Serendipity

What a fabulous day it's been, the last of the year. Wall-to-wall sunshine and just a bit of a nippy wind. I went into Fram to post my thankyou cards and an annual parcel to Canada, and when I got back it was so beguiling that I put my hiking boots on and set off. My excuse, if I needed one, was to take a load of empty egg boxes back to the village produce stall, but I kept on well past it and funnelled off down the long lane to Bruisyard, past Cransford Hall. I could have walked forever it was so great to be out, and to be fit.

Boundary Farm B&B

It seems I was meant to live here. I have just this minute fitted the missing piece to a jigsaw puzzle which I have been trying halfheartedly to finish for two years. In the end it only took a phone call, one I could have made at any time but was oddly reluctant to. When we were house-hunting in 2008 we stayed at a B&B at one end of this village, and I love the coincidence of this and the fact that I well remember walking up the lane towards where I now live on a hot Sunday morning in summer and declaring that I had never been anywhere so perfect. The wheat gleamed golden in the fields, the air was filled with birdsong, and it was still and quiet, a scene out of Lark Rise to Candleford if ever there was one. But much earlier we spent New Year somewhere near here, in a very old house with a glass panel on one wall showing the wattle and daub from which the building had been constructed. I could see this building in my mind's eye, and suspected it could have been High House Farm, located at the other end of the village though I wasn't completely sure. I remember that we had the devil's job finding it, pre sat-nav, on a dark evening in late December. The year must have been 2002 or 2003, perhaps even earlier. There was a huge Christmas tree in the hall filling the stairwell to the floor above, easily 20 feet tall, and our bedroom was on such a slope that every time we got out of bed we were propelled at speed to the end wall.

High House Farm B&B

The sloping bedroom

I passed this house on my walk earlier as I often have before, but this time something compelled me to check it out. So I rang the owner just now, a neighbour whom I know, and asked him about the glass panel and he confirmed it. Patrick has already told me it is by far the oldest house in the village. I feel strangely moved, rather emotional. This tiny, nondescript village a few miles from the Suffolk coast, off the beaten track, unknown to almost everyone, has actually offered me sanctuary twice before. On this midwinter evening on the cusp of the year with black skies to the east and slowly darkening sky in the west, I'm sitting in my kitchen feeling as if this house, this place, was waiting for me all along. It might have known I would need sanctuary again, alone this time, and it had marked itself already in my imagination, like a beacon telling me it would be there when I was ready. I know this all might sound far-fetched and whimsical, but it is giving me a wonderful sense of contentment, of rightness, as I prepare to start another year, another chapter.

Happy New Year!

Blowing Hot and Cold

I prowled luxuriously between rooms in my newly-spacious house, revelling in its extent. It seems so big again, so expansive. All the windows were opened apart from in the kitchen where the woodburner kept things cosy. But it was a wonderful day, very windy but warm and sunny. I stripped all the beds and did wash after wash after wash, sheets, duvet covers, pillow cases and towels, the odd knicker. Out came the washing line and one by one I pegged them out. With the first lot billowing satisfyingly in the extremely high breeze I stood back to admire my handiwork when a sudden fierce gust whipped a brilliant white duvet cover from the grip of its pins and flung it across the lawn. I laughed, honestly I did, and rescued it to secure it and its fellows under a battery of pegs. Within a few hours everything was dry.

Such a happy sight

The reason the windows were open, apart from wanting to air a stuffy house, was that Tony came and diagnosed condensation in the cloakroom. Condensation! He thought it was a combination of lots of people in the house, central heating on high, and the exposed north-facing wall of the cloakroom getting the brunt of any cold air. Already it is nearly dry. Such a dear man, such welcome news. He is coming back to put a door between my newly-appointed study and the utility room as early as next week. I think it will look a lot better, more finished.

