The Gathering Tide

A couple of weeks ago I was up at St Andrews attending a little nature-writing festival put on by Waterstones. I’m not much of a one for literary festivals – one summer stint at Edinburgh International Book Festival and one spring weekend at 2014’s Dorothy Wordsworth Festival of Women’s Writing is my sum total to date – but nature writing is one of my favourite genres and I was looking for an excuse to get to know this little seaside town better, as my husband had just got a job there and we’d be moving there in a couple of months. It was also pretty cheaper – £10 per person for a whole day of events, and that £10 fee redeemable against the cost of any books bought. Sold!

gathering tideThe festival space was a corner of Waterstones packed with chairs and guarded by a table containing lots of tasty things to eat: we arrived in the middle of the afternoon to a choice of cakes, tea and juice and happily settled in to some nibbling before the reading started. We were there to hear Karen Lloyd talking about The Gathering Tide (2016), a book which explores the edgelands of Morecambe Bay on the south-western periphery of the Lake District. Having met and married my husband in the Lakes, crossing the sands of Morecambe Bay with him and a group of friends in 2013 (more of which here), it’s fair to say that we know and love this area well – though not anywhere near as well as Karen Lloyd, who spent a year tracing the Bay’s basin to research this book.

Lloyd has a lifetime’s love of the Bay, having moved to South Cumbria as a child and living there still. She’s also dug deeply into the area’s history, hunting out maritime charts and chasing elusive guides to lead her to places like Piel Island, with its King and Castle and pub, The Ship Inn.

 

The Morville Hours

Each of us has the potential to hold a thousand different languages on the tip of our tongue. Even if we have nothing more than a smattering of schoolgirl French or the ability to order a glass of wine in Greek, within our mother tongue lie several hundred possible modes of language, each one individually special and specific.

The use of Latin plant names, unapologetically untranslated, in English represents straight-forward borrowing, words imported wholesale and their rules applied to each new hybrid as it emerges from the ground. But there are many more subtle tongues being spoken every day, ones flying so low under our daily radars that we probably don’t even think of them as languages. But in many ways they are: compare the cable and casting off of the knitter against the casting off and cable of a sailor, the builders’ kentledge against the printers’ colophon. The rosin and vibrato of a violinist, the anemometer and the quadrant of the geographer, the gomme and gouache of the painter. Each special skill offers the acolyte a shibboleth – how do real horticulturalists pronounce corymbs and guelder, proper teachers say Melpomene and Calliope? The hunter’s tack is a world away in meaning from the seamstresses’ word for the same, the language of the hack for the horse and the news hinting at the different universes inhabited by both. These idiolects of trades and interests can be both ancient and modern: ‘a bit of 2-by-4’ and an RSJ are immediately understood by a builder but may mystify a hairdresser, who would be more familiar with an upsweep and a fauxhawk.

morvilleThis is a fairly roundabout way of approaching Katherine Swift’s The Morville Hours, but the reason for doing so is because Swift is so astonishingly good at entwining the languages of gardener, builder, priest, beekeeper and a multitude of others into her narrative. The Morville Hours tells the story of Swift’s life and garden using the dual frameworks of the mediaeval book of hours on one hand and England’s traditional horticultural calendar on the other. Both are potentially off-putting subjects in their extreme specificity and almost complete irrelevance to our city-centred modern lives, but in Swift’s exquisite prose both become fascinating and beautiful in their complexity. I found that although I didn’t know what many of the words Swift used meant precisely – the list includes terce, none (pronounced to rhyme with ‘one’ and ‘stone’, not ‘bun’ and ‘fun’), achillea ptarmica, and a hundred other plant names. But it didn’t stop me understanding Swift’s story, and I didn’t mind not knowing as she made me feel that a world was opening up to me through these words, not shutting me out. The Morville Hours is a magical book in that it has the power to transport, translate and transmorgrify things of which I was completely ignorant into fascinating subjects that I just want to more and more about.

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Kellie Castle, Fife

It also made me long for the outdoors, for a life lived closer to the soil and the seeds. It made me miss my birthplace in the south of England, which was so much warmer and more verdant than the colder climes of Scotland. But it also inspired me to go on a visit: to Kellie Castle, a National Trust for Scotland property close to the Fife coast. Like the Dower House at Morville where Swift made her incredible garden, the Castle was home to what are known as ‘improving tenants’, people who live in a property but pay a lower rent because they have offered to improve the building or gardens on behalf of the owner. At Kellie the ‘improving’ family were the multi-talented Lorimers, best-kent among them sculptor Hew Lorimer (he who made the Lady of the Isles on South Uist and carved the seven allegorical figures on the front of the National Library of Scotland in Edinburgh), architect Robert Lorimer and artist John Henry (J.H) Lorimer. Inside the house they sensitively restored the building and filled it with beautiful furniture, either of their own making or from the periods spanned by the house’s history. Outside they rebuilt the castle’s walled gardens and created beautiful spaces in which people could while away many a happy outdoor hour. Many of JH’s paintings perfectly capture the play of light on the buildings and grounds at Kellie, and below is one of my favourites – Happy Easter!

