Adstockistan

Fiery sparks streamed from the torches of the villagers, lighting their faces to demony in the blowing darkness as they surged down the lane towards the village.

A lynch mob, you wonder? No, this was the first Adstock Wassail, held last weekend for the Adstockistan orchard.

First things first. Adstokistan: A community apple orchard planted and run by some wonderful people in the village, who served in Afghanistan, primarily to raise money for Afghanaid. Each tree in the orchard has been sponsored by someone in the village – half the money went towards buying the trees themselves, whilst the rest was donated to Afghanaid, where it is used to support orchards in Badakhshan province. Badakhshan has very little arable land and the people there are forced to exist on subsistence farming, so the orchards not only provide an income for farmers, but help protect the soil from erosion, preventing the deadly landslides that occur in the area.

Adstokistan itself now has 74 trees; it will be a place where people can picnic, with a purpose built shelter and there are plans to hold an Adstocktober Fest and a Wassail ever year.

Which brings me to:

A Wassail - an ancient ceremony held in orchards, to wake the trees from their midwinter sleep and wish them health and happiness for the coming season. Personally, I had only ever heard of Wassails in the context of Christmas, drinking, eating, etc etc, so this was fascinating for me, not least, because I also made my debut with Owlswick Morris Side, (we were the pagan representatives, I think) dancing dances I had never danced before, which was interesting.

The orchard lies at the top of a hill(ish), but it was a cold and stormy afternoon, so that the pastoral view of rolling fields and hedgerows was shadowed by the wind whipped winter trees and the shredded grey clouds that scudded overhead. In the midst of the orchard was a gigantic kadai (an enormous barbeque grill!) which was streaming flames into the sky and surrounded by torches. After a few morris dances and communal singing of the Wassail song, people were invited into the orchard to feed their trees with toast, soaked in cider – thus inviting birds to the tree – and a Tree Wassail was spoken:

Old apple tree, we wassail thee and hoping thou wilt bear,

Hatfuls, capfuls, three bushel-bagfuls

And a little heap under the stairs, Hip! Hip! Hooray!

After which, there was much banging of pots and pans and screaming to wake the trees and chase off evil spirits.

There followed a blessing and the lighting of the twelve torches around the kadai – making thirteen fires in all, representing Jesus and his apostles. The thirteenth fire, that of Judas, was put out (actually I think the wind blew it out before anybody else could!) before it could take hold. Then there were a couple of hymns sung, a final blessing and the villagers were invited to light their torches and head down the lane to the village hall for warm cider.

So that, my friends, is an Apple Wassail and very good it was too. I wanted to write about this, for many reasons; firstly because I am a sucker for anything old or ritualistic; secondly because I love the connection with Afghanistan – whilst never having been there myself, I have friends who have worked there and anyway, it's one of my favourite parts of the world and one that mostly gets bad press; and thirdly, because I think it's a jolly good cause and I have a lot of admiration for the people who run it.

Jo Nicholson and Danny Tomblin, two of the people involved, are both running the London Marathon to raise money for Afghanaid, so if anyone is interested in this project, please head over to this page:

https://www.justgiving.com/TeamAdstock

Is This the Real Life? Or Just a Fantasy?

The thing about living in the English countryside, is that, most of the time, it can feel as though you are living in the pages of a book or some such fantasy. At least, that's what it feels like to me, anyway.

In the mornings, when I take the dog for a walk, it is pitch black, the lane out of the village often shrouded with mist, the hedgerows a looming dark mass on either side. The birds are just starting to stir, their anxious twitterings blown through the air by the wind, rattling and sushing the branches; if there is a moon, it is enveloped by shredded silver clouds. If a Woman in White were to step out into my path, or a Baskervillian hound were to start baying from the undergrowth, I don't think I'd bat an eyelid. (Then I come home, walk through the back door and am hit by a barrage of “Mum, where's my tie? Mum, did you put a wash on, I need my sports kit for today! Mum, someone's used up all the hot water and I haven't had my shower yet! Mum, there's no muesli left.” And I wonder if Arthur Conan Doyle or Wilkie Collins ever had mornings like that.)

Then there are the mornings when the frost is thick as snow on every twig and branch, when the fields are cloaked in a thick white mist and you know that the Snow Queen is out there somewhere, casting an icy and cynical eye over the landscape. (and you threaten to ground any child who even thinks of giving a rendition of the world's worst fart song.) When (and if) the sun comes out, firing the frost into a rosy, golden sparkling, you feel like Cinderella at the end of the ball, realising that dreams may come true after all!