There was only one way to spend my afternoon after the washing had been brought in: ironing. I know this can be a tedious job, but I really enjoy ironing bedding and putting it away in the airing cupboard all fresh and pristine. I have to admit to having used the tumble dryer quite a bit recently without the extraction hose which is missing, no doubt contributing to the condensation though I always open three windows to reduce the moisture. It's great to get the washing out but I won't often be able to do that until the spring, so I'll be buying a new hose and fitting it tout de suite. There's only so much hot air any house can tolerate.

Some of my missing Christmas peeps, pretty in pink

Highly Rated

I counted 16 bottles of wine, including two of champagne, into the garage this morning ready to be recycled. The dining table after last night's supper looked as if the debauched scene from And Then There Were None had been filmed in my kitchen. If you can rate a Christmas by the amount of booze consumed then this one was a cracker, no pun intended. Mostly the weather was great, and we had lots of shortish walks including a brilliant one along the beach at Walberswick where the wild waves crashed from a hundred yards off the waterline. But the best one was yesterday when we took a packed lunch to Dunwich Heath and hiked for several miles across sandy, woody terrain, then along the dunes and finally through Minsmere Bird Reserve and the lane back to the car. We had half of our turkey sandwiches and half a bottle of Cava before the walk, and the rest at the end.

Back in the house we lit the woodburner when the room turned cool enough to stand the heat, and played endless variations of charades and the name game. The best of the former were a seamless stream of Hitchcock films including Rear Window, The Lady Vanishes and The Birds. Sometimes we choked with laughter and were unable to speak. Torchy, Torchy the Battery Boy will go into the family annals. The house stretched itself to accommodate everyone, and the new bed was a great success. Unspeakable quantities of food were consumed, and the Christmas cake survived the pressure. Everyone left with a goodie bag filled with turkey, cake, mince pies and sausage rolls.

When they had all gone I power-washed the car and then got to work in the garden clearing the front beds of dead stems and leaves. It was a beautiful day, warm and sunny. Mark, my ever-obliging neighbour, came to look at a bad leak in the cloakroom but was baffled as to the cause. He stripped back several roof tiles but found nothing. I hope it's not serious. I've just paid my huge credit card bill off four weeks early, but I want to start the year with a clean slate (another pun, inadvertant again). I hope this latest hiccough isn't going to knock my new year's resolutions into touch. But there are floods and floods as we all know. I won't let it get out of perspective.

Feathering the Nest

My garden looks like a building site, but it's all in a good cause. There are so many new, as yet unplanted, beds now that I'll do anything to stop a spread of weeds that will only need to be removed at some future point. So I've covered the bare areas with plastic sheeting and weed suppressing material. It's all had to be weighed down against the wind, and I've used bricks, stones, tiles, logs, anything heavy including two wooden pallets. It's not a pretty sight at the moment. But come the early signs of spring it will all be removed and the bulbs can bloom, the shrubs can put out leaf, and lots of new planting will happen, fruit trees included.

Indoors it all looks different too. There's a Christmas tree on my desk in the new downstairs study, deorated with lights and baubles and looking great when all the main lights are off. Christmas cards are spread along the picture rail, and there are berries above the mirror and paintings. Norweigian candles adorn the four main windows in the front of the house. I love it when these are all lit, and hate it when they come down. It looks so dull without them. And I've brought the kitchen sofa into the sitting room to accommodate us all. The kitchen looks a bit sad now. Maybe I'll end up getting my 6th sofa in the New Year?

Kitchen sofa temporarily seconded to the living room

The shopping is nearly all done - just a few last minute things I'd forgotten. The house is packed with food and more is coming by way of a Harrods hamper with Kitty. The wine rack is heaving under the weight of its contents. The rooms are all prepared, white bedding sparkling in every one. Presents are wrapped under the Christmas tree, the log baskets are full. Everything is ready for Christmas. Bring it on!

