Back to my Roots

If all goes well in the next few weeks, if the solicitors get their act together, nobody jumps in ahead of us and we can then get the architect to draw us some nice plans, and then find a builder( now there's a challenge). I will be setting sail and spending some of my days tracing my roots and heritage.

No, I am not an American or Australian about to embark on a journey to Scotland or Ireland to trace my family, nor am I a war child sent to distant lands with only a label around my neck .

No nothing so glamorous, in fact if I take the trouble to climb the hill that I can see from my garden and sit on the beacon I can see my family roots on a clear day.

No I am about to buy a holiday home in the Isle of Wight, the island where my paternal grandmother was bought up, where I spent day trips, where my Great Uncle tended the lighthouse at St Catherine's Point, and one of my family had 18 children christened at Godshill Church.

Why should I, you might ask buy a holiday home so near home! ..good question.

I am not sure I really have a good or sensible answer. I looked at all the options but in the end, the Island offered so much to everyone, its not far to travel, we can be there door to door in less than two hours and so can all the children and most of my friends.

It has a strange mix of holiday and history, of amazing Victorian a

rchitecture, and the very worst of the 20th.century rubbish.

Saint Catherine's Lighthouse

Once on the ferry and I can wave a fond farewell to Portsmouth with its Spinnaker Tower reaching high into the sky, I feel as if I am already on holiday.

This small place has attracted the famous throughout history. Queen Victoria had her holiday home here,Osbourne House majestically standing on a hill above East Cowes.

She and her beloved Albert spent their holidays here.Victoria build a church in the German style to make him feel at home.

Alfred Lord Tennyson bought the house called Farringford in 1858. In later years he was harassed by sightseers and in 1869 decided to move to Haselmere. The downs above Freshwater bear his name.

A more recent celebrity Anthony Minghella - playwright. lived here. He was a scriptwriter for Grange Hill, Inspector Morse, and the films Truly Madly Deeply and the Talented Mr Ripley.. He won an Oscar for Director of The English Patient . His father still owns Minghella's Ice Cream factory in Wootton.

So I wait in anticipation for the contract to be signed and exchanged and I can look forward to many happy hours on this intriguing island and maybe I can share with you the ups and downs of the houses renovations, I can tell you about the wild life I have seen on the quiet out of the way estuaries and hill tops.

Only this week we watched buzzards hovering on the thermals not high above our heads but at eye level on the top of Culver Downs, near Sandown on south of the island.

In the meantime the all is quiet the beaches wait for the little people with their buckets and spades, the pubs and restaurants are ready to feed hungry mouths, in the harbours boats are having their bottoms painted in readiness for their new season at sea.

Who knows whether this exercise will prove to be a success only time can tell that, but there is much to see and much to tell you, places to photograph and visit and a family to find out about.

Blossom

A walk through "My Snowy Village"

I have heard it said that

" Snowflakes are kisses from heaven"

If that is true then my village can regard itself as well and truly kissed!

The magical view of snow covered Britain can be seen every day at the moment but I thought you might just like to see see my little corner of

Kissed England

Like a Butterfly

I thought of my mother today, I can't say I have done that for a few weeks, she was all consuming for months, no years.

I had almost forgotten what it was like not to be worried about her and then she died.

I drew a line in the mental sand the night she died, I loved her but my life had been so filled with her I need a break.

I need to say that's enough, I too have a life and I must get on with it and I have.

I thought about her this afternoon when I took the compost bowl to

the compositor, passing the wild and out of control Michaelmas Daisies growing in the orchard.

They were covered in butterflies, oblivious to me they fluttered about their business, from one head to another and another and back again, there were almost too many for the flowers to accommodate, but there was no hassle, no argument, when one came along, another one moved and so it went on.

It reminded me of my mother, she used to give me when I was little butterfly kisses, brushing her long black lashes gently across my face, when I got older she said I had a butterfly mind, flitting from one thing to another and then back again. If I was worried she would tell me I had butterflies in my tummy, and she referred to herself as a social butterfly.

Maybe she was one of those butterflies this afternoon, returning to enjoy the late summer sun.

Yes a butterfly is how I shall remember her, beautiful, colourful and full of life.

“I dreamed I was a butterfly, flitting around in the sky; then I awoke. Now I wonder: Am I a man who dreamt of being a butterfly, or am I a butterfly dreaming that I am a man?” — Chuang Tzu quotes (China’s early interpreters of Taoism, 389-286 BC)

Blossom

A New Day

I awoke this morning to the frail voice of Harry Patch who until yesterday was the last surviving British soldier to have served in WW1, the last person alive who could tell you what it was like to be at a battle in which more than 70,000 British troops died,the third battle of Ypres (the battle of Passchendaele).

There remains just one British veteran Claude Choules, a seaman 108 years old and living in Australia.

