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

The Traditional Country Pub

The traditional country pub is often the heart of the village, particularly in rural communities. A place where deals are done, every occasion is celebrated, in life and death, and people come together, debating, gossiping and sharing stories over a pint of good ale.

Those who know me will know that I like a good pub; one where the atmosphere is warm, the beer (or wine) is good, people friendly and which has a sense of community.

With 26 pubs closing each week in the UK, this is becoming increasingly difficult to find.

My quest to find the 'perfect' country pub has taken me far and wide and I will admit that I have struggled, changing allegiance from one pub to the next, often depending on the season: some pubs are wonderful in winter with huge,welcoming log fires and low beamed ceilings while others come into their own during the summer months with bustling, sun filled gardens and great local cider.

I enjoy the village pubs attached to the Donnington Brewery in the Cotswolds and have learnt much about their history and of the Arkells who founded the brewery in 1865. Interesting stories which are a part of our heritage and as the unscrupulous PubCos continue to plough through the legacy of the great British 'local', destroying everything in its path, it is something we need to fight for. Something worth saving.The removal of pubs (and local shops) destroys communities, politicans will do well to remember this.

And so, I have discovered that there is no such thing, or rather, there is, but it takes many guises.

Although well travelled, I concentrate, in the main, around the Midlands, Cotswolds and Marches. Within this area there are many, many great pubs, far too many to mention here. However, I will mention one particular favourite. I call it my 'local' even though it is seven miles away. It is the best pub by far anywhere near to me and probably the one I frequent more than all others, so I shall continue to affectionately use the term.

 


The Talbot at Knightwick is a rather handsome 15th century former coaching inn, set on the A44 between Worcester and Bromyard, it serves many surrounding villages and is a gem. The Talbot is set within the stunning Teme valley, at the bottom of Ankerdine hill and on the River Teme itself, which has threatened its livelihood on more than one occasion over the years, most recently in 2007. The inn also holds fishing rights for those wishing to spend some time here, contemplating life in this most beautiful part of the country.

The Clift family are currently celebrating their 30th year at the pub and have built it into everything which is good about the traditional country pub, embracing the community and countryside around.

The local farming community often determines the menu and the blackboard can change midway through the afternoon as 'Rabbit' or 'Pigeon' appears in fresh white letters. The food is sourced locally; the butcher's shop is located a mere stones throw away, over the footbridge, their very own Teme Valley Brewery is just behind the pub, producing the wittily titled 'This' 'That' and 'T'Other' and the area full of artisan producers and farmers alike.

The locals in the bar offer good banter, warming to strangers provided they offer interest or entertainment, yet giving nothing away. Here, acceptance is hard earned. I have been visiting the pub for 6 years, as well as photographing local shoots and I am still known as 'the city slicker' albeit with affection! I was not born here, I am not even English, I will never be properly accepted as a local and yet I feel part of it, these people enrich my life. Here you will find local gamekeepers, farmers, butchers, gardeners, builders, mechanics, every part of the community represented.

The pub's calendar is full, the Green Hop Beer Festival in October is a joy to behold; music, madness, morris dancers, all set in the backdrop of the beautiful Teme valley. The pub also hosts the monthly Teme Valley farmers' market which includes simple country rituals such as the blessing of the plough, still rightfully upkeeping traditions of old.

A word of warning: If you happen upon the bar following a local shoot then beware or be brave, it can be a dangerous place. A rare occasion when the juke box comes to life and Fleetwood Mac resonates throughout the valley, accompanied by raucous laughter, far fetched tales of the day, much camaraderie and a sense of what a pub should be. A place to gather and to celebrate. And without it, this very rural community would not flourish.