Selling Up

I pulled a booklet out of my row of cookbooks in order to lean my shopping list on something firm, and as I contemplated what to buy for several days of meals I idly looked at my makeshift table. Kenwood, it said. Creative Food Processor Cooking. I flicked through the pages, and to my astonishment saw illustrated descriptions of how to chop carrots in discs or lengthwise, how to make easy bread, hummus, chutney and pesto. What? How have I not looked at this before? Well, of course I know why. It is my habit to not read instructions until I have broken the thing I am trying to make work. Life's too short, although it inevitably becomes much shorter with this approach. On further scrutiny of the cookery department of my library I found the Magimix Le Duo recipe book which not only lets you juice apples and pears, the purpose for which this appliance was bought when we had a lot of fruit trees, but make cocktails, coulis, jellies, souffles and smoothies. And then, most damningly, there was a DVD of 180 recipes for the Kenwood Chef. Oh good grief, this is all so infuriating. I've been chopping, mashing, grinding, squeezing, slicing, mincing, grating and generally bashing things I could have left a machine to do, for years and years and years. I feel like pulling something over my head and just retiring.

Otherwise I've had a hectic week of parties, bridge suppers and, last night, selling programmes for a concert of the John Wilson Orchestra at Snape. I volunteered for this job because I just love selling things, anything. It's so much fun, watching the pile of merchandise go down as the stash of notes and coins grows. I didn't sell as many as I expected to however. Punters were wary of the Christmas Weekend programmes, knowing from experience the habit of Aldeburgh Music to package several concerts in one form and charge a bit more for it. "Are there any programmes for tonight's concert?" they kept asking me as I stood beside a huge pile of the things, next to a sign saying in big letters "John Wilson Programmes, £3 each". Yes, I replied countless times. These are the programes for tonight's concert. Only £3. But are they just for John Wilson? they wanted to know. No, I told them, but there are just two events inside which includes tomorrow night's Bach concert too. Only £3. Several of them wanted to see the proof of this, and read the programme for the night's music before they handed over the money. I warned some of these doubters that if they memorised the repertoire and didn't buy I'd have to charge them double the price. We had a laugh, it was enjoyable. And when they'd all gone in to the hall and I'd locked away my cash box I headed upstairs to the restaurant for a lovely free meal and big glass of wine. I'd earned it.

Transformations

I had a flash of inspiration yesterday. How could it not have occurred to me before? First of all, as I contemplated the logistics of sleeping four people in three beds, and the vagaries of borrowing a blow-up bed from one of the four, I decided to buy another bed. Within half an hour it was done, delivery on Thursday. Luckily I have another room to house the bed, currently my study. What to do with the desk then? Why, put it in the Room With No Name. This I did, and the results are spectacular! Well, nice anyway. Suddenly this space has a purpose, a function, and the furniture in there makes it look just right. I may put a door in the space leading into the utility room and cloakroom. For some reason there isn't one there. Upstairs the third bedroom awaits its new occupant, and then it too will be transformed.

The new study

I did other things too today. Shopping in Woodbridge has completed my Christmas present buying, and now all I have to do is wrap everything. And I acquired a massive plasticky bag from a cheap household shop which I can use for bringing in large quantities of logs. It will beat taking the wheelbarrow all through the house which I have done more than once when the weather has been dry. I've made a massive shopping list for food over the Xmas week too, planning meals so we don't run out of food. As if. By popular request I am showing a photograph of the reduced marzipan hares. It was taken before I got a taste for marzipan again. There is a bit less of them now.

The denuded hares

Oh No!

I went for an early walk this morning as I knew I'd be sitting for most of the day. It was a calm, soft Irish morning when I set out, but there was a light drizzle in the air that quickly turned my hair into an unkempt ball of mohair wool. Never mind, I had the stretch I needed and then it was off to Snape where I was ushering for a lunchtime pantomime - Oh no you weren't! Oh yes I was! It was my second time in two days, and the kids from the Co-op Juniors who do this every year are just brilliant. Some of them are as young as four, tiny pipe cleaner legs tapping and hopping for all they're worth, while the older girls' routine of the Tiller Girls couldn't be faulted. Those legs! I crept off as soon as it ended because I was meeting Ruth for a live screening of A Winter's Tale at 3pm, but I got there in plenty of time. There were so many people I knew in the audience that my brain couldn't keep up with where I know them from - bridge clubs, Snape, CAB? Nick was there as usual, and so was Richard who cornered me down a dark alleyway on my way to the car to give me a Christmas kiss. I turned my head just in time. Bless.

