Flowers

'I perhaps owe having become a painter to flowers' said master Impressionist Claude Monet and I have to admit that I'm beginning to see his point.

I wouldn't say it has been a revelation, for everyone loves flowers (don't they??) but I am amused and a little bit delighted by how much time I spend thinking about which seeds to plant and bushes to buy to indulge my new found passion. Because, naturally, I want to grow my own.

A couple of events brought me to this, firstly meeting two special ladies both of whom study floristry and talked me, somewhat reluctantly, into attending my first - and only (to date) class and also an article in 'Country Living' magazine all about growing British cutting flowers.

I adore the idea of growing my own beautiful blousy peonies and roses, gypsophila, fever few, Michaelmas daisies, cosmos and so on. All very much cottage garden flowers.

A long time ago, I lived in a pretty white cottage which boasted the most unique cottage garden; secret corners bursting with hollyhocks, foxgloves, lupins and delphiniums during the summer months. I was too young and unworldly to realise its full delight but none the less, enjoyed late spring afternoons planting up pots of geraniums and lobelia and growing seedlings in the old wood framed greenhouse. I simply didn't appreciate it. And now, as I strive to decide whether or not to apply for an allotment or just fill my garden with flowers, I look back to those days.

But, back to my floristry: the product of my first lesson was a delicate bird cage decorated with pinks, whites and purples (don't ask me for the names of the flowers!). The idea was to hang it from the damson tree, which dominates my garden, on warm sun filled days, of which we've been lucky to enjoy this spring.

My second foray into floristry was to just get on with it, nip to the local florist to buy blooms, strip my garden of foliage, which is plentiful thankfully, and make the best of sticking bits of leaves into green foam (oasis, as they call it) Now, I will never be a pro, I simply don't have the dedication or type of perfectionism required of the medium but I do thoroughly enjoy it. My more knowledgeable friends call my style 'loose' (!) I prefer rustic. And so, another hobby beckons but at least it will make my garden much improved and bring a little of the countryside into my home. What could be better than that?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

One year on...

I have just taken a look at my blog and realised (to my horror and shame!) that it has been almost a year to the day since my last post. Life has been very full and busy with all sorts of new projects - more of which in future posts. The photography continues to grow (and change) although I hope I have established my own style and I still adore poring over monthly editions of 'Country Living' with all its gorgeous photographs, particularly those by Andrew Montgomery and Alun Callender (two of my favourites).
Easter brought with it some good times with family and friends, a few cocktails with friends, a great Easter Sunday roast with family and plenty of research into my new project - keeping hens - so expect lots of photographs and stories over the next few weeks and months (if all goes to plan).
I have been persuaded to attend a floristry workshop by a couple of my very creative girl friends and while I can ill afford another hobby (!) I am looking forward to it.

 

I favour really simple cottage garden flowers in rustic settings, however, I have plans for a huge Bohemian styled garden party at Midsummer so may need some inspiration for extravagant floral displays. In the meantime, I will share some of the images I took at Easter with beautiful spring blooms provided and arranged by my friend, Liz.

 

 

Springtime

I awoke this morning to the sun streaming in through the shutters and sweet sound of birdsong. And thankfully, before the persistent hum of traffic began.

I took the opportunity of an early start to photograph the stunning field of rapeseed nearby.

I am fortunate to live within walking distance of the city of Worcester but also on the doorstep of the beautiful Worcestershire and Herefordshire countryside.

I beat the traffic, workers and school run, and took a leisurely stroll with the smell of morning dew and yesterday's freshly cut grass filling the air.

I found my spot, squeezed through a hedge and startled a particularly plump cock pheasant enjoying the early morning, basking in the hue of the glorious golden rape.

And there it was! Endless rows of planted sunshine. Always a feast for the eyes, and the soul.

This time of year brings so much with it: new beginnings, lighter mornings, longer evenings and the hedgerows full of frantic activity as the garden birds nest and orange beaked blackbirds feast on the berries outside my kitchen window. I watch them at breakfast, an easy distraction. I could happily watch them all day.

I love the changing English landscape too, vast swathes of yellow which can simply take your breath away. I like nothing more than a drive through rural Herefordshire on a warm April day to witness the changing of the seasons and the effect on our beautiful countryside.