 

As I say, there are many more I could write about: Pubs in deepest, darkest Wales where I have found great people (and dogs) with whom to watch the rugby; pubs where you have stepped back in time and arrived in your great grandmother's drawing room but have fabulous diverse, local characters and where I have made many friends over the years; Laurie Lee's beloved Woolpack overlooking the beautiful Slad valley; Cotswold pubs with amazing staff, food and atmosphere (yes, Ebrington Arms, I mean you!) and simply beautiful buildings rich in history and character like the Live and Let Live on Bringsty Common (above). Each and every one a formidable country pub.

As for this weekend, well I shall be in the Talbot, first having a hearty Ploughman's in front of the fire, before heading into the bar, accepting the good spirited banter and glass of wine and hopefully, watching a decent game of rugby and I cannot think of anywhere else I would prefer to be.

Autumn

'Season of mist and mellow fruitfulness' (John Keats - To Autumn 1820)

There is something so very special about autumn, something enormously comforting and sumptuous. The stunning visual display of the trees and woodlands, the smell of wood smoke and sweet rotting apples in the orchards and a preparation for winter. A time for hibernation, stacking the logs for the onset of the colder evenings, stocking up the larders with home made jams and chutneys and the selection of new ingredients and produce the season brings.

Again, we turn to food: Hearty stews with dumplings and thick, restorative soups, an assortment of game as the shooting season begins, roasting chestnuts outdoors and the puddings which of course get warmer and stickier as we all acquire our extra layers for the colder months.

The colours offer a feast for the eyes, the beauty of the misty mornings and, my favourite, the autumn ritual of walks in the woods to marvel at the abundance of shiny conkers, crisp, fallen leaves of every shape and size and array of fungi, the forager's delight. All this followed by the scramble back home to the warmth of the kitchen, struggling to pull off muddy wellies, drying out the obligatory collection of treasures (including pine cones to burn on the fire) and curling up with a creamy hot chocolate or mug of soup by the fireside.

It is also a time of festivals, commencing with the traditional celebration of the harvest festival which benefits those in our communities most in need, but also the plethora of Apple Fests (particularly in this part of the country) and well received Beer Festivals promoting the darker ales and porters to toast the progressing year, often accompanied by the display of the Morris (men) upholding tradition with a welcome for the new season.

 

At October's end, All Hallows' Eve, believed to have both pagan and Christian beginnings, comes candlelit ghost stories, apple bobbing and smiling pumpkins lighting up the night. I have always celebrated this time of year and embraced the oncoming darker evenings with thoughts of the mystery they may hold.

For me, autumn culminates with Guy Fawkes night and again, a stimulation of the senses: the smell of sausages spitting on outdoor grills, the fizzing of the fireworks, huge bonfires spiked with hot potatoes, the both sweet and sour delight of toffee apples and children holding sparklers in their tiny gloved hands, writing their names into the darkness, their faces lit up with enchantment and fascination.

I recall a couple of favourites, the first, many years ago in the Gloucestershire village of Gotherington where my aunt lived, a local event where all the village had come together in celebration of that one night, so steeped in long forgotten history. The night was so very dark, as country nights are, that the muddy lanes and paths were lit only by hand torches and the moon. I remember the feeling of being part of something, a gathering, a community. The second, only last year, was at a pub called The Crown at Frampton Mansell, near Stroud. If you get a chance to visit, then do! They host an amazing display. Last year, the theme was the Olympics and for the finale, the grand construction of the rings over Tower Bridge were lit and we watched as they slowly disintegrated into the night sky.

Our country is so full of tradition, of folk lore and ritual, Celtic, Pagan, Christian, all deeply entwined and celebrated still. This time of year has a calendar full to brimming, all set against the wonderful backdrop of the changing colour and transposing landscape, magnificently emblazed by the bright harvest moon.

From the hedgerow

The abundance of fresh, tasty and free fruit at this time of year is a wonder to behold. Our hedges are bursting with plump, delicious blackberries weighing down the brambles and staining our fingers, apples and pears of every variety filling orchards, gardens and roadsides, trees groaning with plums, damsons, quinces, the list goes on. Our country is so rich in its produce and a delight we should savour.

