Jenny, Author at Jenny May

Note to Self:

I’ve seen a lot of people joining in with the social media prompt to post a picture of themselves from the beginning of the decade and now, as we approach the end of it. But it occurs to me, that a whole world can happen in that time.

If I were to join the posting, the pictures would not be much different, save for a few more grey hairs and a further creasing around the eyes. But all that in between… My life over this decade has been a ridiculous rollercoaster of ups: marrying my darling MOTH, and downs (sadly many) which also include – cancer. There would be a more stark contrast in pictures if I were to post one from two years ago, when I had no hair at all due to chemotherapy.

I am someone who doesn’t subscribe to looking at the past. This has been borne out to me even more after recently trying counselling again. I went because of things that have happened to me over the last five years or so, including going through cancer, which at the time of doing so, you knuckle down so hard to just physically surviving, you don’t get a chance to address the mental and emotional aspects until a year or two after. I have been diagnosed with PTSD and hypervigilance along with anxiety and depression, none of which surprises me in the least. But, it was the constant push to go back and scrutinise the past that made me stop going. Yes, I believe the past would be the genesis of much of my, shall we say, idiosyncrasies, but my personal gut feeling is that ok, that was that, but I’d rather look at now and what can be, rather than what was.

However, I am also coming to the conclusion that there is not an awful lot of point in looking to the future too much, either. I don’t mean this in a depressive – there’s no point to anything – way, but that there is truth in the school of thought which says: the past and the future do not exist, the only moment that does, is the one right now.

A case in point; I have recently made myself very ill by focusing too much on a future. By that I mean, I wanted to grab as many possibilities that came my way, be involved in exciting new projects for bettering my future self, that I took on too much. Between work, study and training courses – I forgot to actually live. I can’t remember the last time I wrote a poem or short story, sat down and painted or even went for a walk. All the things that mentally are integral to my good health, there was no longer time for. I have ended up in utter and complete exhaustion to the point of not being able to stand up for two days because the world was swimming about me.

The past is done – and so doesn’t exist. The future has not yet happened – and so doesn’t exist. That means: now, is important.

I have a body that is not yet strong enough to be as on the full-time-go that there is societal pressure to be and so I need to make changes to make my ‘now’ my focus. I am completely guilty of not taking my own advice, I struggle to accept my limitations, but I really don’t want future me to look back at past me (me right now) and feel sad that I put so much emphasis on the times that no longer or do not yet exist, that I forgot to live at all.

I am a huge exponent of kindness being perhaps one of the most important things in this world and we (I) must remember that as well as being so to others, we must also be kind to ourselves.

Taking five and not looking back

Despite the fact that I know it does me so much good, I find that I very rarely get down to any craft of my own – especially drawing and painting. The reason being, is that I don’t have time or rather, this is the narrative I have given myself and therefore have come to believe.

When I sit down to draw, I like to have hours free ahead of me so I can get lost in this hobby. Time passes without me noticing as I end up in a kind of hypnotic state, zoned out and oblivious to the world – which is lovely. But, the opportunities to allow this extended period of time are infrequent and as a consequence I can go weeks or months without doing anything.

Recently I have seen my best friend and others posting quick sketches they have done allowing themselves only five minutes and it has been incredibly motivating. No, they are not perfect but they evoke a certain feeling of vivacity, of energy; perhaps because of their speed in being brought about. The other thing I find inspiring is that they are shared – flaws and all. I am a terrible one for self-doubt and I write and create far more content than ever gets seen purely because I over-think it all to the point of not believing any of it worth sharing and therefore, I don’t.

So, would it be possible for me to follow the suit of these inspiring people and have a go at daily five-minute sketches, no going back, no time to doubt and posting them to be seen?

The first problem I encountered is one faced by many – the blank page. Just what does one choose? I found myself heading online and looking at vast selections of ‘daily prompts’ and spending too much time reading them and wondering if they would be something I’d like to have a go at, whether I’d be able to etcetera and therefore – once again – stalling.