Thankfully too, the last few years have seen a huge surge in artisanal British cold pressed rapeseed oils. Farmers' markets and food festivals have dedicated stalls and its growth is marked.

My favourite is the locally produced Croome Classics (no additives or preservatives) which adds a lovely earthy mellow taste. I especially enjoy it with asparagus, again, grown locally in the vale of Evesham (Of course!)

The Game Shoot

There can be few better things than waking up to a crisp, frosty January morning knowing that the day will offer scenes of stunning scenery, endless landscapes and the opportunity to meet all manner of people, with a fair few characters amongst them.

The day encompasses all that is good about the countryside; its landscape, community, way of life and sense of tradition. Not selling a lifestyle but witnessing a continuing history, where generations of the same families have shot, often on the same land. Little has changed. And to be able to capture it in images and become part of the day is a privilege indeed.

The role of the shoot photographer is one which is evolving and certainly becoming more popular.

The concept of the Shoot Book commemorating the events of the day is not a new one and has a long history, however, interestingly, now I find my clients are less concerned with statistics and records but of images of the shooting party smiling, laughing, sharing a joke and generally enjoying a great day out. It is less about competition more about memories of a good day.

In such a male dominated area, it is also interesting to include a female perspective. Sometimes, I can capture something special; a gesture, an expression, a private joke, an unexpected exchange or some well rehearsed moves reserved especially for the female contingent (naturally) and I am in the enviable position to do so.  

 

 

 

I immensely enjoy the freedom of not having to haul around tripods and huge lenses but just enough to be able to get decent photos with ease, to climb over fences, crawl under hedges, get stuck in mud (I have been!) soaked to the skin (I have been!) and live to tell the tale, unless you happen upon a decent Port Break, of course...

I have had some fantastic experiences, met some truly interesting, warm, engaging folk from many walks of life: That is the thing about shooting, it transcends all social class. It brings people with a passion together.

  
I have witnessed real kindness when the shoot organiser has willingly accompanied ailing and elderly relatives (all the family is involved) or friends in the field, loading for them, transporting them and ensuring the odd tot of damson gin reaches them and enough sport is had.

It is always important to share some time between the guns and the beaters. The guns appear to get the better deal (the comfort of transportation for a start) but the beaters certainly know how to have a good time too. They work as a team, and with that comes great camaraderie.  And after all, without them, there are no game to shoot. They hold the power, know that there’s a good meal in it afterwards and if the sweepstake goes to plan then there will be a drink or two in it for them later too!

As a great purveyor of local produce, food directly from the field is fair game indeed and a welcome reward. I spend most of my winter with a freezer full of partridge and in the main, pheasant. Yet another perk of the job.

Talking of which, I have had some wonderful breakfasts, even better lunches and the Shoot Captain (or Gamekeeper) always finds the best local pubs when the day is done but that’s a whole different story, which I shall definitely save for another occasion…

This article originally appeared in full as a guest blog for www.keepersmate.co.uk

My favourite photographs of 2013

 

 

 

 I wanted to share a few of my favourite images I have taken this year. Special places such as the Malvern Hills and St Ives, a couple from my garden and some of the dogs from the local shoots I regularly attend.
I very much look forward to 2014 and all the photographic opportunities it may bring!

Tidings of Comfort and Joy

And so it descends upon us, slowly at first as the evenings draw in, the air cools and the first fires are lit, then as December arrives, there comes the ensuing excitement, chaos and ritual, all bound up in lists: manic shopping sprees, over enthusiastic orders to the local butcher, trips to farm shops to gather enough vegetables to feel the whole street and the endless present wrapping frenzy.

 

 

I have to admit that I adore Christmas, I always have. As a child it was magical, as indeed it should be, shrouded in secrecy, fairy lights and anticipation. Magic. Now, as December is welcomed, my house is filled with flickering cinnamon scented candles, huge arrays of freshly picked holly and mistletoe, garlands and wreaths, twinkling lights and of course, the biggest Norwegian spruce which I can (reasonably) fit into my sitting room, carried (or rather dragged) home from the local Christmas tree farm by my grumbling children.

Today, I am raiding the larder in an attempt to begin the preparation for my Christmas cake (better late than never), something I do every year. Faithfully following Delia's tried and tested recipe, along with numerous cooks throughout the land.