When the fields are covered with snow, each branch of every tree painted with a line of white, you are back in the land of Narnia, looking out for lampposts and wardrobe doors; walking through the village, seeing the thick white icing on the roofs of thatched cottages, on the gravestones of the churchyard, along the old stone walls, you have to blink, and stare again to remind yourself that yes, this is where you live, you haven't just been eaten by a Christmas card.

The other afternoon, as I was walking back down the lane, the sun was slanting over the fields from a pink, rain-washed sky, making Bonnie's purple hedgehog ball ($3 from Pets at Home) shine with a golden, translucent splendour, turning the asphalt into a shining lavender ribbon winding down towards the village and I found myself watching for the Highwayman to come riding, riding, riding....

During the Spring, walking around amongst the cottage gardens, bursting with daffodils and spring roses and buttercups and tulips, I am back in the world of Hilda Boswell, amongst her Little Bo Peeps and her catkins, the Contrary Marys, the fairies and little folk (if you don't know what I'm talking about then GOOGLE)

Come summer, it's all Cider and Rosy, and, if I squint as I walk over the fields, I can see Oswald of the WouldbeGoods setting out on some disastrous mission, gingerbeer and fruit cake on board. Walking in the grounds of Stowe, I am in constant expectation of bumping into Mr Darcy or Mr Bingley, or of maybe overhearing Elizabeth Bennet and Anne Elliot comparing notes as they stroll through the grounds.

And you know, it's all so FAMILIAR. To this person who spent most of her childhood amongst the hot blue skies and red earth, the emerald bush and golden, singing grasses of Africa, or the dry silent grandeur of the desert, I feel more at home here than I had ever expected. Yes, I know I spent some time in England before, but mostly in deepest suburbia. This familiarity comes mainly from the pages of books, from stories written mostly in the 19^th and 20^th century – and, whatever people might say and in spite of all we humans are doing to destroy it all - it's still all there! 

Unbelievably and beautifully, still there.

If I was Prime Minister

The main trouble with this country - with the world, actually, is the fact that nobody asks me when they make the big decisions.

For instance, we have now hit January and all my friends in Australia, are currently frolicking in their swimming pools, lying on the beach, having barbeques and generally enjoying their extended summer holidays. (As I said in my last post, I am not at all jealous).

Everybody knows that January and February are the worst possible months in England. However mild it may have been in December, one can bet one's last pound that the temperture will drop several degrees came January. Everybody gets sick, so that the whole of life is lived to a backdrop of sneezing and coughing and snorting and wheezing, like some sort of Lutoslawski symphony and people walk around with drooping, glaze-eyed stares. It is still pitch dark in the mornings and the roads are filmed with a thin coating of treacherous ice. It's not much fun, but of course, being British, we have to torture ourselves further. We rush back to work as soon as the New Year is over, rush back to the gyms, there are calls put out for "dry January" and everybody becomes obsessed with their diets.

Now here is my solution to the problem. Henceforth, I suggest that we all stockpile sticky toffee pudding and red wine - and yes, maybe the occasional lettuce leaf - and turn January into Hibernation Month. This is how it would work. We would all stay at home, sleep, read, eat. On nice crisp days like this morning, we would take our dogs for walks to keep fittish, (because of course we would all have dogs in a world governed by me) and then we would marvel at the glint and sparkle of the frost on the grass, wonder at the bare branches of the trees, washed clean and golden in the low winter sunlight. Then we would go home and drink red wine and eat hot sticky pudding.

In Spring we would all emerge, with the blossom, fresh and rested, raring to bloom anew. Productivity would surely go up as a nation, we would all be filled with generosity and kindness of spirit towards our fellow man. "Bomb Syria? No, let's invite them to tea instead." 

I'm sure the world would be a better place.

Happy New Year!

The start of this year has been a pretty horrible one for reasons that I don't want to go into. Suffice to say that we are all healthy in the grand scheme of things, for which I am very grateful, but I suspect that, for my extended family, 2016 it is not all going to be fun and games.
I am now sitting here with a head stuffed full of snot and other gunk, it is cold and grey and rainy outside and I am thinking, with no trace of jealousy, honest guv, of all my friends in Oz - frolicking in their pools or at the beach, or camping in the bush, 'neath brilliant blue skies, serenaded by the screeching of cockatoos, the cackling of crows, the chirruping of lorikeets, the whistling of butcher birds. I can't remember the last time I put any sun screen on, let's put it that way...

