Country roads take me home

I've just had a whirlwind few days down in the South West, visiting friends, family and sorting out the last few bits to do with my mum's house before it gets passed on to new owners.

I stopped off in Bristol on the way down to catch up with my lovely greeting card chums. I really miss seeing them, but we're planning a proper day out soon.

It was a pretty full on schedule and I camped out in an empty house again, but it was lovely to see everyone, albeit briefly and spend time in the country towns and villages of my childhood.
Even though I wasn't staying in Merriott, where the family home was for many years, I always like to drive through, just to check all is well. It's very rural. Not a place in any kind of hurry. People say hello when they pass each other on the street, even if they have never met before.

Most of the village is made up of 17th and 18th century hamstone cottages, hamstone being the local honey coloured stone, quarried at Ham Hill, a place we spent a lot of time running around in during our childhood.

Manor cottage, a grade 2 listed farmhouse built in 1663, which sits at the end of our road. I love the mullion windows with curly ironwork

The village is still encircled by working farms so it's quite common to get caught behind a tractor. In years gone by, you'd get stuck behind animals moving from barn to field, but that doesn't happen any more.

Pronounced 'Tamill' by the locals, just down this lane is the mill which produced the sailcloth for The Victory

Merriott was mentioned in the Domesday book, mainly for its rich agricultural land but also in relation to its mills which produced cloth for sailcloth, including for Nelson's ship, The Victory. This means something to me, as my four times great grandfather fought alongside him in the Battle of Trafalgar.

This is cider country. That church is where my great aunt was christened, married and had her funeral service. She was born and bred in the village and had the most wonderful Somerset accent, along with her mother, our great-great aunt, who would tell us stories about her life in service in the big house, and had the most endearing chuckle in the entire universe

The next town, Crewkerne also has its connections, as that is where Vice Admiral Hardy of 'Kiss me, Hardy' (or kismet, you choose) fame, went to school.

The old lock-up, where drunks would get put in for the night by the local constabulary after drinking too much cider

At one point the village was owned by the family of the ill-fated Lady Jane Grey, but after she was executed, the lands were seized by the crown and redistributed. There was a rumour that our school, not so far away, was haunted by poor old Lady Jane. Who can blame her for not finding peace?

This lovely lady was like a second mum to me in my late teens and early twenties when my parents lived abroad and I was living in the family home. She's a great cook and full of life and fun. We've remained friends ever since and I always try to see her when I'm down that way.

The latest upsetting of the peace relates to Damien Hirst's sister, who has bought the old King's Head pub then shut it and tried to gain change of use to make it into a house. The locals aren't best pleased.

So, do tell, what's it like where you come from? What's great or interesting about it?

Now is the Wetherspoons of our discontent

Well, that's what Vix and I thought when Curtise turned up, scandalising us with news of a bad review of one of the three Wetherspoons we had to choose from on our inaugural tour of Leicester. If there was a bad one, we missed it. And we gave it a fair shot, visiting two thirds of their offering during our few short hours there.

Must have been someone with higher standards than us.

I love this picture of these two giggling away

In the Victorian era, Industrialisation happened in Leicester, with textiles, hosiery and footwear bringing wealth to the city. These grand buildings of the time are so impressive. On the left, the white building looks like a chateau with its external staircase, and the opulent copper door on the right is definitely meant to be seen

Leicester is one of the oldest cities in England, dating back to Roman times, and unlike many other cities, has managed to retain a large number of its historic buildings. The first one we spotted was this amazing Art Nouveau building, built in 1901, The Turkey Cafe.

Vix looked like a Russian Princess with her huge furry hat, whilst Curtise and I followed in her wake as ladies-in-waiting. My favourite example of the Vix effect on this occasion, was when one fellow came up to us and said, 'hold on, didn't I just see you...at London Fashion Week?' We had to laugh.

When we saw this road sign, we knew we were in exactly the right place. Cheap: our motto and our byword.


When this day out was in the planning, Curtise sent me a text: 'Your mission - should you choose to accept it - is to research chazzas, vintage shopping and Wetherspoons in Leicester. Yes, I know - homework.'

Back in the early to mid 1980s, my boyfriend at the time was at Uni in Leicester, so we used to go to this market to get our fresh veg. There's Lineker's, good old Gary's family business.

One foot in the grave? No, we've got plenty of days out left in us.

Well, I'm not one to shirk my responsibilities, so I set to. Turns out Leicester has rather a good vintage selection, of which we visited three.


