love those cupcakes

You can't stop the beat

Much of the weekend was spent celebrating someone's birthday*.  After breakfast in the garden on Saturday, there was a drive to Barnard Castle in neighbouring Durham and a late lunch at a venue I'd read about recently.  My choice of warm falafel salad with flat bread from the wood fired pizza oven and homemade hummus didn't disappoint. It didn't all get eaten, either, as portions were massive.   On the way back we cooled off with iced coffee in the little market town up the road from here which meant another chance to mooch round the charity shops.  More books were purchased, including a couple of titles from my wishlist and the Hairspray Easy Piano Songbook (which the others here were surprisingly much less enthusiastic about).   Dinner that night at our favourite vegetarian restaurant was livened up when the young lad taking our order spilt the tray of drinks over us; well, not so much over me but the other three were giving off steam as they dried out.  The pudding course was skipped as a chocolate and salted caramel birthday cake (made using this recipe as a guide) was sitting in the kitchen at home.  Actually, the fridge might have been more appropriate as the cake was sitting in the caramel when it came to cutting but it quickly disappeared so probably tasted better than it looked.  On Sunday we managed to fit in a long walk (much needed after all those extra calories) very locally before the Girlie returned to Manchester.  I've mentioned here many times about how lucky we are to live 'twixt town and country, about how we're so close to farms, fields, public footpaths and Dave the donkey. The weather changed rather dramatically, we got lost (my sense of direction is appalling) and ended up getting thoroughy drenched (again) though I have to admit I do enjoy walking in a summer downpour.  

*So, I blinked and my Boy (a Golden Boy, apparently) turned 25.  A quarter of a century.  Seems you really can't stop the beat.

 

 

The week's roundup

We've experienced a range of weather in the north east this week, including a hammering of unseasonal hailstones.   That was the day it seemed highly appropriate to bake a crumble (which I'd been craving for a while), made with a couple of Bramleys, a generous sprinkling of ground cloves and topped with a crunchy flour, oats and demerara mix.  I kept it dairy-free by serving it with some soya cream which even the 'I'm not eating that vegan muck' mister lapped up.

When conditions outside were drier, it seemed opportune to set to with the brushes (again, get me) and tins of paint (not the Annie Sloan chalk stuff, can't say I'm too keen on that) to smarten up the little summer house at the bottom of the garden. Inside and out. Two colours.  Clearly on a roll, a small table was also given a makeover......and then was promptly sat upon.  

The town's annual literary festival launched recently and a couple of hours were very happily spent in the reference library for An Evening with Joanne Harris, who just happens to be one of my favourite contemporary writers.  It was fitting that a local teashop provided plenty of sweet treats (a couple of cupcakes came home with me for the other two here) to nibble as we listened to the author of Chocolat talk about her early experiences as a library user, her latest novel and writing in her shed. She signed lots of books (I bought a copy of her chocolate recipe book) and answered lots of questions, none being asked by yours truly.  I did think of one, belatedly, on the way home: Of all the novels you've read, which one do you wish you'd written?*  

My local area now has it's own Rough Guide.  A mini version, but still.  

It's been a bit of a spendy week.  In addition to treating myself to the recipe book, more plants for the garden have been ordered (I know I keep saying it but, with their insatiable appetites, those slugs and snails are costing a fortune), pretty bedding and yarn (for another blanket) have been purchased and a Parisian landmark has found its way into the bedroom.

*Actually, thinking about it, this is a rather difficult question and I'm not at all sure what my answer would be if I was asked.  One of the classics that has stood the test of time?  A book that's become an old friend and which I've enjoyed reading and re-reading?  One with the most thrilling of storylines?  One that made me cry?  Or laugh?   A book written for children?  I've no idea.  So, how would you answer? 

 

To the bottom of the world and back (part 7)

'It's just that there are some things women don't do.  They don't become Pope or President or go down to the Antarctic'.

Harry Darlington, chief pilot on Finn Ronne's 1946-8 Antarctic Research Expedition

 

So. Onward towards Antarctica, the highlight of the trip.  Waking up to glorious weather and a very different landscape.  Sailing past icebergs larger than the ship, crawling with ants which turned into penguins when viewed through a lens.  

Just off the Antarctic peninusula is Deception Island, an active volcano.  Another early morning landing by zodiac at Telefon Bay and a welcome committee of a perky Chinstrap penguin or five and a basking fur seal.  Then a tricky hike up a steep hill of volcanic ash to view one of the craters. 