Sunlight in the South room

Sunlight in the South Room (c) The National Trust for Scotland, Kellie Castle & Garden; Supplied by The Public Catalogue Foundation

A Larsson Love Affair

One of the first biographies to fully transport me to a different world was a book belonging to my best friend. Her family were a bit of a rarity for Suffolk in the 1990s: they were half-German,  my friend’s mother having been brought up by her Berliner grandmother. The family spoke little bits of the German she learned as a child, peppering their conversation with words like ‘Bäuchlein’ meaning tummy, instead of the standard German ‘Magen’ for stomach. This caused no little embarrassment when it came to learning German at  secondary school; at the age of twelve nobody wants to be saying things like ‘My favourite animal is a teddy bear’ to their stern and rather austere teacher.

As well as giving us a head start in German baby talk, my friend’s mother also passed on her fascination with Northern European culture. She was a great appreciator of art and antiques, filling the house with books, pictures and other objet d’art with a distinctly European flavour. Once, rather thrillingly, she took us out of school for a day to help haul the family’s paintings and trinkets to a nearby stately home to be valued on the Antiques Roadshow. Alas, nothing was found to be of great financial worth, but her status as a connoisseur of culture was firmly established in our minds.

One of her favourite artists was the Swede Carl Larsson, not only because of the lifelike skill of his drawings but also for his idyllic depictions of family life. When visiting, I loved to sit with the family’s big hardback illustrated Carl Larsson biography,  spending hours pouring over the pictures. The book took the form of roughly chronological life-writing interspersed with beautiful reproductions of Larsson’s paintings. Larsson had a large, messy, happy, creative home and family, both of which provided the inspiration for almost all his work. It was always difficult to choose a favourite picture as I always wanted to be living inside his world, but three strong contenders were:

  1. Namnsdag på härbret, 1898 (“Name-day at the storage house“)

Namnsdag_på_härbret_av_Carl_Larsson_1898

Larsson’s picture highlights the Swedish traditions associated with ‘namnsdagen’ or name-days, the origins of which lie in the mediaeval calendar of Christian saints. Name-days are an important part of Nordic culture and are still celebrated in Denmark (navnedag), Finland (nimipäivä), Sweden (namnsdag) and Norway (navnedag).
If you look to the left of the picture, you will see a tray being carried into the name-day celebrant’s bedroom. On it would typically be coffee – look closely and you’ll just see the top of the pot – and a special cake, just as we would have for a birthday. The children are dressed in traditional costume and bear flowers and greenery and at the very bottom corner is a man accompanying the procession on a violin. I also love the lay-a-bed on the right-hand side: are they a guest who over-indulged the night before, or a teenager reluctant to rise? Either way, I’m very envious of their wooden recessed bed.
You can read more about how name-days came to be at My Little Norway and Watching The Swedes, and find your own Swedish name-day at Dagens Namnsdag. Mine falls on 31st March, a satisfying half-year from my actual birthday.

 

2) Krebsfang (“Crayfishing with the family”)

Krebsfang
Outdoor crayfish parties are a big part of Swedish culture. For hundreds of years, friends and family have gathered together to catch and cook crayfish during August, when the summer sun starts to wane and the beginning of the new school year draws close. These parties take place in the late afternoon and early evening, sat outside those seasonal summer houses beloved of many Swedish families during the long white nights.
Larsson’s watercolour leaves no detail unrecorded: on the table is a pile of freshly-cooked crayfish, which have just been boiled in the big cauldron leaning against the tree by the water’s edge. A bottle of schnapps and a little glass for this strong liquor is to hand, and in the background the whole family is involved in catching the crustaceans with nets, line and pots. Mamma makes a pot of fresh coffee over an open fire, and there is an enticing loaf of bread ready to soak up the liquid in which the crayfish have been cooked. Who wouldn’t want to crack open a claw, raise a glass of schnapps and while away a few hours at the Larsson’s outdoor table?

If you want to get a better sense of what Swedish crayfish parties are like today, then take a look at Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall’s visit to Sweden in his excellent Scandimania series http://www.channel4.com/programmes/scandimania/videos/all/s1-ep1-crayfish-party.