With my interests very much lying in nature, I thought perhaps this would be the best way for me to encourage myself to start. So I nipped outside and got a small sprig of wild marjoram from the garden.

Sat at my desk, sketch book out and pencils sharpened, I set a timer for five minutes – and off I went. Never has five minutes gone so quickly!

And here it is:

How was it? Well, firstly I have to say – I produced something on a day when perhaps I would not have otherwise. Am I happy with it? Not really, I had to work very hard not to tinker with it after the alarm went off. Perhaps more importantly, what was the process like? Rushed, I felt under pressure; almost panicky; about as far removed from the normal slow, meditative zoning out I normally feel when drawing. But, I produced something.

Will I do it again? I am tempted to say yes but that I will extend the time to ten minutes but, as an experiment, I will continue to attempt some more five minute sketches; maybe one a day. Perhaps it could be a kind of therapy for me as someone who overthinks things to the point of fearful withdrawal. As mentioned above, I have so many blogs, drawings and photographs that I have created and never let seen the light of day due to self-doubt; maybe a little bit of instant public imperfection will allow me a little freedom of expression. But, if I ever get the chance to give myself those hours blissfully away from the world, I will treasure that time; whether I show you what I produce or not.

Shrews – living life in the fast lane

If you thought that a shrew was just, ‘a kind of a mouse with a funny nose’, then you’d be wrong. These tiny mammals actually have more in common with hedgehogs and moles than they do rodents and are pretty interesting in their own right.

But, why I am writing about shrews? Whilst eating breakfast I saw our Big Cat faffing about like a ninny on the lawn. There is nothing particularly special about this, he is a strange fellow and is often seen behaving in delightfully joyous, but daft ways. At first it looked as if he were trying to dance a jig on four legs, but from past experience I knew that he was excited – he had caught something. Now, big cat is not an adept hunter (for which I am glad) and he is such a sweet, gentle and odd soul that, when he does actually catch something, he has no idea what to do with it. He will often wander around with it held gently and unharmed in his mouth and will let me take it from him. (It is small cat who will one day take over the world and destroy everything in his wake to do so.)

And so I found myself relocating a tiny shrew into one of our tree-lined hedges.

Let us examine the shrew. They have dense, velvety fur which is white-ish underneath, pale at the sides and is darker on top. We cannot ignore the long nose, which makes it so readily identifiable, it has small ears and poor eyesight. Unlike rodents, whose front incisors continue to grow throughout life, the shrew has small, spike-like red-tipped teeth which wear down over time – and that’s after having already lost its milk teeth before birth. They are small, 5-8 cm, with a tail of around 2-4 cm but, and this is where I land the first awesome fact for you, they can shrink – on purpose.

Shrews do no hibernate, instead they enter a state of torpor over the winter months. To aid this reduction in energy cost and need, they undergo an amazing morphological change; they shrink. Their spines shorten, their internal organs, bones, brain and even skull reduce in size. When the weather improves and they are able to go about their foraging with vigour once more, they grow back to their bigger size.

They are foragers and will eat insects, spiders, worms, small slugs and snails, chrysalis as well as nuts and seeds; and they need a lot. Shrews need to eat every 2-3 hours just to stay alive and will consume between 100% and 300% of their own bodyweight to survive; partly because they are frenetic creatures, zipping about at incredibly fast speeds. (The average weight of a woman in the UK is around 70kg, the equivalent of the shrew’s intake would be like consuming 350 200g bars of chocolate – a day!)

Shrews are feisty and promiscuous. That’s right, when the mating season begins its worse than a Saturday night when the nightclubs have closed and it’s a free-for-all; a-fightin’ and a-lovin,’ and naturally, the shrew equivalent of a kebab after. They are highly territorial creatures and the females (who will have 2-5 litters of 5-7 young) will often raise a litter fathered by several different males. But here’s the awwww moment, shrews have been seen to move in a ‘caravan,’ whereby the young follow their mother in a line, each holding the tail of the one in front in their mouth.

