AUGUST'S END

It feels like the end of Summer now. There were leaves on the ground at lunchtime, I'm back to wearing socks in the house, pulling something warm on when we watch TV in the evening. The windows are still open but the slight chill is actually welcome, we ate soup last night. August was all about the festival. We saw La Belle et la Bête, then Patti Smith with Philip Glass for an homage to Allan Ginsberg. La Belle et la Bête was spellbinding, two days later Philip Glass made me cry. His three movement piece, that he so quietly introduced, with the first movement gently leading us into the second, the second wrapping me up in melancholy as I bit my lip, blinking frantically, trying to stop the tears from coming, realising as I reached for a tissue that I couldn't, the third allowing the tears to ease, to stop. But tears come more easily when they have already been allowed to fall and I was left on the brink, clutching a tissue, until we left the theatre. Maybe it was a theme for the festival as three weeks later, seeing Judith Kerr, listening as she talked about her husband, his influence on her work, their lives together, his death... my eyes are welling up even now. There was lightness too. Caitlin Moran standing up to sign books, one DM-clad foot on the table, surprisingly approachable, taking Mum to see Hadley Freeman, unsure whether she would like it, hearing small sounds of agreement to my right throughout, a Swedish couple who we chatted to for a while and who then, a week or so later, sent us a postcard before they headed home, having guessed a work address for Chris from our conversation, Margaret Atwood always. It's been good, sometimes great. This weekend is the dividing line. Edinburgh is slowly getting back to normal, the festival venues are being dismantled, the crowds of people have gone, the end of festival fireworks are on Sunday, it's winding down. Until then... 

And finally, sadly, goodbye to Seamus Heaney.

Digging

 Between my finger and my thumb

The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.

Under my window, a clean rasping sound   

When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:   

My father, digging. I look down

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds   

Bends low, comes up twenty years away   

Stooping in rhythm through potato drills   

Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft   

Against the inside knee was levered firmly.

He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep

To scatter new potatoes that we picked,

Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a spade.   

Just like his old man.

My grandfather cut more turf in a day

Than any other man on Toner’s bog.

Once I carried him milk in a bottle

Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up

To drink it, then fell to right away

Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods

Over his shoulder, going down and down

For the good turf. Digging.

The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap

Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge

Through living roots awaken in my head.

But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb

The squat pen rests.

I’ll dig with it.

(Seamus Heaney, "Digging" from Death of a Naturalist. Copyright 1966 by Seamus Heaney.)

SUMMERS PAST

The good weather here continues, not quite unabated. I am in shoes today rather than sandals, we’ve had a few thunderstorms, I wore a raincoat yesterday. But no complaining here. I don't know if it's the sunshine or just that time of year but I seem to have been having a lot of conversations recently about childhood holidays, where we went, what we did, how we remember those days. 

I remember our holiday to Ibiza, I must have been about seven. Mum, Zoё and I flew from Gatwick to meet Nana and Taid (our Grandparents), Aunty Di, Uncle Steve and our cousin, Michael, at a villa that Nana and Taid had booked for the week. At the airport Mum bought Zoё and me a Walkman and said we could choose a tape each to listen to. Zoё chose Bros, I chose Five Star. I’m not sure I even knew who Five Star were. When we got to Ibiza there were push-up ice-creams. 

But most of our Summer holidays were spent in North Wales with Nana and Taid (Taid being Taid and not being Grandad because of their move from Chester). Mum says it used to rain in the morning and then clear up in the afternoon and we would dash through the fields next to the house (down the lane, across one field, through a gate, another field, another gate, a raised path alongside a graveyard, past the primary school, down the road, past the shop) to the beach to stay there for as long as we could. I’ve mentioned those Summers, that beach, here before and those stories are often repeated – the rock pools, the games, the caravan, the old brass bed, the farmer down the lane... But there is more, always more when I start talking to Mum and Zoё about it, we fall down a hole filled with 'do you remembers'. We usually start with the drive, those 300 miles from Sussex which would sometimes be interrupted with a stop in Chester, sometimes not. When it was we would stay with my Mum’s eldest sister and spend a few days playing with our cousins, mostly in the barn that belonged to the farm next door. We would build dens out of hay bales and our cousins would scare me, the baby, with tales of the farmer and his anger if he found us. We built a crash mat out of a pile of hay to jump into in case he ever came. I think about this now and realise how big a jump that must have been.  

