Tales from Medlar Cottage: Breaking the Pattern

I decided not to throw on my grubby old working clothes as usual this morning, prior to getting stuck into the garden, but instead had my bath early and dressed properly for an afternoon of bridge. But not yet. Before I fell asleep last night I had plotted a bicycle ride around the lanes, to stretch my calves and thighs on the steep hills around my home, and I couldn't wait to get started. Curiously, though I've worked practically every muscle in my slight frame half to death since winter lost its chilly grip and slipped away, I found uphill cycling very challenging. What has my body been doing with all the exercise it's had? I was shocked to realise I had to dismount half way up the two worst hills, and stand panting until my heart had calmed down. I told myself that if I did this circular ride every morning, in a few weeks I would be fit, but I know I won't: the lure of the garden is too great, and I never have the energy for both.

I didn't really mind that I had to go slowly because at this time of the year, when the harvesters have begun their work and even fields not yet ready for cutting have had lovely swathes cut all around their perimeters, everywhere looks beguiling. Hares are disorientated, wandering around trying to get their bearings. Do they not remember this from last year? They can't all be yearlings. I made a mental note of the most enticing walks for when my visitors come next week, and only the shortage of time prevented me exploring some of them right away. I passed a field of cows, an oddity in this part of the world, and even if I hadn't seen them I could smell them. The odours have a particular resonance for me, bringing back powerful happy childhood memories of playing Nelson's Bad Eye with cousins in Ireland, and there was serendipity too because these and other cousins have been very much on my mind lately.

One family member has set up a Facebook page devoted to our huge clan, and for the past few weeks we cousins have been posting old family photos which the rest have pored over. Here are the grandparents as we've never seen them before, her tenderly fixing his tie, or leaning towards him to rest her head on his shoulder. This is the old family homestead, covered in ivy and fronted by a rough dry stone wall swathed in greenery, the iconic backdrop for an ever changing selection of sisters home for the holidays from London, Dublin or Belfast, wherever they worked, and young people posing with the new love they've brought home to meet the parents, and later their spouses and children. There's the pony and trap filled with laughing aunts - some of the ten beautiful sisters who were close as children despite the age range and remained so all their lives. There are village school photos, every small grouping containing two or three or more of my aunts and uncles, and there's haymaking, tobacco growing, weddings and birthdays, and new babies, and always the sisters are there, supporting each other, celebrating each other and their shared lives, laughing, lovely. For the thirty plus cousins and our own offspring it's a chance to peer into a lost, magical world, a wonderful time when poverty mattered less than the strength of family, and everyone grew up and prospered. We older ones especially have strong memories from these times, and we treasure them and the chance to share them with the younger generations. Every one of us is fascinated by this world that would have disappeared but for the photographic evidence left behind. We all feel privileged to have descended from such strong, loving stock, and grateful that our shared provenance is so special.