But all this activity can be dangerous exposing them to their varied predators. They are most often killed by owls, but weasels, stoats, foxes, kestrels and cats will have a go to. However, they do not prove to be the fine dining experience wanted and are often abandoned due to secreting a foul tasting liquid from glands on their skin. Which is why, if you are a cat owner you may find shrews abandoned in various places about the house. Your cat is not showing you adoring love by giving you a gift, it just doesn’t like the taste of its take-away and wants you to get rid of it for them.

I mentioned at the start that shrews have poor hearing and eyesight but they have a possible secret talent to aid their foraging and navigation. It is thought that they perhaps use a form of echolocation; not the clicks, but ultrasonic high-pitched squeaks to create an echo scene of their surroundings. (I have also just read that hedgehogs use ultrasonic whistles – I must look into this more!) For hunting, they make use of that mobile snout and highly sensitive whiskers which they waggle around constantly and once they brush up against something recognised as prey, they attack at high speed and with pin-point precision.

To recap: red teeth, can shrink at will, eat more than their body weight a day, love a good fight and getting some lovin,’ echolocate and secrete foul liquid from the skin – pretty awesome, hey?

Most shrews do not live longer than a year, so it’s perhaps little wonder that they live life in the fast lane; feasting, fighting and f-well, you know.

Common Shrew – Sorex araneus

A Latent Naturalist

I am coming to the conclusion that I am, perhaps, a latent naturalist.(Without any form of expertise, albeit.) Why it had to take me until I was in my thirties to see it, I don’t know. I think the signs have always been there, but it’s as if the parts are only just summing together. If you look at my instagram account and also my previous blogs, I believe that more than half of my pictures and words seem to revolve around the natural world outside, my experience of it, what I have seen, heard, found and felt.

I am one of those people who simply cannot come back empty handed from a walk and have a growing collection of feathers, leaves, bones, stones and such that have taken my interest. In unenlightened years this would firmly have had me regarded as a witch. Fifty years ago it would have been an acceptable and healthy pastime – for boys, but certainly not young ladies. And now, not only are we losing so much of our natural land but, through fear and non-understanding of perceived dangers, people are not so encouraged to go out and explore; to touch what they see and interact with the natural world.

A day or two ago I took a work break and wandered outside because I had a strong need to feel the grass under my feet. I have spent a lot of my life barefoot and it occurred to me that so many of us see but have no real and tangible connection with nature. It’s like we go to a beauty spot, point at a tree, exclaim at a beautiful butterfly on the path, take a great picture of the sun on a river; but almost as if it were all happening one step removed, behind a pane of glass.

I am aware that, although I have always felt my connection to the natural world at a level I can only describe as, deeper-than-bone, I have never really put an awful lot of effort into learning academically about it. Until recently, that is, where it seems my natural instincts and feelings have decided perhaps that it was time to team up with my brain.

As part of this, I am trying to learn about the hidden landscape that lies like a second world on top of our own: that is the soundscape of birds. I have spent my life saying, ‘Oooh, I wish I knew what that was,’ whenever I heard a bird sing, and yet it wasn’t until a friend pointed me in the direction of some very useful audio and visual learning tools, that I began to do anything about it. Together with this person’s enthusiasm and encouragement to keep having a go I now find that I am hearing a busy metropolis of activity with many layers that I had previously allocated to: nice but indistinguishable background noise.

I have a long way to go. I am also becoming a bit of a nerd; I have a notebook in the kitchen in which I have started to write down the birds I have seen that day – and even recording what the weather was like. Short of wearing a pair the whole time (which, if I start doing this, someone please have a word with me) I am forever dashing from room to room to retrieve my binoculars which are never in the place I want them at the time.

There is a hoard of rowdy, bickering, sweary sparrows which shout from the hedges and are usually first on the bird feeder each morning. They seem to be scared of nothing and despite being widely thought of as, ‘just a little brown bird (LBB),’ I actually think they are quite robust, stocky things that take no nonsense from anyone or anything, making me think of the typecast characters played by Ray Winstone: and so, despite one of the widely accepted collective nouns for them being a, ‘quarrel,’ (which is, intact, rather apt) I may use a Winstone of sparrows as my preference.