3) Julaftonen, 1904 – 1905 (“Christmas Eve”)

Julaftonen_av_Carl_Larsson_1904

‘Christmas Eve’ provides a seasonal counterpoint to ‘Crayfishing with the family’: everyone is gathered for a celebration, but this time the party is inside and lit by candles and firelight. As with other European countries including Poland, Christmas Eve is the main day for family Christmas celebrations in Sweden.

At the front of the picture is a young woman, her clothes covered with a maid’s apron and cap, holding out a lidded stein full of what looks like foaming ale. On the table are more jugs, mugs and glasses, ready to be filled from the ale cask on the right of the picture. Behind these is the smörgåsbord: a rich feast of dishes which includes a large glazed ham, ready to be sliced, boiled potatoes and what could be a plate of lutfisk, a dish made from dried ling – the cat under the table is raising her paw to signal her interest!

To find out more about Christmas celebrations in Sweden today, take a look at https://sweden.se/culture-traditions/christmas/

These pictures highlight a couple of aspects of Nordic culture which really appeal to me: a strong sense of the importance of family (and a work culture which supports this), traditions which reflect the Nordic seasons, and a love of a good party with plenty of food, drink and fine company.

One day I’d love to visit Larsson’s home Lilla Hyttnäs at Sundborn, but until then I’ll have to content myself with looking at Larsson’s pictures and the Larsson museum’s website (in English): http://www.clg.se/enstart.aspx

This piece was originally published on nordicnarratives.wordpress.com

Hannah Hauxwell

A few years ago I was holiday in Shropshire with a group of friends from university, having a cheeky free holiday in a cottage belonging to one of their aged relatives. Hannah HauxwellOne wet day we went in to Shrewsbury, intent on warming ourselves up with the finest Shropshire ale. En route to a boozy establishment, we could not resist the lure of a charity shop (two of the group are ardent bargain rootlers) and there I found Hannah, a biography of Yorkshire woman Hannah Hauxwell. Although I had no idea who she was, a quick flick through told me that this was a rural history biography, a genre of which I am inordinately fond, so I parted with £2 and Hannah was mine.

Having grown up without a television in the house, popular cultural phenomena of the late twentieth century generally passed me by. This included Hannah Hauxwell’s landmark appearance on Yorkshire Television’s Too Long A Winter. If you too were similarly culturally deprived, or simply too young to remember 1973 (actually, this includes me), you can meet Hannah here:

Hannah’s life is unimagineable demanding by today’s standards, and even by those of the 1970s. No running water, no electricity, complete isolation, food hung in bags to keep the rats off: then in her forties, she looked decades older. But what charmed her audience, then as now, was the deep calm and sense of almost childlike wonder with which she viewed the world. She is almost Wordsworthian in her lyric connection to the landscape, her inflection and gentle turn of phrase belonging to a different era.

The book itself is a compilation volume written by television producer Barry Cockcroft over the thirty years that he worked with Hannah. It is interspersed with photos from Hannah’s family albumn, but also contains some wonderful images from Beamish, the living museum of the north, showing life in the Yorkshire Dales.

Walker children at Briars Dyke, Baldersdale (Beamish Museum's People's Collection)

Walker children at Briars Dyke, Baldersdale (Beamish Museum’s People’s Collection)

Many of them have been digitised in their ‘People’s Collection’ project – have a look for yourself here: www.beamish.org.uk/collections/. You can also see a selection of photographs of Hannah published by the Yorkshire Post on the occasion of her 85th birthday, and read about her in People of Yorkshire, volume 7.

Somewhat surprisingly, given the hardship she endured for most of her life, Hannah is still alive and has just celebrated her 89th birthday. She now lives at Cotherstone, a few miles from Baldersdale, and has travelled all over the world in the years since she moved there. But Hannah’s name lives on in Baldersdale, for when she sold her farm a conservation charity was able to buy some of the meadowland. They realised that because Hannah’s family had never used artificial fertiliser on the land, it was a haven of wild flowers, unusual grasses and rare animals.

Hannah's meadow, Baldersdale by Ashley Columbus

Hannah’s meadow, Baldersdale by Ashley Columbus

They called it ‘Hannah’s Meadow’ and you make a pilgrimage there thanks to the Durham Wildlife Trust: durhamwildlifetrust.org.uk/visitor-centres/hannahs/

I went a year or so ago, on a wet grey autumn day – and even then it was beautiful.

The Jewel Garden

I don’t read many books about gardening. Scratch that, I have almost never read a book about gardening. But I absolutely adore gardens, and the moment I picked up Monty and Sarah Don’s The Jewel Garden the photographs alone transported me to the type of country garden I love best: a little unruly, abundant and colourful.