I don't know when this rain is going to stop. The other morning I dashed out into the garden between downpours to photograph the flowers that are still blooming in the middle of December, but what do you know? The battery gave a gasp and died. But there are pink and cream roses, yellow hypericum, bright blue vinca, purple violets and pinky-white viburnum. I'll try and capture them tomorrow if the rain stays off.

I took the wrappings off the Christmas cake ready to apply the royal icing, but when the marzipan was put on last weekend I completely forgot that it needed to dry off before the next stage. When I peeled back the protective covers there was a sticky, soggy mess underneath. It soon recovered, though I had to patch the bare bits with one of the hares made from the leftovers, and when I licked my fingers they tasted so good that I cut the rear quarters off the other hare to eat. I've got a full week next week so I'll take advantage of a free Monday to go to Woodbridge to finish my Christmas shopping. Then it'll be all downhill until the big day. So much to be done. So little time. It's great!

Surprise Surprise!

There was no sign of Cilla, but someone waved a magic wand and made my dream come true on Friday. I arrived in Cambridge at around 11.30 as instructed, in time to repair the blow-up bed and eat lunch before catching the train to London. After my last experience I wasn't taking any chances and sprayed First Defence up my nose at regular intervals. Does it work? Well, I haven't caught a bug this time. To Frank Auerbach at Tate Britain first, where we started with tea and then wandered through the exhibition delighting in some of his works and appalled by others. Funny how different art looks in the flesh. We headed to Liberty next to do some Christmas shopping and peel off a few thermal layers. I almost never see Oxford Street at Christmas these days, and it is beautifully lit, especially House of Fraser and John Lewis - millions of lights.

I was on a mystery birthday trip, slightly baffled to be in this region of London where apparently both dinner and the treat proper were to happen. Olivia kept a poker face every time I suggested a venue, giving nothing away. So not the opera then, and probably not a show or a play. What did that leave? I allowed myself to be lead into a restaurant she knows well where we chose a lot of small dishes to share and enjoy. The food was really good, and with every minute passing my excitement was rising. At last she said we had to go, and she steered me through highways and byways until we reached Wigmore Street. Still the penny didn't drop until we approached the Wigmore Hall, and I then I knew. At least I knew where, but not what. We got to our seats a few rows from the front, and I noticed a grand piano on the small stage. A pianist then, but who? Then I saw some tall microphones further along the stage, and I turned to Olivia, gripping her arm tightly. "Just tell me it isn't Iestyn Davies and I won't ask again." But it was! The girl knows me well: I'm passionate about this counter-tenor and have seen him in concert twice already. But when I've tried to get tickets for this and other concerts recently they've always been sold out.

Singing for us on Friday

It was a sublime concert, absolutely beautiful. I could scarcely believe I was there. Iestyn was joined for a few songs by tenor Allan Clayton, the pair described by the Telegraph as "chalk and cheese  - Davies cool, elegant and elfin, his voice a thing of rich honeyed sweetness and impeccable steadiness; Clayton more shambling and ursine and expansive, singing straight from the heart." Together they made glorious music, but alone as he mostly was the counter-tenor just blows the mind with the beauty of his sound, surely not something too far away from a castrato.

The excitement of the day wore us both out and we snoozed on the train home. The next day Olivia opened her computer and screamed, for responding to her comment about the concert on Twitter, Iestyn had not only added his own comment but is now one of her followers. Yes, that's Iestyn Davies. MY Iestyn Davies!