I encourage you all, to whip off those shoes and socks and allow your souls* to be in contact with the natural world.

*Yes, wordplay absolutely intended 🙂

Went out. Got covered in caterpillars.

After a morning of doing, not necessarily exciting but certainly grown-up things, I took myself out for a walk at a local nature reserve; a patch of woodland just a short drive from home. It was going to be a bit of a gamble weather-wise seeing as lately we have had everything from blistering heat to hail, heavy winds and much rain; but I was wearing my raincoat and so prepared for any downfall.

Or so I thought. What I hadn’t counted on was a precipitation of caterpillars. I didn’t notice them at first, I thought I had just walked through a spider web or two, instigating the usual clumsy fumbling about the face, eyelashes and hair trying to grasp wisps of spider webs that follows such an occurrence. But then I saw what was actually going on: from every tree there hung hundreds of silk threads each with at least one small caterpillar on.

I had to re-adjust focus somewhat to see the tiny specs wriggling about in the mid-ground against the backdrop of trees and foliage, but once I had done so I could see that they were everywhere. Some were just hanging about, others wriggling up the barely visible strands, some were pirouetting with such vigour they swung back and forth.

It was fascinating, but I have to admit that the interest wore down to mild annoyance when every single step I took ended in yet more of the silk strands and their abseiling spinners landing on my hair, my face and, well, everywhere. I began to wish I had a windshield of sorts to hold in front of me and a cyclist passing in the other direction had clearly reached irritation point too.

A quick jaunt on-line and I am not wholly up-to-speed, but I think they may be some kind of moth caterpillar which actually wreak a fair bit of damage. It seems they dangle from their threads to either reach lower newly-formed buds and leaves to munch on, or to be swept by the wind to another tree, to begin their destruction there. (Caveat, I may be doing them a complete disservice and have got this wrong, in which case I profusely apologise to the wriggly beasts.)

At one of the moments I was looking up (fervent hopes that none would land directly on my face somewhere in mind) an aeroplane flew overhead. It was a striking juxtaposition: me on the woods’ floor, hanging above me a net of caterpillars billowing in the breeze, then the canopy of trees and upwards still in the blue gaps between, the large metal vehicle of flight.

I found myself wondering where the people inside might be heading and would they look about them when there and find such beauty, intrigue and inspiration as I had in my short walk. I hoped so. I hoped that they weren’t just heading to an all-inclusive, man-made sterile complex where they would see nothing of the natural habitat and wildlife. We have reached a point where many are realising that the carbon footprint we have landed on this planet has done immeasurable damage. Perhaps if more of us could find the beauty of places closer to home once in a while, we could rein in some further harm.

I admit to a mild sense of hypocrisy when, less than an hour later on my way home, I had to stop for petrol. Perhaps this year will be the year that I finally get out on my bike more. But don’t worry, I’ll give you fair warning first if so as I have not ridden in some time!

But it wasn’t just caterpillars that caught my eye today (some of which nearly literally!). Here are a few bees, bugs and butterflies from my wander.

My apologies Mr Worm

I have been doing a lot of apologising to worms lately – and making promises to bees (as well as gently admonishing them for being so persistent on coming into the house and having to be gently ferried back out in a glass – the bees that is, not the worms).

Having held off getting too much going in the garden, never truly believing the weather had fully turned, it is now all-go, once again. As well as the turning over and weeding of the vegetable patches from previous years, we have been cutting in new ones too. The garden allotment grows; in all senses of the word.

Unearthing worms, I am very apologetic to them; how rude to be tumbled out of the warm dark earth to the surface – what must they think! But I am happy to see them, especially in the soil that when first dug was not in great condition, but with a lot of love, compost and a fair bit of sweating and swearing, is now improving considerably. (I do have veggie patch envy though of my mum’s. She has turned what was once the heaviest of good old Suffolk clay, into beautiful, workable soil. I have a few more years of hard graft to go!)