On the trips where we hadn’t stopped at Chester it felt like the drive would never end. It was seven hours, three of those along winding Welsh roads. When we started seeing places we recognised the excitement would build, first Nefyn with its tiny Spar, then to Morfa Nefyn and the turning for the lane to the house. Along the lane, past the farm, to the house where Taid would have been watching out and where he would be waiting for us with his arms held high. I remember the room we shared with Mum, a room with a double bed and a little annexe off with single beds for us. It looked out over the garden and sometimes we would wake up and go downstairs to find Taid clearing out the fireplace from the night before, sometimes we would wake and he would be knocking on the bedroom door, bringing Mum a cup of tea and a rich tea biscuit. The room had green carpet with a pattern of big leaves and we would leap around the room trying not to land in the ‘water’, we hung off wardrobe doors, jumping to the bed, making our way round. I remember the small outhouse attached to the side of the house where there was an outside toilet that was full of spiders, from the front of the house we would climb a wall and sit on the outhouse roof to watch what was happening in the garden without being seen. I remember Taid’s constant annoyance at Shandy, then Heidi, Nana’s small dogs. I remember the times when more family arrived (my Mum is one of nine). I remember helping in the kitchen, peeling potatoes or washing dishes. I remember big roast dinners with puddings which I invariably didn’t want to eat as I didn’t like trifle, apple pie, crumble, Queen of Puddings and just wanted a bowl of ice-cream or custard. I'm sure I just waited knowing that Mum would pass me the pudding I wanted, as Nana asked if i was sure I didn't just want a little bit and I would shake my head. My great-Aunt, Aunty Hilda, recently said that she remembered me as a quiet little thing with very big eyes. I remember finishing dinner and the men staying at the table to drink brandy and smoke cigars. I remember wanting a glass of milk and having to run through the cigar smoke haze to the kitchen. 

I remember a lot, I hope I always do.

JULY

For just over two weeks now we have had good, mostly glorious, weather. I have been wearing sandals every day and we've been drinking cold brewed coffee every morning, Chris with an extra splash of water and a little milk, me with a lot of milk and a teaspoon of maple syrup. I've been donning dresses that usually only see the light of day on holiday, I even wore a bikini at North Berwick last Friday and braved a swim in the North Sea for the first, and possibly last, time. It was my (34th!) birthday last week and this happened...

Last night, on possibly the warmest evening I have ever known in Edinburgh, we had salt and vinegar potato salad with freshly podded raw peas strewn over the top and tonight the first, and happily the best, of the festival venues opens so we're meeting friends for drinks in the sun. Happy days indeed.

Have a great weekend xo 

POST-HOLIDAY HOLIDAY ESSENTIALS

We got back from two weeks of sun last week. Two nights on Syros, four on Folegandros, six on Milos, three in Athens.

It was heaven.

By the time we arrived on Folegandros we knew that we had taken far too much with us, Scotland can make it hard to remember that there are places where you won't need layers, where one cotton cardigan and a cotton scarf will be enough, where the same dress will be thrown on over a bikini day after day...

Clockwise from top left: an easy dress (sadly sold out) to throw on over a bikini, zipped pouches, some holiday reading, a lightweight towel to use for swimming, sitting, or as a quick cover-up, a Summer dress for evenings, a coral lipstick that looks good with a tan, my favourite earrings, a canvas bag, sandals that go with everything. 

17TH MAY

 
I just had a meeting sitting outside on the stoop to make the most of the bright sunshine that has finally appeared (although maybe just for one day).

Whether the sun shines on you or not, here are a few links for your weekend:

Flags for Edinburgh
How to make baklava
An easy dress for Summer
The cake we'll be eating this weekend
It might be time for new sunglasses
Salted chocolate pretzel peanut butter cookies
A sweet Summer bracelet
1986
This farro
Ice-cream (I want to go back to Portland)

And, if you're in New York you should really be going to this exhibition.

Finally, because we all need to laugh at stupid things and because I only found this out yesterday, if you have an iPhone with Siri go and send yourself an emoji filled message and ask Siri to read it. 

THE POTATOES WERE THE STAR

After attempting to buy lamb late on Easter Saturday and (seven shops later) failing, and after calling Chris (who had had to abandon the lamb hunt three shops in to go home and tidy up) while standing staring blankly at the supermarket shelves trying to decide what to make instead of the baked lamb with tomatoes and orzo that had sounded just right that morning, we settled on chicken. Margot Henderson's roast chicken with lemon potatoes and wilted watercress.

The chicken was great - lemon, thyme, garlic, olive oil, butter.

The watercress was a hit - a tiny bit of olive oil in a pan, add watercress, salt and pepper and stir until it just starts to wilt.

The lemon potatoes were the star.

We made it all again on Sunday just to make sure. 

Peeled and halved (or quartered) waxy potatoes go into a roasting tin with some quartered tomatoes. You quarter a lemon and squeeze over the juice, then throw the lemon shells in with the potatoes. Next you add four crushed garlic cloves, a teaspoon of paprika, some salt and pepper and a hefty glug of olive oil. It all gets mixed together and roasted in the oven until the potatoes are caramelised and the tomatoes have released their juices and become jammy.

You eat a few potatoes, and then a few more, eventually sitting with the empty tin between you as you idly scrape up nuggets of crispy deliciousness, making sure that nothing is missed.

WE ALL HAVE OUR PROBLEMS

 

 

Wise words from Quentin Blake. 

Happy Friday xo