Well the big news here at Lower Farm House is that the cows have moved back into the pastures for the Spring. They are entirely picturesque and unbelievably loud. The pasture, I should mention, is directly outside the wall of our house and front garden – so the mooing is not the far away mooing of distant cows. There is a pasture on either side of our house, and when the cows in one side catch sight of the cows in the other then they both break into a complete fit and moo back and forth over the walls at one another like the woman wailing for her demon lover. It’s quite startling when you’re not expecting it. Especially when they all get into the spirit of the thing and the whole herd pitches in. In fact, just a few minutes ago I was sitting here in the living room, sipping my morning coffee, pyjama clad children eating their breakfast in the kitchen – when I was suddenly jolted out of my calm complacency by a deep, reverberating moo that seemed to be coming from the sofa about 5 feet behind me. I wheeled around, and there in the window above the sofa was an enormous cow head looking in at me.
Perhaps I haven’t been clear enough about the very imminent nature of the pasture. It’s a large pasture, and is surrounded by various things – a creek, a hedge, a wall, a fence . . . and our house. The wall of our house is built straight into a rock wall that extends out both directions from the house. This means that my living room window is essentially a window in the wall looking into the pasture. Am I making myself clear? There are no intermediate steps between the pasture and my living room. Oh hang on. I found a picture of my house, taken from the pasture. Here you go.
Do you see that one lone window in the side there? That empties into my living room. My couch sits directly beneath that. And thus, when it sounded like the mooing was coming from the couch, it essentially was. I grabbed my camera and snapped a quick picture – of this.
Yes I know the glass is a mess. But look what gets rubbed all over it.
After this particular cow moved slightly so that I could open the window without bashing it on the nose, I managed to open it up and get a picture of more of the group.
It’s quite an idyllic early morning view isn’t it? (This picture, not the previous one. It’s only idyllic from certain limited angles.)
My girls have been on a serious craft-a-thon lately. It’s been loads of fun . . . I’ve let them just dive straight into all the fabric scraps and have free run of the sewing machine (while I’m not using it). This of course has meant that we’ve had fluff and thread and fabric scraps just everywhere – but on the upside we also have a very festive little selection of one of a kind designs. I absolutely love seeing what they come up with. We have a shirt which was designed and sewn especially for Nana . . . but of course in the end it might (might) fit onto an American Girl doll. But it’s awfully clever and very creative nonetheless. One of these days I’ll sit them down and give them a speech about seam allowances – but I distinctly recall doing the identical thing myself when I was little and Mom gave me free run of the scrap bag and the sewing machine. My great seam allowance eureka moment was when I whipped up a pair of gloves for myself that turned out the size of a craisin. After my peevishness wore off, it suddenly occurred to me that perhaps I should add a bit onto the edges when I did my cutting. I was quite pompous about that little insight as I recall. I felt that most people wouldn’t have thought of that.
Anyway, the other night it was time for kids to head up to bed – but poor little six-year-old Hero was still in the grip of a creative fever and really desperately needed to finish cutting out the outfit she was designing. So I let her take it up to bed with her to finish . . . and when I went up to check on her, this is what I found on the top bunk.
In case you’re not clear, that’s a shirt and a skirt – complete with a little patch pocket on the front. And yes, I did remove the scissors from her bed, and carefully scootch the outfit out of the way, and put her blankets back on the bed, and get her tucked neatly and cozily in for the night! (A note about what she’s wearing: She doesn’t usually sleep in Ben’s skivvy shirt. It’s just that there was a also a play being produced that evening and she was cast as a sheep. She obviously didn’t change back into her PJs before climbing up to finish off her cutting. “Where on earth is this child’s mother?” I can hear you asking. Unfortunately she was also in the grip of a creative fever and was downstairs trying to finish off an outfit herself . . . )
So a couple of weeks ago we had a very fun day with some Americans who were passing through Oxford . . . whom we had never officially met but knew of through this blog. (Hi Kelly!) Anyway – we had a lovely time with them, and they sent some pictures our way after they got home. And here is the one which they kindly took of my favorite tree! I’m not entirely sure what kind it is, but it grows on those crazy twisty trunks just outside the University Church (St. Mary the Virgin) and when it blooms you can see it from up and down the High Street – a big pink exclamation mark in the middle of all that stone. The church, incidentally, (if you can say “incidentally” about something like this) is where Thomas Cranmer was tried for heresy and from which he was drug out to be burned at the stake. It’s also where C.S. Lewis preached his “Weight of Glory” sermon. And you see that left pom-pom of blooms? Right beneath it are the two gold fawns in the doorway which were in the picture Mom posted after their trip – the one with the lampost outside of Brasenose College.