The worms, I fear, also deserve some of my apologies because I know a fair few of them will become a tasty morsel for the birds who hang around in greedy expectation and shout at me to go away so they can swoop in for their fill.

On one occasion, when moving some of the little wrigglers to a different area so they didn’t get repeatedly disturbed, I was struck by a memory from many, many years ago. When I was about three, maybe four-years-old, I had a little red tricycle which had a small white leather satchel on the back. For some reason (and I have long ago given up trying to understand my own mind) I had decided I would gather up as many worms as I could and take them on a little bike ride round the garden. Unbeknownst to me, until my mum pointed it out, there was a hole in one of the corners of the leather pouch and as I rode round and around the grass I was leaving a trail of worms behind me as they commando crawled their way to freedom.

But why the promises to bees? I am not a gardener’s gardener. What I mean is, there is much in my garden that is not neat and I leave plenty of things that a lot of people would be in a hurry to get rid of. Even though I know I will be causing a headache for myself later down the line, I will often allow things to grow or remain if they are something I know birds, bees and all the other wonderful insects, creatures and critters will like. Like comfrey. I have swathes of yellow comfrey which I know spreads like wildfire but, the bees adore it. When it first started coming back I looked at it and said, now, now is the time, if you don’t get on top of it now you know it will be madness. But I left it, full in the knowledge that it would start to take over – which of course, it did. As the flowers are waning, I have begun removing about two-thirds of it and this is why the promises to bees. As they buzzed about me, clearly annoyed, I promised them that I wasn’t taking it all and that I would shortly be putting in much more that they would love. In a similar vein I have not removed my dandelions and I am not going to wage such war on the cow parsley this year.

I sometimes feel quite sad about what we as a species have done to our natural environment but it does seem as if there is beginning to be a bit more urgency of late, in people recognising that things need to change. If everyone who has a garden, of any size, could allow just one area of it to run wild and free, it would be hugely beneficial I am sure; not only to wildlife, but also to us. It’s worth remembering: we NEED all the amazing little insects, bugs and beasties; and all they ask from us in return is a place that they can call home.

Click on the image below for a tiny video of a tiny box with a big message.

If it’s not on the list, it’s not going in

A couple of days ago, I found myself getting rather irate with teabags – and I don’t even drink tea; well, black, green or white anyway. I do like a black coffee, but long gone are the days when I could swig it back without a care and now it is just the one; the glorious first thing in the morning life-affirming, granting, saving cup that I allow myself. Unless I’m feeling daring, then perhaps two. (Any more than that then I have to have a shaky lie down and pep talk from MOTH to assuage the jitters.) In lieu of these staples then, I amass a large selection of herbal teas because, although many of them are very nice and I do enjoy them – mostly; they are just not as satisfying somehow and can become, quite honestly, boring!

But why have they annoyed me so much of late? Well, apart from the frankly quite ludicrous price of some of the trendier branded ones, it’s because I rather naively have spent the last couple of years putting them on the compost heap.

Now, before any more-experienced composters (compostitioners? Compostees?) out there start tutting and shaking their heads, this is still quite new to us and yes, there were mistakes. I don’t know why, but I had mistakingly assumed that teabags would decompose thinking they were made from paper. They do not. They are not. Bah!

I have been feeling the rise of gardener’s itchy fingers; not an ailment requiring medical attention, but more the pricking of the yearn and need to be out awakening the garden from its winter sleep and readying it for the year ahead. I feel as if I am in the blocks, sweat band on, starting pistol raised – and yet, we are not quite ready for the off. I may be thinking of potato chitting and seed sowing, but not only is it still slightly too early, I don’t trust the weather. This time last year we were being hounded by The Beast from the East and after what has felt like an incredibly mild winter, can it really be that the worst is done?