My reasons for being drawn into thinking about this thin frail voice were various, but none more so than a reality check that was bought to me in March of this year, March 26th 2009 at 4.58pm the moment my mother shook off her mortal coils and left this world for good.

Harry Patch and my mother had little in common other than being "old".

Harry Patch had fought in a war before my mother was born, his voice was far more fail than hers, in fact one of the very last things she said in a bold and stroppy voice was "Oh shut up"!!

No, the thing they had in common is they are no longer here, and gone with them are the real accounts of life at the time they lived it, something I perhaps did not really get to understand until my mother was no longer there to ask.

Yes we can look it up in a book, we can ask someone who might know, we can watch a film to see them, hear their voices by the wonder of modern science, but what we can no longer do is ask them, get the live account from the person themselves.

It is said "That you never know what you have got until you have lost it" and this is so true.

How often do we get restless and irritable when an elderly person starts to say something and takes forever to do it. How often do we say to our children "Hurry up, get on with it, not now"

How much do we miss because we don't take the time or the trouble to listen, to look, to ask or understand.

My Mother

There was so much more to know,

I now know,

I know so little.

In my mothers home there were boxes and boxes of photographs many without names, of people I did not know, what story could they tell, and if they had told them would we have listened.

Our lives a full of high speed " important things to do" places to go and people to see, but do we really see them.

My mother was never very forthcoming with family history, I did from time to time try to prise more out of her, but it was never easy, but it was amazing how many things I knew about her that my sisters did not and how many things they knew I did not.

Harry Patch did not speak to anyone of his experiences in the trenches until he was 100 so horrific they were. When he did speak some listened but I am sure not enough.

Harry's voice this morning was enough to jog me into "blogging " again, its important that we look and listen, not just to the every day news, to the recent "pop song" or play on the radio, but listen to the little person who is pulling at your coat or jumper trying to tell you something that to them is "important" or listen to the elderly parent who just needs to speak, the more they say the more we will learn.

Heaven forbid we will ever have to hear the terrible story that Harry kept to himself for so long, I hope that lesson has be heard and learnt.

No its the smaller things that slip away with their human form, their soul, their memory and their voice. The things we take for granted when they are there.

Don't leave it until they are gone and if like me you didn't write down that amazing recipe that your mother used, you will find as I did yesterday that the only person who could give it to you again is no longer here.

The recipe below is one I did write down, my mother made it like no one else I know, I try and it is delicious and maybe one day I will be as good as she was.

The Very Bestest Cheese Straws in the World

My mother had been making these cheese straws for as long as I can remember,.

I made some for a buffet party once and realised that I just expected cheese straws to taste like this, however from the number of people who asked for the recipe and who have since made them and have been complimented they clearly don't all taste the same so here it is for those who

would like it.

2oz Plain Flour

2oz Butter

2oz Tasty grated cheese

1 Egg Yolk ( the whites can be saved and used for meringues)

2 teaspoonfuls of water.

Finely grated Parmesan cheese for rolling out on

Mix the butter and flour until crumbed, add the cheese and stir in.

Add the egg yolk and finally the water, mix gently into a ball.

Leave for about 20 mins to chill

Roll out on the Parmesan cheese and a small amount of flour.

Cut into strips.

Bake on a greased baking sheet in a medium/hot oven ( I can't tell you the heat as mine is Aga I use the bottom of the top to those of you who have one) ( will get back to you on the heat will ask Mother!!)

I am told that a hot oven between 180 and 200 hope that helps.

Leave to cool if you can!

This should make about 20 straws.

Increase the recipe for more and the raw pastry can be frozen in blocks for future use. this is a great recipe for using up the tatty pieces of cheese that lurk in the bottom of the cheese box.

Blossom

For My Mother and for Harry Patch and all those who's voice we will no longer hear.

Oman/ The Beauty Within.

The Middle East is somewhere until 10 years ago I knew little or nothing about, my father had spent time out there during the war and was less than polite about it and my husband was born in Libya.

I had watched the Gulf War on TV when I was in hospital in 1990 in fact it was the only thing on for the whole of the two weeks that I lay in bed with a DVT and my left leg in a full plaster.

So to me the Middle East was dust and bombs, tension and religion, tribes of men with little or no regard for women.

The thought that I would be sitting at a computer 18 years later trying desperately to find the words to describe the beauty of Oman and its people would be a million light years from my mind.
That however is what I will try to do.

I think to understand Oman and its people we have to know just a bit about their history, the land they live in and the speed at which their Sultan and the discovery of "Black Gold" has whizzed them into the 21st Century.


The very earliest reference to Oman is as early as 3000BC, when the Omani's who at that point were know Magan's traded in copper.The name Oman, is believed to have originate from the Arab tribes who migrated there from the Uman region of Yemen.
Many tribes settled in Oman making a living by fishing, herding and the breeding of stock It is possible for many of the present day Omani families to trace their ancestral routes to other parts of Arabia.