Our favourite was Dolly Mix Vintage. Three floors of frocks, from antique to the 1980s. The interior was rather inspiring too, with a loft style room, filled with quirky props and plenty of windows for light. I noticed a definite Eastern influence. We agreed we could happily live in a space like that.

I absolutely loved this little corner which was set up as an artist's studio with a poster of a Thai Prince above it

No day out is complete without a lunch break at the aforementioned Wetherspoons. We've become so predictable. Mexican bean burgers all round. They had a pint, I had a glass of wine. Because, as my companions like to point out, I'm a lady.

In case you were in any doubt.






Shopping fix sated, we decided to have a bit of a mooch around. We knew we wanted to visit King Richard III, who has found his forever home in the Cathedral after spending a frankly impolite amount of time kicking his heels beneath a car park.

We paid our respects, and all agreed we love the smell of a church. That mix of history, wood polish and incense.

So, what did I manage to find? A couple of 1970s German cotton cushions, with a really cute print and a fabric box were my favourite purchases. But I also came home with some great gifts from the girls. The funkiest pair of vintage Wellies from Vix, plus a zip pull for my dodgy shoulder and an enamel pendant. From Curtise, my very own Skirt Supplier, a fab 70s midi skirt and a 70s does 40s top which fits me to perfection.

In a nod to my Irish roots, I wore green and a shamrock for St Patrick's day

Such is the success of our trademark days out that my sister and I are going to do one soon. Coming to a town near you?

When is a chair not just a chair?

A couple of months ago, these lovelies came to Nottingham for a day of chatter, laughter and second hand shopping. It went well. We chatted a lot, laughed a lot and bought plenty.

Our normal fare is vintage clothing. We ticked that box, but when we walked into Sue Ryder in Sherwood, we entered new blogging-get-together territory. I bought a chair!

I'm a bit of a sucker for chairs and this one had just been reduced from £25 to £10, which seemed a bargain. I'm also a bit of a sucker for a bargain, so the deal was done and we carried on.

When I got it home on the Monday, I did a bit of investigating. The back cane was broken and needed fixing and the seat pad needed updating. When I unzipped the cover to see what the pad was like, I squealed with excitement. There right in front of me was a CC41 label. As I'm sure a lot of you will know, that label dates the cushion to the 1940s, during and just after WWII, when most commodities including food, clothing and furniture, were rationed.

I love this postcard of my dad surrounded by his parents in 1941. His father, George, was a Desert Rat and so was away in North Africa for much of the war. This postcard was sent home from Egypt, hence the pyramids.

For me that has a lot of resonance. My father was born in August 1941, in London, in the middle of the war, a few months after the end of the Blitz. I grew up listening to tales from my grandmother who spent the entire war in London. Immediately I saw the CC41 label, I started imagining somebody sat in the chair, by the fireplace, listening to Winston Churchill making all those historic, rousing speeches. That chair went up in my estimation!

Anyway, now the chair was intertwined with my father who was born at the same time as the label. It so happens that he died 20 years ago yesterday, two days after his 54th birthday, so as you can imagine, he has been a lot in my thoughts. So when I started re-caning the chair, I went and changed into a pair of shorts belonging to him.

I used this great video to learn how to cane the chair. Isn't youtube an amazing resource?

Here's a picture of him wearing them, standing on top of a landrover, in the bush on his way down to Juba, which then was part of the Sudan and now is the capital of South Sudan. At the time we were living in Khartoum, the capital, in the North. He was a Diplomat, and during that posting, he was responsible for infrastructure; bridges and roads, and also the physical reality of tourism, so he would go and visit little complexes of huts being built with swimming pools, which apparently always ended up with cracks in them! He loved Africa and he loved that role, because he got to work with the local people for whom he had a lot of respect.

There we are in Switzerland circa 1972, at some friends' house for dinner. That's him on the left, Lambert, David George MBE, and that's me; 3d 1966!

He was a really good man, a dad to be proud of. I often ponder how things might have been for our family had he lived longer, and I often wish he were still here so I could know him as an adult, ask him for advice or listen to his stories. But that's life. We're here, it's now and we've got to make the best of it. So when I look at the chair, I intend to think of him and remember the good times.

I have covered the pad in some 1940s barkcloth from France. That fireplace is the next project. We've got some fab tiles to go in there. 

I'm pleased with how it turned out.

Eyam, the plague village

Have you ever heard of Eyam? It's a village in Derbyshire, known as the plague village, because in the year 1665, the villagers made the conscious decision to isolate themselves so that they wouldn't spread the bubonic plague to anyone else in England.