So instead of the fun stuff, I have been doing some of the less exciting jobs; including sorting out the compost pens – back to teabags. Our first year’s compost is ready to use; it is dry and crumbly, fragrance free – perfect – apart from one or two things that have now solidly entered the banned list and will never be going on again. The reason I will be particularly firm on this is, that I sifted through every spadeful that came out of the pen and removed the non-decomposed detritus. In the rogues gallery, first and foremost we have teabags, followed by corks (again, naivety came into play where I thought cork, that’s natural, it will be fine – nope!) and mango stones. Due to having a prolific plum tree, the prep for pies and preserves producing mountains of stones; this year, I will also not be adding all these to the heap for their tendency to hang about somewhat.

But, it wasn’t having to sift out the teabags that annoyed me as such, it was realising that they were not biodegradable. A quick look online and it seems as if in the UK alone, there are around 62 billion cups of tea drunk a year – 96% of which are made from teabags, which begs the question: where are they all now?

Like so many people I am sickened by the sheer volume of rubbish and waste that we produce as a species and, although we are not huge consumers and take care to recycle as much as we can, MOTH and I are increasingly trying to put into effect where possible, the two factors that are even better than recycling: firstly – reduce, secondly – reuse.

The first point is one that is getting a lot of people up in arms because it feels as if we are fighting a losing battle sometimes. When even a pomelo (a fruit which comes with THE thickest natural wrapping) comes in shrink wrapped plastic, then what chance do we have? Our weekly food shop is fast becoming a time of exasperated swearing and huffing.

The second point can at least be a little more fun; or if not fun, perhaps satisfying and you should never underestimate the creativity people can muster when they put their minds to it.

I am madly obsessed with Pinterest at the moment – a place where there is something for everyone and you can end up chasing down a glorious rabbit hole of interests. If you want to be inspired about things you can re-use, regularly thrown away items for, I very much encourage you to look around. There is everything from sublime works of art made out of pre-used items to practical, useful objects or cleverly mended and altered clothes to extend their life.

Have fun and in the meantime, I will leave you with a few of my own.

The Heartbeat of a Tree

I felt the heartbeat of a tree today. Now, before you think I’m mad, of course, I know that I didn’t really (or did I?), but for a moment my own heart skipped because, it really felt as if I had.

It has been a day where, although it is cold and the wind is blowing well, the sun is out and the sky is that kind of huge blue which occurs in expanse, in winter. I have a stinking cold but despite this, I cannot help but be drawn outside.

Having perambulated the garden, having a nosy at how things have fared over the weeks in which I have been too busy to be tending to things of flora (perhaps months, is a more accurate time-frame), I dragged one of the garden benches from beside the increasingly falling apart shed, where I had secured it against stronger winds the previous year, and planted it in the sunniest spot at the bottom of the garden.

Wrapped up warm against the cold (apart from my feet which, no matter how many layers I wear just will not defrost) I closed my eyes and felt the warmth of the sun on my face. My eyes did not stay closed for long as I became distracted by a bird somewhere nearby making the most amazing array of noises. I first thought it must be the song thrush that lives at the end of our garden and is often seen whacking snails against old exposed path slabs (now mostly sunken and grown over by grass and moss). But it wasn’t, it was one of our darling starlings that continue to keep us entertained. I have written before about the immense range of noises and imitation sounds that starlings are capable of, and this one was giving me a good earful of his portfolio.

To my left, roughly four metres away, there is an apple tree. Every year I tell it, it will be its last as it is leaning closer to the ground with each season that passes, but it still bears fruit; an apple somewhere between a cooker and an eater and with which we made Scandinavian apple relish this year, for Christmas presents. I always leave some fruit on the trees for wildlife and today I was rewarded for doing so. As I sat attempting to breathe some fresh air into my cold-stuffed head, I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. A beautiful female blackbird, feathers a glossy dark chocolate brown, was perched atop one of the hanging apples having a good peck at it. She didn’t seem to care at all that I was so close and neither did the blue tit who alighted on a different apple above her and began pecking away.

