Disappeared.  I'm  not a huge fan of dystopian fiction (not counting The Handmaid's Tale, of course) but I raced through this one.    The author, Amy Lord,  is a local blogger and I met her at one of the library events mentioned earlier in this post.  This is her first novel but it is well written and doesn't come across as such. It's a scarily plausible vision of a near future UK where the Authorisation Bureau is in charge and life is far from sweet.  This is a place where free thinking is dangerous,  where critics of the regime 'disappear', where books, unless on the approved list, are banned.  A thought provoking read.

Bitter Orange.  Frances is on her death bed, remembering a time in her life which was so different from what had gone before. Most of the action takes place in the summer of 1969 when, following the death of her overbearing mother, Frances moves into a dilapidated country house to catalogue the garden's architecture for the absent owner.  Peter, tasked with doing a similar job inside the house, and Cara, presumably his wife, are already in residence.  To the socially awkward Frances, they seem a glamorous couple and, to her surprise, they want to spend time with her.  And so she begins to be drawn into their relationship.  Yet all is not as it seems, the stories told don't quite add up and there is something very unsettling just below the surface.  This is a stunning book and I couldn't put it down.

Northern Lights.  Rather late to the party with this one, I know, but I'd dismissed it as not for me.  That is until I saw a trailer for the upcoming TV series.  A few pages in and I was all, 'yup, it's definitely not for me' and on the verge of tossing it.  But then the pace and the language shifted.  I was hooked.  This is a wonderful fantasy novel.  I mean, talking polar bears?  Enough said.    

Oh, yes, I love books, me. 

 

Lately in verbs

Marvelling at the profusion of butterflies attracted to the garden of perpetual autumn by the buddleias.  There have been so many years with few, if any, sightings of the colourful visitors and then, this summer, butterflies in droves.  A veritable snowstorm on a daily basis.

Supervising Bea Cat who had also clocked the preponderance of  butterflies.

Tending  a bee which couldn't fly but, for two days, traversed a vast (for a bee) area in the garden before eventually giving up the ghost.  He was given a decent burial.  No, you're a crybaby.

Baking a batch of jammy coconutty madeleines, a blast from the past, for my cousin's son who'd mentioned he just fancied some.  I don't possess dariole moulds so used paper cupcake liners and then simply upturned the cakes to decorate.

Viewing  (several times) the Knife Angel in the town centre.  Here for a month as part of a nationwide tour, the statue, constructed from 100,000 knives which had been seized or handed in at knife banks established in every police authority across the country, is a "monument against violence and aggression". 

Spending an afternoon with the family, complete with picnic, at Mount Grace Priory, just 20 minutes up the road.  Boasting the best preserved Carthusian monastery in England (it was founded in 1398 and functioned until 1539 when Henry VIII stuck his oar in), with manor house, gardens and reconstructed monk's cell, the site has been significantly developed since our last visit.  Whilst there, I bought plants and a book and took out a membership of English Heritage, so there's no excuse for not returning soonish.

Sensing change in the woods, noticing, despite record breaking temperatures, signs of summer on the wane and a new season waiting in the wings.  Nope, cannot lie, I can't wait for that moment, that first, unmistakable whiff of autumn in the air.

Wondering if there's anything more comforting than spending an afternoon in the company of a promising read and a trio of favourite chocs.

Making a wish on a suitably vegan chocolate and caramel cake (courtesy of the Boy) whilst the littlest shouted, 'Quick, it's melting!'.

Loving birthdays.

 

Out and about

Hebden Bridge in West Yorkshire has long been on the list of places to visit so, back in May, off we went. It's a (just over) two hour drive from here and, with the Boy navigating, I managed to get us there without mishap.

Home for a long weekend was a beautiful mill house, right on the Rochdale canal, complete with heron on the roof and just a short walk along the towpath to the town centre. 

At the back of the house was a pottery (sadly closed whilst we were there) and stunning garden (a previous owner had been a landscape gardener) with the river at the bottom.   Inside, there was space aplenty for the six of us and Boo, an Aga in the kitchen to wrestle with (in our defence, the operating instructions from the owner were wrong) and boxes of toys, games and dress-up clothes to keep the littlest happy. 

