Through the wardrobe

This morning when I came down to breakfast and looked out of the windows I was tempted to think that somehow in my sleep I'd gone through the wardrobe and found myself in Narnia.

Our little world at Froxfield has once again been transformed into a Christmas card scene.

Henny isn't keen, she comes out to peer about, makes a few grumbling clucks and scuttles back into the coop.

Walking around the garden in my warm boots, big coat and hat I can see all the bird food is frozen (what will the poor things do) this is early snow for our part of the world, too many small brown birds will perish in this unexpected weather.

The sound of children's voices glide across the valley from where they are tobogganing, mixing with the sound of geese flying in the still thick air overhead.

It is really still and quiet here today. The pristine snow looked so perfect it seemed a shame that I would walk along the path to my shed and spoil it.

Late in the afternoon I walked around the corner to our little church, the old ladies will find it cold in there tomorrow morning. If they come out of course, the porch has been cleared of snow but no one has swept the path.

Who is lonely Joan Allen I wonder, her tiny cross the only thing to mark a life. 

I found her marooned near the back of the graveyard, behind the grand tombstones and finely carved slate, alone in the snow.

Deep and crisp and even . . . .  Happy Christmas everyone xx

Hoar frost

The countryside around Froxfield looked  so beautiful today, frost formed on the branches of the trees and berries around the paddock, in the woods and roadsides around and about. 

Around an about

We decided to have a wander, followed by a pub stop, near Burford at the weekend.

Starting at Great Barrington, through Honey Bush (what!) and Sheep Dip following the little river Windrush to the village of Windrush and stopping at a brilliant pub named The Fox for refreshment! 

Then on to Little Barrington, crossing the river at Barrington Mill and back to the Landy waiting patently for us at Great Barrington. 

As you can see we started under blue skies, bryony adorning the hedgerows.

I could hardly believe these daisies are still flowering on this cold November day.

Spindle fruit is the most wonderful colour, the raspberry pink fruit splits open to reveal luscious orange seeds. They look delicious, I wonder if they're edible?

What a tenacious grip on life these trees have. Here at Mill Copse amongst all the tumbled down stone, they perch, splendidly moss covered.

And at the end of an unmade road stands Manor Farm, with these very picturesque out buildings

We discovered this feral apple tree at Windrush Mill, looking wonderfully red and gold but sadly too high for me to reach more than one delish specimen. 


And in any case Chris carries the back pack so I could hardly have persuaded him to join me in a spot of apple scrumping.

Hawthorn berries, called haws, are edible and were commonly made into jellies, jams, syrups and used to make wine, or to add flavour to brandy, rather than eaten fresh. 


And (so my mother once told me) the young leaves taste good in sandwiches!

Poets and afternoon light

This mornings post brought a nice surprise. The BlueGate 2010 anthology. www.bluegatepoets.com http://www.blurb.com/bookstore/detail/1626178

Autumn has been true to form, and a wet grey yesterday becomes a honeyed golden today. The marigolds are still giving their all despite the earlier frosts, I find myself wondering how long they'll keep going. Of course the flowers are edible so I should be harvesting them.

'The yellow leaves of the floures are dried and kept throughout Dutchland against Winter, to put into broths, in Physicall potions, and for divers other purposes, in such quantity, that in some Grocers or Spice-sellers houses are to  be found barrels filled with them, and retailed by the penny more or lesse, insomuch that no broths are well made without dried Marigolds'. John Gerard's Historie of Plants c1636 

On days like this when I'm working in the shed I can let the girls have the run of the garden, and trust that foxy won't come visiting when I'm here. They love to get out foraging and roam around happily cluck-clucking to themselves. 

Our hedgerows are festooned with berries. And when I approached the drunken hedge, flocks of small birds flew off from feasting on sloes, thankfully I've already picked plenty for sloe gin which will be ready in a few weeks time. 

  Through the garden gate to my shed . . . .