However. Because, there is always a however, as you know. There is a programme on British television, which I sometimes catch in the gym, (I would hate you to think that I watch daytime TV otherwise!) about people who emigrate to Australia, which I watch with a mixture of frustration and interest. I will never regret going to Oz and will always consider myself an Ozian - I lived there for longer than I have ever lived anywhere else, after all. I have eaten vegemite and know how to pronounce yoghurt properly. I get teary when listening to the Quantas ad and Waltzing Matilda. But when I see people who go there for a week, are seduced by the beach, the big houses and swimming pools, I want to scream at them! There are a lot of wonderful things about Australia, not least Moreton Bay Bugs, but if you are thinking of going just for the above mentioned seductions, as so many of these people seem to be, then for heaven's sake think again! Because after a few years, when you find that you are either working all the hours to pay for a cleaner to clean that lovely big house, or you are working all hours to keep that lovely big house clean yourself; when you find that actually you have only had the time to go to the beach once in a whole year (because of time spent working and cleaning big house); when you realise that you either cut yourself off from your family back home, or spend all your holidays and all your money (that isn't spent on keeping big house and pool in working order!) on traumatic family trips back to the UK; when you realise that, actually, you miss walking down cobble stone streets, the sight of tiny crooked houses, sagging under the history of several centuries, the scent of old stone and moss covered corners; when you realise that the knowledge of all these things are hanging heavy on your shoulders - then surfing and a "Lifestyle"existence are not going to seem so important, any more.

But here's another but and however - and one of the main reasons that we came back here to England. I realise that I have an over active guilt gland and that coming back did not change anything, but still...why is it, that, if you fancy a bit of the surf lifestyle, if you think that you will be able to get a better paid job, or give your kids a slightly better chance in life, all you have to do is fill in a few forms and buy a plane ticket and you will be welcomed into Australia with open arms - whilst, if you are fleeing from persecution, you are desperate to protect your children from rape and pillage, you will be incarcerated and treated worse than a common criminal?

Happy New Year! 

PS I know that we in England are hardly better at treating refugees, but it was more than we could cope with to carry the weight of guilt for two countries. 

Silence

Hi All,

Just had a piece published by Litro Magazine, head over that way if you'd like to read it!

http://www.litro.co.uk/2016/01/silence/

And feel free to let me know what you thought, just so long as it's nice things!

Happy Christmas!

Last week was the first anniversary of our leaving Australia; a very emotional time for us all!
I think the biggest emotion, however, is disbelief, surprise, call it what you will - not even sure if it is an emotion!! But come on, seriously, has it really been a whole year???
When I look back on the first couple of months, with us all huddled, freezing in our unfurnished house, the future an uncertain, wavering, grey haze, it all seems, however cliched this may sound, like a distant dream.
There were times that were not much fun, it has to be said, though right from the beginning there have been joys as well - watching winter melt into spring, seeing spring burst into summer, summer fire into autumn and then....well, we're still waiting for winter, I think. Choosing to live here, with no decent shops nearby, the kids having to rely on public transport which stops at 8pm, has been one of the best things we've done! (though Sam doesn't agree, unfortunately, but then he doesn't agree with anything ever anyway.)
A couple of weeks ago, the Adstock Singers, the village choir I formed back in the Spring, gave their first concert in a candlelit, medieval stone church, bedecked with twinkling lights, candles, holly and ivy. We sang a mix of songs, from Bob Chillcott to Mariah Carey, medieval canon, to Leonard Cohen, carols from Austria, Brazil and England (!)  and, though I say it myself, it was wonderful. The choir sang beautifully, the audience (almost capacity!) thoroughly enjoyed it, I discovered that conducting is definitely what I was made to do (because nobody in the audience notices when you get a fit of the giggles, whereas, if you're playing the violin or recorder, it's much harder to hide) and we all finished up with mince pies and mulled wine. To my astonishment, both my girls and the neighbours daughter, sing in the choir and really enjoy it, which makes it all the more special. Sam was out at a party and forgot all about the concert, but, hey ho.
The following weekend, we had the church carol service, for which the Adstock Singers also sang, and the church was full of children dressed up as donkeys, shepherds, angels, in a very Joyce Grenfell moment. Then on Tuesday, the choir went to sing at a care home in Buckingham, where we marched through the corridors singing to those too sick to come out of their rooms and we finished up the day with carols round the tree in the village hall, accompanied by brass band from the next village and then, of course, mulled wine at the pub. Just in case you haven't quite caught on yet, we are thoroughly enjoying being a part of vilage life.
Though we still miss our friends and relatives in Brisbane - and always will, the fish of sadness forever worrying at a part of our souls - it is fair to say that, at this point in life, we are settling pretty well and are busier than ever, though Rupert looks like Rudoph the red-nosed reindeer at the moment. There are all sorts of deep and thought provoking things I probably ought to be writing about right now, but I just really wanted to come on here and wish everybody a wonderful Christmas and say that I hope you all have a great time, despite all the worries of the world, and may you all get dogs in the new year, if you haven't already.