In a world of such commercialism, it is easy to be lured by the hype and incessant advertisements and lose sight of the important things, of family, friends and precious time together. I like to think that we are increasingly returning to tradition and authentic values. This year I will be making gifts: beautifully wrapped chunks of buttery fudges and rich, homemade chutneys to be included in hampers for my food loving friends as well as buying from local businesses, craft fayres and Christmas markets.

Christmas Eve is my favourite day of the year. It is a time of coming together, of reflection. I readily admit a fondness for the Scandanavian way of life and there, it is celebrated as we celebrate Christmas day; the meal is eaten and presents exchanged and opened on the eve. Here, it is a time when families celebrate tradition, whether it is queuing at the local butcher to collect your much anticipated order and joining in with the good humour, entertaining friends with steaming mulled wine and crumbling mince pies, listening to carols from Kings, or attending Midnight Mass.

When my boys were little, it was really all about managing to get through the day in one piece, such was the excitement, a trip to the pantomime or another visit to Santa filled up the time until it was dark enough for pyjamas, stories, hanging the stockings on the mantle and, of course, leaving the obligatory glass of sherry and mince pie for Santa and some carrots for the reindeer (each individually named, naturally), usually with a note for Magnus, the elf who always wrote letters to my boys during December in his very spidery (left handed...) writing, accompanying his little well chosen advent gifts.

This year, it will be the local carol service, home for a glass of fizz, hanging stockings, stuffing the ubiquitous turkey into the oven and sitting down in front of the log burner to watch 'Its a wonderful Life' (again), wishing for snow and secretly listening for the sound of sleigh bells. And there it is, that magic again....

A Woodland Walk

My Sunday afternoon was spent walking in the woods, breathing in the fresh, if a little dank, country air, trekking through very wet and muddy orchards over carpets of rotting Annie Elizabeth and Bramley apples, vibrant, shiny rosehips brightening the hedgerows and the distant smell of bonfires offering comfort in the damp air.

During this time of year, one of my favourite places to walk is The Knapp and Papermill Nature Reserve in Alfrick, Worcestershire. The surrounding countryside is stunning and a delight for walkers and nature lovers alike.

I have been coming here for many years, it is a welcome retreat. A place of peace, of beauty and of nature.

Leigh Brook meanders through the Reserve and is home to kingfishers, dragonflies, otters and much more. I have seen none,  but I still sit and study the water, for seemingly hours, hoping for a movement, a dash of colour, a glimpse.

Papermill cottage, long disused, sits happily in the meadow, always a welcome sight, now housing bats, birds and bees. Derelict but still serving this important purpose. It has always conjured up Hansen and Gretel like stories alluding to characters who may have lived here over the years.

The woods are a magical place, full of imagined fairies and elves and a kind of Nordic charm. Transporting me swiftly back to childhood memories and the nostalgia of my Norweigan adventure. The scenery indeed is almost Scandanavian in places, imitating fjord like backdrops, standing dream like against the dramatic clouded skyline basking in its autumn glory.

 

 

When my children were younger, they loved to play in the brook during hot summer days, resembling the freckled, sandy haired boys of Enid Blyton novels, creating their own adventures, waving their empty fishing nets (they could never keep them still for long enough to catch anything) and launching sticks off the small bridge to watch them appear on the other side. A lovely image which stays with me whenever I visit. They still love it here but now are more apt to imitate characters created by Tolkein, hobbits hiding in the woods and charging around with make believe weapons and battle cries, destroying the peace somewhat.

The purpose of todays visit was not only to walk off the culinary delights of the previous evening but also to photograph the changing landscape. The last time I was here was in early Spring when the bluebells filled the meadow, but autumn is my favourite and so I am not much company today, instead disappearing to take endless images of trees.

A flock of very friendly sheep followed us through the meadow, particularly interested in their visitors and posing for the odd photograph, much to my pleasure.

And so, I eventually dragged myself away. The walk had earned us a hearty roast upon our return to the warmth of the kitchen and purring log burner and to dream of my next visit, when the frost is hard on the ground, hedges full of icy cobwebs and the first flurries of snow in the air.


The Knapp and Papermill Reserve are cared for by Worcestershire Wildlife Trust. www.worcswildlifetrust.co.uk