As Autumn advances, the fruit harvest takes on a central importance and kitchens bustle with cooks hovering over huge battered pans of jams and chutneys, flavouring gins and wines and bagging up fruit to sell at local farmers' markets or on makeshift tables at the cottage door.

The allotments too take on a new lease of life, far from bedding down for winter, there is the harvest of the last of the tomatoes and runner beans and the welcome crop of potatoes, carrots, marrows and pumpkins is revealed in its place. It fascinates me. I love it all. I love to watch the allotment gardeners in the fading light, bent and absorbed, capturing all of the day, using every bit of it. Their reward to trudge home with a treasure of freshly grown and lovingly tended produce. Remind me why anyone would buy imported fresh food from a supermarket again??

I have the good fortune to have a damson tree in my garden and each September it never fails to delight and entice me with its bounty of ripe, sweet, purple fruit. The ritual of picking is one I relish, climbing the tree, balancing precariously and shaking the branches to release the fruit onto the mossy ground below. The same day they are pricked and steeped in jars of sugar, gin and this year, vodka too. By next year they will be ready for a tipple on the cold mornings of the game shoot or to drink by the fire at Christmas time. I have also tried chutney this year, which I await to taste with baited breath. That may take a little more work, I fear!

As the seasons change and each brings with it its own special riches and expectations, the inherent traditions continue and one lesson perhaps to learn is that we must conserve our hedgerows and our countryside and allow it to continue to thrive. How poor our life would be without it.

The book that changed everything...

Cider with Rosie by Laurie Lee

'The day was over and we had used it, running errands or prowling the fields. When evening came we returned to the kitchen, back to its smoky comfort, in from the rapidly cooling air, to its wrappings of warmth and comfort.'

This novel, if you don't know it, recollects the author's boyhood and coming of age set against the backdrop of the Cotswold valleys and was first published way back in 1959.

I came upon it through necessity rather than choice - it was part of the National Curriculum - and at 12, my love affair began. Now, I read it annually, browse its well worn pages frequently and savour every perfect word.

For me, it is so much more than just a book. Not only is it a condensed history and, sometimes harsh, record of country life with all its characters and tradition but it is written in such rich prose with evocative description and sensuous language that it can take you there. Back to a time where life was uncomplicated, guided by the valleys' landscape, seasons and most importantly, its community.

Its legacy draws me to Slad (Laurie Lee's village within the Stroud valleys) regularly and to The Woolpack, his local pub and still the hub of the village.

Naturally, my one true regret is not meeting the man. My idol. I know several who have had the pleasure and I know that he could be a difficult, somewhat enigmatic character but I know too that he was warm and charming and that if I had turned up in the bar of The Woolpack and bought him a pint, I am sure that we would have had a good chat, whether about the rising price of ale or the local cricket score. It really wouldn't have mattered. Just one conversation would have been enough.

Sometimes, I see his widow, Kathy, in the pub. She retains all the beauty of her youth and has a sparkle in her eyes and allure which has not diminished with age. 

And it is there, where I can look out over the valley and still dream about walking in to find Laurie sitting on his regular stool in the corner, bemoaning the state of the economy, muttering into his Uley beer and he is there, with me...

An Introduction

An Introduction...

And so, welcome to my first blog entry. Borne from both curiosity and the desire to share a little knowledge (and some favourite photographs).

I was actually born and grew up in a large city so nothing of the rural idyll I now speak of. My love for the countryside has evolved over the years and is coloured by a number of factors about which I'm sure I will elaborate as my blog unfolds.

As a child I lived in Norway, where the seasons dictated to us and life in the very rural countryside was, I realise now, the most perfect childhood I could have received. Long sun filled days where darkness never fell in the summer months and the nightly visit of Aurora Borealis in the winter were simple pleasures and all part of life on our remote farm.

There, my deep love of the countryside and rural living had both blossomed and grown.