The Portuguese pillaged the villages and its people in the early 1500's to gain access to the very lucrative spice trade, they held fast for 150 years until 1650, when they were defeated bySultan bin Saif Al Ya’rubi.

Oman entered an era of prosperity at home and abroad, and many of the Sultanate’s historic buildings and forts date from this time. This all came to an end when civil war broke out between rival Omani tribes over the election of a new Imam. Persian forces seized the opportunity to invade and some coastal areas found themselves under foreign occupation once again.

This would be the last time that Oman would be invaded and by the 19th century it would be a sovereign power in its own right. As a country it would grow and prosper forging world wide links, and increasing its territories.This however came to an end in the early 20th century when Oman entered a period that would see it decline and once again become isolated from the outside world.

The 20th century saw rapid changes for the world but not for Oman, until 1970 the country was ruled by a very feudal system, it is the oldest independent State in the Arabian Gulf,and cut off from the modern world.
The search for oil began in the 1920s when a geological survey was conducted and that proved unsuccessful.The Second World War and other events interrupted exploration until 1962 when the first successful well was drilled, followed by others .
Oil production on commercial scale began in 1967.


Then in1970 when Sultan Qaboos came to power, Oman was almost as far removed from the modern, prosperous 21st century state we know today, as it is possible to get.

The people of Oman were poor and disadvantage, there was little or no infrastructure, school numbered very few only the wealthy had medical care. The wealthy Omani's left in their droves, to seek their fortunes abroad, Oman was bleeding from its heart the new Sultan with a vision that had until now not existed in Oman for several hundred years set about reversing this process encouraging his people to return home, throwing his power leadership and money into creating a strong nation. His people responded with enthusiasm and the Oman I was about to visit was born.

Blossom

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Memories/ Oman.... where the ancient world meets the 21st century

I have often heard it said "Life's adventures are 50 percent chance", I think it was that chance which took us to the wonderful world of Oman, where the ancient world meets the 21st century and together they walk side by side.


I have been to Dubai on several occasion and personally I cannot see the attraction, the last time I was there I felt that Sir Anthony Bamford had sent his rogue JCB's there (a bit like we sent our convicts to Australia) and they had all run wild and out of control building at high speed with no apparent thought for the history and culture that is so heavily felt in the Middle East.



I was quite excited when Emirates airways told my "lovely hubby" he must use up his air miles before his next birthday, but the excitement was short lived when I discovered that the miles would take us as far as Dubai or Oman.

Its odd how one clouded thing can give such a preconceived idea of another and that I am ashamed to say is the how I first thought of Muscat and Oman, tall buildings out of control JCB's and traffic jams... how wrong I was.

We very nearly ended up in Amman as the German girl who booked our tickets for us had difficulty understanding the lovely hubby and he in turned found her impossible to comprehend. Luckily the airport taxes for once in their life were our saving grace and the discussion as to why she thought they were one price and he thought they were another highlighted the mistake!

Unlike Dubai, the choice of hotels is limited, so after much research I narrowed it down to 3 that would or might suit our purpose.
More investigation and I disregarded the Chedi as I don't do minimalist and one report said a request in triplicate was required to get a plug for the bath as they are made of gold! how true it is I have no idea but its a good story.

The Al Bustan Palace, is very beautiful and highly regarded but as it has been under going a very high spec. facelife the advice was "no" not at the moment because it has been open and shut more often that a "truckers mouth when eating his triple burger and chips"

So it was down to one.. well three really as the Shangri laBarr Al Jissah boast three hotels on the same site, set beneath the mountains in its own bay catering for all needs it seemed like the perfect place.

My first choice was the Al Husan which is for adults only, and as the lovely hubby is not good with the noise that the under 8's make it seem like the right decision, until I read a review in the Telegraph raving about its wonderful attributes, and saying it was the hot spot for young wealthy Russian.
That did it for me, no way was I sharing a pool with Olga from Moscow in her size 00 1500$ bikini NO No No!! his nibs would have to put up with Miranda from Newcastle age 5 in her M and S knickers along with him in the pool.



As it turned out the children in the Al Waha were delightful, there were quite a few of them but rarely did we hear a grizzle or a tantrum and they gave a light relief to the "All Adult Point Scoring" that always seems to appear in any holiday hotel.






So it was by chance on a cold and miserable day in early November I found myself on a free business class flight to the Middle East, to a land that boast nearly 2000 km of coast line, with three sea's with magical names like the Gulf of Oman and the Arabian Sea, the interior is made up of nearly 82% desert, high mountain ranges and wadi's ( river beds).