Monty and Sarah Don, The Jewel Garden

Monty and Sarah Don, The Jewel Garden

The book is a dual biography, with the two author/subjects taking it in turns to tell parts of their story. Sometimes the narrative switches at every paragraph; sometimes you get pages of Monty followed by pages of Sarah. Incidentally, Monty is Don’s stage name, the moniker of his public persona; his family all call him Montagu. Him I recognised from the TV programmes, and I knew about Sarah from their book Fork to Fork, but what I didn’t know was that they had been fashionable jewellery designers in Knightsbridge before leaving the rat race for the good life in Herefordshire. They fell in love at Cambridge, where Monty was an older-than-average English undergraduate and Sarah already married to an academic biologist.

Clematis Niobe © RHS

The vivid jewel-like Clematis Niobe © RHS

She left her husband for the earthy charms of this passionate younger man, and their marriage has survived 32 years, the collapse of their business and Monty’s countless periods of depression. Their life together in the jewellery trade inspires the creation of the eponymous Jewel Garden, reflecting the ‘jewel’, ‘brights’, ‘pastels’ and ‘crystal’ of gem stones. The descriptions of creating their Herefordshire garden following the desperate years of the business’ collapse are lyric and uplifting. For me, these passages spark both memory and fantasy.

Farm Cottage as we knew it

The farm cottage as we knew it

The memories are of the great country house estate garden where my father worked and which his children were lucky enough to have as an outdoor extension of their imaginations. We lived in a tied farm cottage on the edge of the estate, but we nearly didn’t live there at all. Much like for the Dons, our move created triumph from disaster, but only just. In 1990 my father’s business went bankrupt (at almost exactly the same time as the Dons) and with it came the repossession of our house, surety against the  business loan. My mother was working part-time for a large country estate, and her employers took pity on the family, allowing us to live in the cottage and employing my father as a gardener. The cottage itself was nothing special – only the width of one room and perishingly cold in winter – but the real bonus was the proximity of the estate’s great Victorian walled garden.

The main estate house with garden

The main estate house with garden

Peach trees espaliered down the red brick garden walls, gooseberry bushes huddled in shallow border lined with ancient up-ended green glass bottles, and every section of the garden was edged in ancient box. A sunken greenhouse hunkered down in the middle, where my dad grew his prize-winning tomatoes with their sweet pungent summer scent, and by the gate grew an immense bush of lemon balm mint, through which I ran my fingers on the way to school and back each day. Although that garden was a hundred years or more older than the one the Dons created (and further east by the entire width of England), the feeling of being subsumed into the verdant Englishness of the country garden is the same.

Oriental Poppy © RHS

Oriental Poppy © RHS

This is where the fantasy side begins: I of course want to create something like the Dons’ Jewel Garden now, as an adult about the same age as the Dons when they first moved to Herefordshire. As someone born in the country but living in a city, I want to wake to feel the frost on the window pane, to be able to walk out into my own garden and pick the flowers and fruit I have grown. I want to have the space to create something organic and beautiful and a little wild. I’ve always been a sucker for The Good Life and this book encourages me further. Of course, like most armchair gardeners I have very little skill or knowledge when it comes to the practicalities of making a garden. Although I did spend a lot of time in the garden with my father as a child, it was to indulge in all the outdoor pursuits best-loved by children: picking raspberries, eating tomatoes fresh from the vine, and playing hide and seek behind the hedges.

Rosa moyesii ® David Austin

Rosa moyesii ® David Austin

At nearly 30, my vocabulary is the limited one of a town-dweller. A rose for me is just that, but for the Dons it is always a r. hugonis or a r. cantabrigiensis in the spring, or a r. moyesii or r. sericea pteracantha in the high summer.

Rosa Hugonis ®  David Austin

Rosa Hugonis ® David Austin

Poppies are opium, Welsh or oriental; clematis ‘Gipsy Queen’ or ‘Niobe’. The vocabulary is intoxicating in its precision; it embodies the history, imagination and passion of thousands of antecedent gardeners. Although I can’t imagine what each individual variety looks like precisely, I can imagine the sweetness of their scent and the giddy sense of sheer vibrant life that they give off. This is what The Jewel Garden enables its readers to do: build the beautiful imagined gardens of their memories and dreams, without any of the back-breaking hard work that would have to go into it in real life.

Rosa Cantabrigiensis ® David Austin

Rosa Cantabrigiensis ® David Austin

The Dons have done the groundwork for us, and the result is beguiling.