A Tale of a Hundred Daffodils

Hello Friends!

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
and twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretched in never-ending line
along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not be but gay,
in such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
what wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

How could I write about daffodils and not include William Wordsworth's most famous poem?  What a sight he must have seen before him to inspire such moving and lasting imagery? 

The daffodil is the official flower of Wales, and is often worn by Welsh men, women, and children on March 1st, Saint David's Day, instead of the more pungent and less fragrant leek, also an emblem of Welsh nationality. 

Here is an amusing tale of what started out as just thirty daffodil bulbs that went forth and multiplied.  I didn't find it amusing as it unfolded, quite the opposite, but now I look back and I laugh.

Once upon a long, long time ago, in another lifetime, I lived in a tiny cottage overlooking a pretty bay and fishing harbour.  I knew I would not live there forever, so when I bought thirty Spring flowering daffodil bulbs, I planted them up in pots.  The flowered well and brought me much joy.

Time passed, and the day came when I had to move away, so I brought the pots of daffodils a few miles down the road to my parents cottage for them to plant out in their garden, and I went away.  I went away for four years, and during the Spring following my return, I was utterly amazed how the daffodils had multiplied.  They now filled the borders around the cottage making a delightfully colourful springtime display.

There was, however, one problem.

We all know how messy daffodils get once they have flowered and are dying back.  That was the rub.  There were, by now, so many daffodils that for weeks on end it all looked such a mess.  So, my mother and I came up with a plan.  

It was genius! Or so we thought.  I'd dig up all the bulbs from the borders, dry them off, store until September, then we'd pot them up into tubs of fresh compost that could then be put in the borders while in flower during early and mid Spring, and moved out of the way, out of sight, to die back in their unsightly manner, keeping the borders fresh and pretty.

I spent three days of back breaking work, digging out bulbs that, by now, had gone deep into the ground. We had over 300 bulbs!  I put them to dry, then stored away until needed.  

We bought the tubs; we bought bags and bags of compost.  Time passed, and we were ready to plant up the pots.

We set our pots up, began filling them with compost, and went to fetch the bulbs from the garden shed.  But wait! Where are the bulbs?  What has happened? Not a bulb to be found!  Not even an empty sack in which they were stored.  What had happened to the bulbs?

We puzzled for ages, not realising that there was a rather large square of freshly dug soil in a corner of the garden.  When my father came home, we asked him if he knew anything about the missing bulbs, and to our dismay he cheerfully told us that, the previous day, he'd only gone and dug them back in, they were under all that freshly turned soil.

You can go off people, and you can go off daffodils!  My father thought it was funny; he and I had words.  Not for the first, nor the last time over gardening differences of opinion.

I got over it, and the daffodils flourished in their new home, but over the years they multiplied even more, so I dug them up and gave them away.  There's only so many daffodils a small garden can hold, after all. 

Probably the prettiest are the double ones, but sadly they tend to succumb to the bad, Spring storms that prevail during March, right as they begin to flower, so this year, with advance warning of an impending week of wild, wet and windy Welsh weather, I picked them and brought them in, in tight bud.  If you've scrolled this far, you've seen their progress, but, sadly, this was the scene that greeted me this morning. 

I guess they keep on growing and getting heavier after they've opened and keep on drinking up the water.  So sad to see their slender stems bent over with the weight, but it is what it is, and short of wiring them there's very little I can do to prevent this happening.

At least I've had a few days enJOYment from them, while yet another week of Spring storms lashed our coast from Tuesday until Sunday.

For those of you who don't know, the stoneware jug is over seventy years old and was a gift from my dear mother to  her mother.  It is now in my care, and I have always loved this jug, even more so now.  As a child, I loved to see it on a table filled with daffodils which seem to look so well in it.  I named it the Daffodil Jug, and it is known by that name to this day.

Until next time

Stay safe and stay well.

Pretty as a Picture

 Hello Friends!

The other day, I somehow found myself sifting through the contents of a long forgotten tin sitting on a long forgotten corner on a long forgotten shelf in the garage {which is now more of a garden shed than a garage as I don't drive}, and look what I found!  Of course, the seeds will no longer be viable, for these are dated mid 1970's, but the last hands to touch these were my dear Daddy, who loved to garden from plot to plate in his spare time.  

They certainly knew how to make their seed packets look so pretty and inviting back then.

Even the instructions are illustrated prettily

Even the wording is written more like you are being spoken to directly, rather than a short list of instructions, or worse, the packets that only have graphs and guesswork.

They even come with instructions to dry the herbs!

The packets are a little bit dusty and marked, but I will try to gently clean them off to use in some project, as yet to be determined!

Soon I will be starting to sow my seeds for this year's food, but the packets are nowhere near as pretty!

Photos may give a more accurate and instant impression of the contents, and are boldly bright and beautiful, but I know which ones I prefer.

I had my vegetable seeds order back in early February.  When it arrived, I realised I'd forgotten to order my annuals, so I put in a small order for those, and these are what I ordered.  However, when this arrived last week, I immediately realised I have forgotten my pansies and borage seeds.  Heigh ho!  

Until next time

Stay safe, stay well

Deborah xo 

Vintage Cookery Books and Pottery

 Hello Friends!

Thank you to those of you who have clicked on the Follow button lately.  The more, the merrier!  It's lovely to have you here.

Before I forget, those of you who asked about the Kitchen Sink cake I wrote about here, you might like to know that it freezes very well indeed.