It arrived innocently enough, in a bale of cloth ordered by George Vicars, the local tailor. The cloth was damp, so he spread it out in front of the fire to dry, allowing the fleas within to be released. They were carriers of the plague, and soon, inevitably it claimed its victims. Within a year, hundreds of people in this small village died.

You would think such a tragedy would permeate everything and that you'd be able to feel the pain in the air and in the brickwork, but you can't. You only feel it in the stark words you read. You imagine it, sitting in the church and passing the cottages of the doomed villagers.

Looks idyllic doesn't it, the romantically named Rose Cottage? Don't be fooled. Nine members of the Thorpe family lived here. They all died. And look, here's what happened to their next door neighbours.

It feels somewhat ghoulish to be posting this, but it's such a memorable part of our history. Who doesn't know about the bubonic plague? Even children's nursery rhymes commemorate what happened.

Mexican embroidered dress accessorised with bags from Em and Krista, because I couldn't decide

And actually for their courage and fortitude in such appalling circumstances, the villagers of Eyam deserve to be remembered forever more.

The villagers who succumbed to the plague weren't buried in the graveyard, instead each family was responsible for its own. The women dragged their husbands and children out into the fields surrounding the village and laid them to rest. Even when life is at its toughest for me, it's never THAT bad. I really want to do one of the walks to pay my respects.

Eyam hall and gardens

Sorry this is such a depressing post. It wasn't meant to be. Eyam is the prettiest little village and Eyam Hall is a lovely Jacobean building filled with treasures from eleven generations of the same family, which means it has that lovely higgledy piggledy patchwork eclectic feel. The family lived there up until really quite recently and left all their stuff there, although they did have the good grace to take their Ikea furniture with them. I can't imagine a Billy CD rack would be quite the thing with all those beautiful flagstone floors and amazing wide floor boards.

Anyway, we had fun, mooching around and finishing up with a picnic. I hope there will be more to come this summer. It's more than half way through July and I feel like I'm only just getting started. Life has been like a juggernaut crashing down a mountain these last few months. I do apologise for neglecting you all. It's not my intention, I just think I need a pause button every now and again.

The village stocks. It wasn't me! Or was it?

I have to finish up with this classic photo of the family pets from Eyam Hall. What song do you reckon they're singing? Answers on a postcard blog comment, please!

A train to Jerusalem

Towards the end of the holiday, we took a train to Jerusalem for the day. There are plenty of coach tours, where everything is laid on, but we thought it would be more exciting to be a bit more intrepid.

The Wailing Wall, where Jews go to pray. They write messages on small pieces of paper and insert them into the holes between the stones. Men and women are segregated. The last time I visited was nearly 20 years ago, on a Friday evening, which is the Sabbath. It was mesmerising and I remember it as being just magical.

I loved seeing all the different tribes of people. Hasidic Jews, Ethiopians, Arabs, Christian nuns, soldiers. Some brought there by faith, others for work, and then others still, like us, brought there to experience history and culture.

The old city can be entered via various different gates. There is an Arab quarter, a Jewish quarter, a Christian quarter and an Armenian quarter. Once inside the gates, you find yourself in a warren of enclosed walkways, filled with all the sights and sounds of the bazaar.

A typical meal. Houmous, arab salad, pickled vegetables and pitta bread. I'll eat toasted pine nuts with anything.

This is on the rooftop of the Austrian Hospice on the Via Dolorosa, the street which Jesus walked, carrying his cross, towards the place of his crucifixion. You have the most amazing view over the whole city. Behind me you can see the gold dome of the Temple Mount.

The Armenian church of St James was the most breathtakingly beautiful church, which we happened on quite by accident. A service was just about to take place, so I blindly followed a few people through a heavy curtain and found myself in this exquisite interior. There are dozens of chandeliers and incense burners in all the colours of the rainbow hanging from the ceiling, kilims on the floor and blue and white tiles on the walls. The ceilings have decorative plasterwork roses. It was perfection and I loved just sitting there and absorbing the beauty.

I'd love those blue and white tiles in my fireplace

I felt like Alice in Wonderland knocking on that door. I'm only 5 foot tall, so whoever's on the other side must be fairytale tiny. That's a 1960's psychedelic maxi dress there, with a shawl over the top to cover up my head in the Arab quarter and the churches.

So that's my tour of Israel done. Must be time to book another holiday soon, surely? :)