Celebrating

What a few days, and I'm not halfway through yet. Birthday dinner at the White Lion at Aldeburgh last night with Ruth, followed by Brooklyn at the cinema, not David Beckham's son, that would be weird, but the film of the book. Smoked salmon mousse, beetroot puree, then roast hake fillet with smoked salmon linguini. A great evening. Helen took me to lunch at the feted Darsham Nurseries today - feted especially, that is, by the wealthy London weekend crowd who think nothing of the small helpings as they just order loads of different dishes. I had roast baby leeks, so small they were practically 6-week-old embryos never mind babies, with burnt butter and goats' curd. So yummy. Then rabbit ragout with salsa verde. Lovely food but overpriced. We had a laugh anyway, both of us dolled up to the nines. Tomorrow it's off to London for a secret treat with Olivia, then both girls for the weekend. When I got back from lunch a fabulous fat bouquet of flowers was waiting on the doorstep from Kitty. Here they are.

There's lovely. I'm having a great birthday. Roll on next year.

Making The Most

I was all set to go into Woodbridge to buy a pond pump when I looked out of the window and gasped. It was a beautiful day, sunny and mild. Denise, I said to myself, for that is my name, Denise, why would you want to get into the car on a lovely day like this when you can get into the garden? So I ordered a pump online which will be delivered before Friday and for less than half the price of the local specialists, and out I went. There was so much to do, and I mean that in a nice way. The other day I had seen how Ruth had attached her skinny hose to her water butt, by means of Hoselock connectors, and the light went on in my head. So that was job number one, attaching lengths of hose to my four butts to drain the excess water away, and stop it leaking into the garden. In the summer it will be precious, and can be used to keep the pond topped up, but at this time of the year it's a nuisance. Once I'd done that I got out the powerhose and gave the car a once over to remove all the mud and muck that has accumulated over just one week. The powerhose has to be my favourite outside appliance, and as I eyed up the patio beyond the back door I noticed how plastered in mud it too is, the result of the many muddy male feet that have trudged up to my back door over the past several weeks, if you'll pardon the implication. So I attacked that too. The sun shone down brightly while I worked, and I gradually peeled off my protective layers.

It didn't stay warm for very long as the wind got up, but it continued to be sunny. I put the layers back on and cleared swathes of the front, cutting down dead Japanese anenomies, phlox and salvia. I even took several feet of growth off a large old rose tree which really needs chopping back to the ground, and will be in the spring. It's garden recycling day tomorrow so most of the rubbish will go.

In the evening I went to see Brooklyn, and having just finished reading the book for the second time I noticed every change that had been made. I hope Colm Toibin and Nick Hornby discussed the screenplay because it it altered the whole balance and flavour of the original. No spoilers, but the biggest laugh for me was when common tarty Dolores remarks at the boarding house dining table that there were an awful lot of fillums in Brooklyn, much more than in Cavan. "Isn't that funny," remarks Patty, the house wag. "Wouldn't you have thought it'd be the other way round."

Ticking Over

I've been busy, busy, busy, busy, hence no blogs for a while. And there's more of the same to come, so I thought I'd better bring myself up to date while I can. Having people to stay as I did last weekend is always a good incentive to catch up with some housework. Suddenly I spotted swathes of cobwebs around light fittings and in the corners of rooms; there was even a complicated one draped over a kitchen cupboard which suddenly came into view. I got the house ship-shape and clean, and swore as I always do that I'd never leave it so long again. I'm up to date with the ironing too, and have bought a new duvet and appropriate bedding for the garden room sofa bed for this weekend's guests. It's lovely to have comfortable spaces for everyone who comes to stay. And the house will be full again for Christmas.

I haven't had a walk for ages, but the weather is too wet anyway. Driving through Suffolk I'm impressed at how many trees still have their leaves intact. There have been fierce winds and the weather has been freezing, so I wonder why they still hang on into December. The effect is very pretty though, and not as stark as it soon will be. I'd like to get out into the garden and do a bit more tidying up, but the dampness is unpleasant and the grass too wet to walk on. So I content myself with the short trek to the woodshed a few times each week and return with the wheelbarrow full of winter fuel. It's such a treat to light the woodburner and bask in the warmth every evening. Central heating is all very fine and functional, but you can't beat proper flames.