I was standing at my sink washing dishes yesterday when I happened to see this wandering around in the yard.
Don’t you sometimes wish that you knew what the story was? I would really love to be able to read that script and know what part he was playing. He just drifted about out there for a while . . . muddling around in the hedge and then circling around in the grass.
In case you can’t quite tell what it is, here’s another shot at it.
Just to be clear . . . we’ve got Judah here in a fencing mask, wellies, a belt with a sword, I don’t think you can see the fire poker because it’s tucked under his arm, and then the two stuffed animals. Guesses? Perhaps he was after the Questing Beast who was quite possibly lurking in the hedgerow? Croc-idols that needed to be slain? Usually when he goes out to play he’s armed to the teeth and kills dragons and bad guys and spiders in quick succession . . . but the stuffed animals are the addition to the narrative that I find myself wondering about.
For all you poor people staggering around under heaps of April snow, I’m posting this picture to prove that somewhere on the globe, Spring is coming in a semi-timely fashion!
The “somewhere” in this case happens to be the ruins of Glastonbury Abbey where we toddled about yesterday on a birthday expedition for Jemima who was turning 9. Last year on her birthday we visited Cheddar Gorge and Glastonbury Tor, and this year we did a similar trek. We first went to Athelney, to see the place where King Alfred hid out in the marshes from Guthrum for one winter . . . the legendary spot where he burned the cakes. Next we toddled over to Aller, which is the place where he took Guthrum to be baptised after he finally defeated him – about a mile away from his hideout. The church of course doesn’t date to Saxon times – but the font apparently does . . . and it’s likely to be the very font in which Guthrum was baptised. That was obviously quite fun . . .
Next we hit Glastonbury. The Tor (which we hiked up last year) is unbelievably cool. It’s got about every imaginable crazy myth attached to it that a place could possibly have. It’s been (for thousands of years) thought to be the entrance to Faerie Land . . . alternatively thought to be an entrance to Hades. It definitely is full of tunnels which are now lost and hidden . . . and some stories claim that they are a labyrinth in the good old style of Crete. The outside of the Tor is terraced . . . and in fact when it’s viewed from the air, the terraces actually do make the classic iconic symbol of the labyrinth, which is why it is thought to have a labyrinth contained within it. Then there is the Joseph of Arimathea connection . . . he was supposed to have founded the church on the top of the Tor which later became a monastery which is now nothing but an old ruined tower. The well at the foot was where he washed the Holy Grail . . . and where Arthur came to seek it. And speaking of Arthur . . . the region around the Tor was also supposed to have been Avalon. So you can see what I mean about the crazy myths . . .
At the foot of the Tor (built around the previously mentioned well) are the ruins of an unbelievably huge old Abbey. We had a blast wandering around in the ruins, and seeing the spot which used to contain Arthur’s tomb.
The city of Glastonbury seems to have been the site of an ongoing battle between Christianity and paganism for at least 1500 years . . . and quite unfortunately the Christianity bit seems to have gotten entirely trounced. The city has apparently wholeheartedly embraced the pagan bit. As we walked through the streets we were surrounded by exclusively wacky people with dreadlocks and velvet gowns. Every other house had a sign out that offered tarot card readings, and we passed people doing palm readings in the streets. As we walked over to the abbey we saw I don’t know how many magic shops, and the whole place smelled like incense. When we finally saw the abbey it seemed rather fitting that all that was left of it was a broken, hollow shell. Even in the abbey shop they were offering crazy little pagan necklaces right alongside the cheap cross necklaces, strange mystical “unity with nature” whatnots, and tacky little sparkly dragon and fairy figurines. It was simultaneously an incredibly amazing place to see . . . and rather horrifying as well.
(Which, come to think of it, would be another way of describing our day yesterday!)
Do you see those clothes everyone has on? Those were the clothes that we started out in from Pavia on Tuesday morning. Look well upon them. They are the clothes that everyone still has on . . . only looking rather more rumply now.
However . . . the Circus Maximus!! And the Colosseum! And the Roman Forum! I mean I ask you. How can you complain about rumply pants with Nutella on them when you get to see that?!
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