Hebden was everything I'd hoped for and more.  As we wandered the town, with its array of independent shops (no big chains here), restaurants, cafes, vegan bakeries, micro breweries, an art deco picture house, bare feet, dreadlocks, notices everywhere for yoga, tai chi and meditation classes, the Boy said to me, 'You'd love to live here, wouldn't you?'.  Yup, sure would.

 

A day trip to Haworth by bus landed us slap bang in the 1940s.  This was a complete surprise.  I'd anticipated a slow stroll up the cobbled main street to the Bronte parsonage, but the village was teeming with folk and the dog was barking his head off so we didn't get close.

With over 25 miles of footpaths (we didn't walk them all), the National Trust's Hardcastle Crags is a wooded valley with streams, waterfalls and a working mill situated just a couple of miles north of Hebden Bridge.  Yes, one of us did fall in the water and no, it wasn't the littlest. Cue lots of squelching as we made our way back to the car park.

All too soon, it was time to pack the bags, load the cars and hand back the door keys. 

Hebden Bridge?

We can't wait to return.

 

Filling in the gap

Well, that was a long absence.  Actually, the longest gap in almost 12 years (what?) of blogging.

It wasn't planned time out but down to a number of unexpected happenings that got in the way.

Truth be told, I suddenly lost interest in all things blog related. Hopefully, it was a temporary blip and normal service will be resumed.  I've always enjoyed reading posts on my favourite blogs whilst using love those cupcakes to document life chez moi, a journal of sorts which has become a useful personal record to look back on.

The laptop also decided to play up, with irritating niggles at first and then a big problem which necessitated a long stay in laptop hospital and which even Dr. Paul couldn't fix.  (It was only a matter of time as I'm always dropping it or spilling a mug of something hot and heavily caffeinated on the keypad.)  So, the purchase of a replacement is somewhere on the to do list.

Of course, life doesn't just toss the lemon pips our way and every now and again a whopping great lemon hits the side of the head.

Long time readers may recall that, for over 6 years now, the mister has been treated for severe depression.  In that time, there has been no visible sign of improvement (quite the opposite) and, for a year, probably longer, I've harboured concerns that something else was going on.

Turns out there is and a few months ago he was diagnosed with dementia. 

It's a rare form which affects language, communication and the processing of information more markedly than memory (speech, the ability to read, write, understand what people are saying and eventually swallow is lost) but which ultimately will go the way of all dementias.  And I'm sure most of us are aware that that's not a pretty picture, from whichever perspective. 

Clearly, this wasn't part of the plan and being thrust into the role of carer will take some adjustment.

But it is what it is.  

Time to dig deep.

 

Seasonal goings on

I love Easter.  It's like Christmas without the stress.  And the wrapping.

It was all low key, traditional stuff here.  Nothing fancy. 

Of course, the book buying ban ended at the weekend and a trip to Waterstones resulted in a decent haul. Oh, joy.

There was also church and buns on Good Friday, baking aplenty (brownies, Simnel cake, scones, lemon sponge, Easter biscuits), giving chocolate eggs, receiving chocolate bunnies, not venturing too far. 

As I said, a lot like Christmas.

The weather was far too hot and squint inducing bright for me (no surprises there, then).  And I really cannot delight in sky rocketing temperatures after watching this, which had me in tears in the first five minutes.  Actually, I can't recall when we last had rainfall in these parts. 

But on Easter Sunday we needed to work up an appetite for all those bakes so, covered in a thick layer of factor 50 and leaving the car on the drive, off we toddled.

We live in an industrial town in the north east which isn't the prettiest (far from it) but we're just a stone's throw from woods, hedgerows, fields, animals. 

Not long into the walk,  we bumped into our ex-next door neighbour who recently moved with his family to a farmhouse just up the lane.  He invited us to have a look round.  I didn't need asking twice (no, you're a nosey parker).

Oh. my. goodness.  Serious house envy. There are stunning views from every single window (blinds and curtains unnecessary) and the extensive renovation work is clearly very high quality and in keeping with the nature of the setting (said ex-neighbour is an architect, which probably helps).  I had to be dragged out. 

Further on, past the dilapidated farm buildings, we stumbled across a little bluebell wood. And, a little further, lambs.

Then it was back home for a bout of seasonal overindulgence.

I love Rennies, me.