Homogenisation

A few weeks ago, I took Lydia into London for a pair of new Pointe shoes. After spending an hour in Freeds trying on fifty pairs of shoes (apparently she has the perfect feet for a dancer, which means that only about one pair in a thousand actually give her the support she needs....go figure...) I thought I would treat her to the wonderful sights of the Harrods Christmas department. This was a place that had lived on in my memories from childhood, as a wonderland of sparkling ingenuity and craftsmanship, a real old fashioned fantasyland of naievety and glitter, and I wanted to share this with my baby girl (who is now taller than me by an inch) whilst she still lets me call her my baby girl.
We sweated through the underground (me offending a large lady along the way, by offering her my seat, thinking she was pregnant) and eventually arrived, along with a cast of thousands, at Harrods. Battling our way through the doors, we navigated the bright, sterile interior, eventually found our way to an escalator which churned its way upwards through the mausoleum, and, after more baffled wandering and quite by chance, came upon the Christmas department.
We gazed around at the rows of shining baubles, the dancers and nutcrackers and robins, all dangling, as though from the gallows and staring back, with haunted eyes, at us, and at the white shelves, the bright lights, the colour coded rows of decorations. "Oh," we said. And then: "Well, let's try Libertys."
Libertys, for those who don't know it, is a department store in Soho - a huge, mock Elizabethan building of white and black carved timbers, bursting with the famous Liberty print fabrics, Liberty print stationary, Liberty print umbrellas and soft toys and chocolates and soaps and lavender bags.  I discovered it in my student days and remembered it as a place that was touched by Bohemia, a place that was a little bit different to Harvey Nicks, John Lewis etc. Oh well. 
Enter the Christmas department and what do you find? The same decorations that are sold in Harrods, the same decorations that are sold in Myers and David Jones in Brisbane, the same decorations we can get in our local (and, it has to be said, rather crappy) Tescos in Buckingham. All made, funnily enough, in China.
But of course it's not just on the subject of Christmas decorations that I came here to bore you with today. There's very little here that you can't get in Brisbane and vice versa, though sometimes - just rarely enough to make it catch me out and consequently get rather grumpy - the prices render them too exotic to buy. Sushi sheets, for instance, are a luxury item here, as is dessicated coconut, whereas bananas and marmite are cheaper! Unfortunately, Vegemite is easily and cheaply available.
Though things you wouldn't expect - like a trip to the cinema - are a different ball game here, though of course they show all the same films, written to the same formula. But, whereas we thought it was expensive to go to the cinema in Indooroopilly, the prices there are nothing to the prices here - if you have a family, a trip to the cinema is a Big Treat outing in England, though why, I don't know. When we took Juliette to see Mockingjay the other day, the only thing that seemed more swany was the fact that, along with the buckets of popcorn and sacks of chocolates, you can also buy a bottle of wine and take it with you into the cinema. "Well, this is a bit of alright," we thought - until we tried to open it and found that the bottle was plastic and the contents were sticky sugar syrup with added alcohol. Yes, I know I'm a snob.
Sometimes I yearn for the days when, on visiting another country, a trip to the local supermarket was a journey of discovery rather than a comparison of prices. And I wonder whether it is partly this homogenisation of the world, the feeling that you can get anything from anywhere in any Tescos (except Timtams - apparently you have to go to Sainsburys to get them) that makes it so hard for people to remember, or indeed, to believe in the horrors that are happening elsewhere. Here I am, writing on a lap top made in China, drinking coffee grown in Brazil (bought in Buckingham,) at a table made in Sweden (bought in Australia,) covered in a cloth made and printed in India (bought in Brisbane). I was going to write something deep and meaningful about how hard it is to equate such homogenisation in "stuff" with the disparity in human rights around the world, in our abilities to feed our families, or guarantee their safety and education, but I feel too depressed and ashamed to do so, so I won't. I will drink more coffee instead and go and teach the violin to lots of children who want to play the Harry Potter Theme Tune, inspte of the fact that they haven't learnt how to play d sharp yet.