I am ashamed to say that one of my first thoughts was that I wished I had my camera with me and contemplated the possibility of a phone picture showing anything discernible. But I knew that even if I did have my camera or tried to take a picture on my phone, the movement itself would frighten away the two diners. And then I was struck with an interesting thought: I was glad I wasn’t able to take a photograph because that meant I just sat there, watching and fully enjoying the sight. I love beautiful and inspiring pictures, but sometimes I wonder if we fall into documenting things rather than experiencing them.

We have been lucky lately in that starlings have been performing murmurations over our garden (I like to think as a thank you for the sheer amount of mealworms and fat balls they’ve had from us). The first time it happened I filmed as much as I could. But the second time, I just watched and in doing so I didn’t just see what was happening I heard the flap and dull thud of wings and feather as they turned, I felt the breeze that they were moving within, I became aware of the cold air on my cheeks and the smell of damp earth and the winter world outside and I noticed the varying hues of blue, grey, pink and purple which made up the palate of the fading sky.

I am currently reading a book called, ‘The Running Hare, The Secret Life of Farmland,’ by John Lewis-Stempel. It is a gorgeous book documenting the life of an agricultural field being given back to nature. But is is also very sad as it clearly exposes just what we as humans have done to the land and all that lives in and on it, by means of intense agriculture. As a race, we have learned how to dominate nature. I believe we now need to learn how to share with it. My apples left on the tree may only be a small give-back, but I feel that I got the bigger reward from the action.

The wind blew harder and colder, snow has been tentatively mentioned on the forecast and almost as if in synergy, I spot a clump of snowdrops that are hanging their white heads at the base of a rose.

Heading back to the house, I stop to touch the warm trunk of our smoke bush. The bark is rough and looks like elephant skin. I turn and place my hand on the clean-cut end of a branch I removed from smokey’s neighbour; a cotoneaster (who has grown considerably out of hand and is still in full, green leaf) and that is when I feel a thud. Thinking I was mistaken I close my eyes and press my hand flat against the wood and there it is again: thud, thud, thud. I smile, I laugh at myself a little because in a fraction of a moment it felt as if I was feeling its heartbeat. Common sense kicked in just as quickly; it was just a vibration caused by branches much higher up moving in the wind. Surely?

A Christmas Tale: From the Hearth

What do you get if you cross a small rural church, three kettles and a persistent fly?

A Christmas tale – of sorts.

Gather round and let me tell you a story From the Hearth.

Once upon a time, there were three Kettles: Heather Kettle, Ilona Kettle and Jenny Kettle. These ladies were the best of friends and sang together in a close harmony a cappella group. For many a year they would entertain audiences at Christmas time with carols and festive tunes and often would be asked, “Do you have a Christmas album?”

“Alas, we do not.” They would say.

But the time came (it was February) when the Kettles decreed: “This will be the year! We shall make a Christmas album.”

They searched the land far and wide (well, quite close to home, actually) and found a sound engineer with qualities true and patient (very patient) and recording began in the bleak and dreary month of February.

But, disaster befell: coughs, colds, snivels and illness took hold and the Kettles wheezed and sneezed too much to sing and so, almost as soon as it began, recording was halted. But trying times prevailed for between the Kettles and their gallant sound engineer, there was not one date upon the calendar they could get together – until October!

As the year passed by, the Kettles found their hearts and minds were changing. In a world full of filters and fake news, auto-tune and pretence, they wanted to capture something that felt real and true. And so it was that when the October date drew close, the plan had changed. (As mentioned before, the sound engineer was patient – very.)

Now it was that to a small and very rural church the Kettles did go and with one day only to complete the task ahead, they recorded their album – live. Many was the time they had to stop for a car, helicopter or cow to pass noisily by. Enjoyable chats were had with people popping in to sit and listen as they sang. A local farmer stopped by with his dog, a lovely man (but Jenny Kettle had to bite the inside of her cheeks to stop from laughing when she noticed Heather Kettle inadvertently say, ‘do you come by here often,’ to said farmer; the language association of which tickled her far more than it really should have!).