In the afternoon, a landing on a cobbled beach at Half Moon Island.  Once the haunt of sealers, now home to a colony of Chinstraps high up on a rocky outcrop, a lonesome Gentoo and the Argentine summer research station Camara with its giveaway national flag on the roof.

Next stop:  the Antarctic continent.

To the bottom of the world and back (part 5)

'For scientific discovery give me Scott; for speed and efficiency give me Amundsen; but when disaster strikes and all hope is gone, get down on your knees and pray for Shackleton'.

(Sir Raymond Priestley)

Second day at South Georgia and an early morning zodiac tour around Godthul on the eastern side of the island. Unlike the Falklands, South Georgia has no permanent population, it never has had (no runway, no railway, no roads, this is the sub-Antarctic after all), though there are several active research stations (staffed by people working one or two year contracts) and evidence in a couple of areas along the coast of a long since abandoned whaling industry.

The first and most significant whaling station was established at Grytviken (also the base for the island's very limited government), which operated through the season each year from 1904 until the 1960's when whale numbers were so low continuation was unviable.

The weather was glorious on the day we visited (the pictures are straight out of the camera).  We hiked  a very boggy mile or so up to Gull Lake, toasted Sir Ernest 'The Boss' Shackleton, who is buried in the little whalers' cemetery, at his graveside, mailed postcards (they've yet to arrive) in the hard to locate postbox, visited the little museum, marvelled at the amazing cloud formations which looked for all the world like flying saucers and remembered my dad on what would have been his birthday.

(Pin tailed duck)

 

 

That time of year

Spotting a splash of colour through a less than sparkling kitchen window.  Noticing berries ripening on a self-sown tree at the bottom of the garden.  Sweeping leaves and filling green bags on a daily basis.  Observing changes in the fields round about.  Planning to shake up the lunch menu a little with the addition of a ruby red  soup.  Working on a blanket to welcome an October arrival in a friend's family.  Watching the Last Night of the Proms and remembering that as a little girl I used to beg my dad to switch it off as hearing Jerusalem made me cry.    Hatching plans to be a bit craftier and become reacquainted with the sewing machine.  The steady slide towards autumn with cooler days, nights drawing in, lights being switched on earlier, settling down to enjoy some new TV programmes and bingeing on Orange Is The New Black.  I love September, me.

Source

A bit of history with a lot of snowdrops

 

It was such glorious weather yesterday and definitely not a day for staying indoors.  So off we went to Fountains Abbey, about an hour's drive away in Ripon.  I'd last visited as a child when an abbey ruin (we're rather well off for them in these parts) often featured in family picnics (which, incidentally, were always on a Monday as that was half day closing in my parents' shop).

Now a World Heritage Site, the abbey was active as a Cistercian monastery (they chose some cracking sites those monks) from the 1100's until Henry VIIIth stuck his oar in 400 years later.  The parkland setting is stunning and an added bonus when visiting at this time of year is the snowdrop display.  We didn't get as far as the medieval deer park.  That's for next time.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Still savouring

A batch of perfectly crunchy, oaty, peanut buttery, chocolatey biscuits using a new recipe book * Waiting for the mister in an almost empty coffee shop and finishing a terrific read * Our vegetarian take on a Burns Night supper with Quality Street afters * Unexpected snowfall overnight and bright skies this morning * Twenty nine years of being a mum *

 

Savouring

Yet another picture of the cold white stuff.

You can blame Rachel.

The word I've chosen is 'savour':

verb  

• [with object] taste (good food or drink) and enjoy it to the full

• enjoy or appreciate (something pleasant) to the full, especially by lingering over it

 

So I've been savouring this wintry weather and the view of a snow covered Roseberry Topping in the distance.

I'm now about to savour a soya latte which has magically appeared on the table next to me.

Later I'll be savouring a cauliflower and chickpea curry.

I'll spare you the pictures.

 

Don't speak too soon

Seems I was a bit previous in the last post.

Those new wellies are going to be worn out at this rate.

 

Fortunately the snow plough had been busy in the lane near home.

 

 

I've cancelled a dinner date with a friend and plan to spend some time with this (and two 'driving me bonkers because they refuse to go out in the snow and are full of energy' cats) instead.

 

 

I love polo necks, me.

 

Disappearing act

 

It came.

 

I was prepared.

 

Not sure he was.

 

Now it's melting.

 Pah!