I will in no way pretend this was a cultural tour, to broaden my mind and my knowledge... no it was more likely to broad my beam from too much food and the only reading I was going to do was a new novel I had bought. This was a holiday R and R to recharge batteries that were flatter than normal. I had resisted the hubby's mutterings of trips down wadi's and countless number of forts that can be found there. He most of all needed to do nothing and nothing was what he was going to do.

"You are going to be Mr Blobby the Beach Bed Boy!" and that's that I said
"If you don't slow down the children will not be waving a fond farewell to you when you set off to follow in your grandfathers footsteps across the barren wastes of a Antarctica in your retirement, they will be waving a final farewell through the crematorium velvet curtains whilst some tuneless music plays..

................. "so beach bed it is then"he replied!

We landed in the early hours of the morning, to be greeted by smiling people the the biggest and brightest eyes I have ever seen in any race of humans, I was in a very short time to become aware that all the things I dislike so much about Dubai were no existent here, and although my intentions were to do very little and to read only novels, this ancient world would soon be under my skin and I would want to know more about their ancient traditions, Simbad the sailor,and the Sultan of Oman who rules over this fast changing land, who is loved by all who live here.

It would be true to say that at the end of 10days we would have done an awful lot of sitting by the pool, swimming and eating, our batteries would be recharged, but it would have taken a stronger willed person than me not to have peeked outside and had a look at the mysterious world of Oman.

On our last night whilst sitting listening to the hypnotic music being played by two local musicians, and looking into an inking moon filled sky, I wondered how I would be able to put my experience into words for my cyber friends to read.

It would be impossible tell you what I had learnt about this ancient world until I had told you how I came to be here, my feelings before I came, and on my return.

So for them moment I will leave you with this and return at a later date to tell you why our minds, by a chance adventure would be charged with a desire to return and see more and find out more about these lovely people who embrace their heritage and at the same time take on board the challenges of an ever changing world.

Blossom

Memories/ Beaches, friends, sand and time out in Norfolk

As the credit crunch tightens its grip I have noticed the trend towards things that remind us of "The Good Old Days" or what we perceive to be the good old days, a leaning towards 1950's fashions, wholesome food, and the good old family seaside holidays.

I was fortunate enough a couple of weeks ago to be invited by my lovely friend Mags to spend a week with her in Norfolk at a small fisherman cottage in Wells-next-to-the -Sea.

I know little of the area but here I was to experience the uplifting feeling that "nostalgia" can give you, a lightening of the heart and mind and emptying of nervous energy that grips me in my daily life and an understanding as to why when the going gets rough, people look back and find the simple things they enjoyed.

There are places in the world that seem to go at a much slower pace than the rest of the world, chugging along in some respects but keeping abreast of the 21st century world on the whole, however they do life at their own pace.

This part of the Norfolk coast has that unique ability of staying still, but having said that its not dull and in need of modernizing its just managed to hold onto the nice things of the past.

The roads are quieter, the people walk slower, they stop and talk, muse about this and that and appear to be unhurried and contented.

Its always easy to say these things when one is on holiday, when you are not in a hurry yourself you notice more but I really don't think this was the case.
I have been to lots of quiet places around the world but the tension of everyday life can still be felt rippling under the surface.

Not so at Well-next-to-the-Sea ( which incidentally is not next to the sea, its next the the estuary but who's counting!), the town was busy when we arrived on Saturday afternoon, there was a buzzing holiday atmosphere, fishermen selling fresh fish, people enjoying ice cream and fish and chips on the quayside.

The tide was out and yachts laid helpless on the sand waiting patiently for the return of the sea, so they could once again bob up and down in their graceful effortless way.

We walked along the sea defense to the beach, and that is exactly what it was beach no sea to be seen, just miles and miles of wet sand.

The dogs loved every moment running in and out of shallow lakes of salt water left behind, the rows of beach huts painted in pastel seaside colours reminded me of the Marks and Spencer advert for their summer collection.
Twiggy and her fellow models rushing between the brightly paint wooden structure singing " I'm going to marry a Lighthouse Keeper" back to the 21st century's search for nostalgia.

We had the most glorious week walking along the Peddars Way from Holkham to Cley-next-to-the-Sea ( which is even further from the sea than Wells) and back again. Taking a boat to Blakney Point to see the seals, even Flora the Explorer enjoyed her trip, keeping an eagle eye on the ocean for pirates and such like.!!

Wet and tired dogs each evening steamed in front of a roaring fire whilst we ate fish and chips and watched TV or read endlessly those books we had been meaning to read.

Our days were filled with sunshine and friendship, wildlife and water, good food and good company who could want and ask for more in these dull and difficult times certainly not me.

I can fully understand why there is a fashion for "nostalgia" when life gets tough because the things that cost very little are the things that help us cope and make us feel much better.

Blossom