As the day drew on and the light was fading, with the cold creeping in and the Kettles and their sound engineer starting to tire, one last challenge was set upon them. A fly. A large and very noisy fly began to dive bomb the microphones. Twenty minutes ensued of Kettles and engineer alike clambering about and chasing down said fly to rid themselves of the noise-some pest. This was a funny sight to behold – for a while, but soon lost its amusement for the group.

When at last the sun began to set beyond the fields and trees surrounding the small church, the day was done and the Kettles knew that what they had recorded may not be classed as ‘perfect’ by a world that tweaks and presents a false representation of itself, but it would be true and real and was made with love in a beautiful place with lovely people all around (and of course a very patient sound engineer).

And so good people, From the Hearth was made and if you would like a little bit of true Christmas thought and feeling, you can buy a copy of the album direct from The Kettle Girls or by e-mailing thekettlegirls@gmail.com and paying by Paypal.

You can see the trailer here

From the Hearth is £10 + £1 postage.

With huge thanks to Semi-Echo who recorded and mastered this album.

Happy Christmas!

There’s a monster in my dining room

It is mischief night, the night before All Hallows Eve and so I thought I’d tell you about our very own monster who lives with us. He almost touches the ceiling and with each year that passes, he takes over more and more of the room. When we’ve had guests round for dinner he has been known to poke them in the back whilst sat around the table. He has also made a terrible mess of the paintwork on the walls.

But, we love him and he has certainly become one of the family. Known to us as Edam, he is a Monstera deliciosa (aka a cheese plant). MOTH bought him 24 years ago, little understanding then just how big he would grow. When we first moved in to this house three years past, we initially housed him in the conservatory on the back wall thinking it was the only area that could accommodate him. But guilt set in when we saw that he was not faring well at all. Too cold through the winter and too scorching hot in the summer he began to look decidedly unhappy. So, into the dining room he went and my-goodness, he preferred that. He has since sent forth several new leaves, each bigger and higher-reaching than the last.

It is quite fascinating to watch these leaves come into being. They appear, one at a time, from each previous leaf. A small section begins to peel away from the stem and out of this split comes an unfurled flag of green. As it un-rolls it spreads out and up, to become the leaf from which the next new one will spring.

I have always had houseplants, not only do they look nice but they are very healthy things to have in your home. I have had successes to greater and lesser extents, mainly because I am not one for mollycoddling*. I like a good robust plant that doesn’t demand specialised attention and can just get on with being, without too much fuss. But I never thought I’d have a plant that I could stand under without stooping and it still loom above me.

The thing about Edam though, is that, he seems to have become more than just a houseplant. Perhaps because of his size and therefore sheer presence, I find I feel very kindly to him and even chat to him on passing. “Good morning, Edam.” As I wander through to the kitchen to get the breakfast things out. “Good grief man, will stop growing just for a bit!” Pretty much every time I look at him. I’ve even given him a dust on occasion followed by a spritz of water and asked him if, “that felt better, now?” Is this better or worse than talking to the cats, I wonder? Perhaps I just need to get out more. But to have a living thing take up a quarter of a room and be with you for so long and that you see responding to the care you give it – how can you not treat him as more than just a thing?

I’m not quite sure where all this will take us. We have recently had to rearrange the whole dining room just to accommodate Edam and I wonder if, one day, we will come downstairs, struggle to open the door and fight our way though to find that there is a jungle to negotiate before we reach the kitchen. And do you know what, if that is the case, I can’t help thinking that we would just create a path through as best we could, gently chastise our ever-growing monster and carry on as normal with the cats prowling about their own personal indoor forest.

*I thought, having written it, I would have a look at the term mollycoddle. It seems, it comes from the seventeenth century and was used as a derogative term for someone, particularly an effeminate male, who has been overindulged and overprotected. The Molly part taking reference from the slang term of Mary which was given to low-status, often prostitute women and the coddled part is, ‘to treat overly carefully,’ often used in cooking, as in coddling an egg – to boil it very gently.