On the subject of baking, I found some old, vintage cookery books and pamphlets.  Look at the first one, 2/6d {two shillings and sixpence} pre decimalisation!  I wonder if Woman's Weekly is still in print? I remember that magazine, and also Woman's Realm as regular, weekly purchases Mum made from the little newsagents on the bottom of the Cross Square in the village.

The newsagents, called Gwalia, was run by two spinster sisters, the Misses Williams, who lived above the shop.  During the Second World War, my grandmother delivered newspapers for them, and, apparently, they would swap their coffee and tea rations.  Later, the business passed into the hands of Mr and Mrs Hurley.  My mother worked there during the 1960's and 70's. 

My own memories of Gwalia are the wonderful window displays at Christmas, filled with books, annuals, quality toys and other seasonal things to tempt the village children. Standing on our tippy toes, we children would press our eager faces up to the small windows for a closer look, in excited anticipation that Father Christmas would bring us at least one lovely thing in our stockings on Christmas Eve.  

The owners, rather sensibly, ran a Christmas Club, and Mum always saved, putting in a regular, weekly amount, so come Christmas week, the house would slowly fill with sweets and treats as she spent her Club. I recall, fondly, the boxes of chocolates: Milk Tray, Dairy Milk, Black Magic, and Terry's All Gold, along with chocolate covered Brazil nuts, and Turkish Delight. A proper, old fashioned Cadbury's Selection Box for Daddy and me to share on Christmas morning, and always a book that would suddenly appear, half hidden under the tree after Christmas dinner was over. 

Since then, the premises has expanded into what was once the downstairs sitting room, and has been a number of things, including a café, a grocery shop, and it is now a tourist style gift shop occupying all the former living quarters.  In the annexe there once was a small clothes shop; it is now a tempting chocolate boutique. 

I digress, but it shows how things change over the decades.  Nothing remains the same.

Here are the books and pamphlets I found.

This one came with our very first electric cooker.  Great was the excitement, and Mum was even encouraged to join in a evening class in the local school on Cordon Bleu cooking.  We ate very well!

This tickled me, I had never heard of Brochette Cookery, and all I can hear is Hyacinth Bucket saying Brochette in her own, inimitable style.

These have some interesting recipes, and I may try some out in the future. They are fairly basic, but it might make an interesting project for the Winter months. The Hartley's Book of Interest is full of tips, puzzles and games.

Final booklet for today, How to Decorate a Cake.  This is a skill I have never mastered.  My rosettes and shells always increase exponentially in size as I go along.

What do you do with a sweet little teapot, slightly chipped and missing the lid?  Why, plant it up with a tiny piece of cactus that fell off a plant, of course.

I am slowly going through boxes of belongings which have been packed away for ages.  I live in fervent hope of finding another "Ollie the Owl" {fans of the Antiques Roadshow will know what I mean} so that I can retire, but no such luck, yet.  The treasures of my forebears may not yield much in money, but they hold the memories of life times of love.

I remember these!  Every Christmas, they would come out of Mum's box of decorating bits and bobs. There were always two Christmas cakes, as well as a Chocolate Log.  One was painstakingly decorated with patterns of perfectly and patiently drawn, delicate lines of royal icing, embellished with rosettes, shells, and swirls, all in white with silver dragees.  Nothing short of pure elegance.  Then, just for me, a small cake with a frosty, whipped snow scene of robins, snowmen, holly, a Santa with his reindeer and sleigh, and these two, tiny pottery ornaments.

Then, I found this jar, possibly a honey pot or jam pot for the breakfast table.  No markings, just "Foreign" stamped on the bottom, but a quaintly charming, bucolic scene of haymaking in delicate colours.

Finally, for today, someone at one time must have collected Toby jugs, for there are many, some quite tiny and would only hold an ounce.  They aren't my cup of tea, but here's an unusual one, and as a seamstress I suppose I feel a connection to this fun little Toby of a Tailor.  It is Made in Staffordshire, England, numbered 781 TAILOR, and is marked Roy Kirkham Pottery.  

I Googled the name and apparently the company was established in the early 1970's, producing character jugs and figurines.  What they produce today, which you can see here, is very different, and very pretty and desirable.

I love the knowing way he peers over his spectacles, don't you?  It's there whichever angle you look at.

Until next time

Stay safe, stay well

Deborah xoxo

Vintage Handkerchiefs

Hello Friends!

Blwyddyn Newydd Dda!

Happy New Year!

I am not going to write much today, I am feeling rather lazy having greedily devoured a surfeit of chocolate which now forms a large part of my blood group.  I am still not sure what day of the week it is, feeling as if it is the eighth or ninth Saturday since Christmas.  The days seem to run into one and I shall be glad when normality, whatever that is, returns on Monday.

The chocolate is eaten; the cheese is all gone.  Please send reinforcements, we're going to a dance. Or is that "send three and fourpence, we're going to advance"?  Can we survive without chocolate until Easter?  But wait, there's Valentine's Day soon, but is it soon enough?  I think the chocolate withdrawal is getting to me.

Recently, I found a box full of handkerchiefs, vintage ones, so really lovely things to look at.  Some have patterns woven in to the fabric {see the green check one, at the bottom} others have beautiful embroidery, drawn thread work, or lace adornments.   One is worked in cross stitch, and the back is almost as meticulous as the front {as good embroidery should be!}

I am laundering all I have found and thinking of what use I can make of them.  Some are far too delicate to use now, so I must find a way of preserving them.  Others, such as the green check one, are fine and sturdy so can be put to their intended purpose; there is something genteel about an embroidered, cotton handkerchief, and I do so like to use a proper handkerchief, relics of a bygone age and saving the planet one sneeze at a time.

Until next time
Deborah xo