Felt All Over

When we were at the Museum of Country Life recently, the bit I liked best wasn't the Museum at all (fab and all as that was).
It was the Café.
No surprise there, cake-aholic that I am, but - although they had very delicious cakes - it wasn't even that.
It was the exhibition of felt pieces on display that grabbed me.
One of the waitresses said they'd been made by local school kids.
I wanted to take them all home - the felt, not the kids.

Some of the wonderful display of felt pieces

I love making felt. I think it should be obligatory for everyone at some stage, male or female.
So many people over the years have said to me: 'I'm not a creative kind of person'.
I find that very hard to believe. Everyone is creative. If they think they aren't, they just haven't plugged into the right socket yet. They probably haven't had the opportunity to be creative.
They need to go on a felting course, even if it's only for a single morning.

No one can fail to be creative with felt.
And who knows where one small session of 'making' might lead?
That would just be the start of it.

I think problems with creativity are largely about expectations.
Take art. For nine and a half out of every ten of us, there is such a gaping chasm between what we see in our heads - or even in front of our eyes - and what we manage to produce on paper/canvas or whatever, it's no surprise we feel as if FAILURE is stamped on our foreheads after every sorry attempt.
It's the same with so many creative disciplines.
The words you write don't express what you'd like to say.. The lump of clay won't centre on the wheel, no matter how often you try. The pink fluffy whatsit you're making doesn't look anything like the one in the magazine.
It's as if there's some vital link missing somewhere in the chain from brain to hand - the messages aren't getting through, or else they're being distorted en route. Your head wants to achieve but it ain't coming out through your fingers.

I guess it's probably age related as well. It's ok to splodge paint about when you're four, you're thrilled with anything at that stage, but splodges aren't terribly satisfying if you're 40 and you were hoping to run up a little Cezanne.

It isn't like that with felt.
Possibly because there aren't really any expectations with felt - or certainly  not in those vital, early stages.
You start with a bit of wool in your hands. You choose a colour you like, several colours that appeal to you.
You have soap and water, and someone shows you how to work them together, with a chik or a mat or something to provide a bit of friction.
You work away in the dark - you can't even see what you're doing.
But voilà - magic happens willy nilly.

When you unwrap your warm, soapy bundle, there it is - a unique fusion you have created without glue, or needle and thread, or any other invasive method of joining. The colours you have chosen have come together in a pattern that you may or may not have devised, to form an entirely new material that is robust yet fragile, tactile yet also a feast for the eyes, enduring yet delicate.
You cannot help but be thrilled - I promise you.

I'll promise you something else too.
You'll want more.

Gradually you become more adventurous.
You try bigger, more elaborate, more precise, more abstract, wilder, finer tuned - who knows, but whatever it is you want to try, more will be the operative word.
More and more and more.
It's fun, it's alive, it's creative, it's addictive.
It's failure-proof.
You cannot help but create felt, and you cannot help but create pattern.
It's just so satisfying.

There was also a fab collection of birds made from felt and scraps of other materials

If you don't believe me, get on-line and find a felting course near you, or ask around and when you've found one, don't hang about - try it.
You won't be disappointed.
And who knows where that portal will end up taking you?
And you'll never again think you're not creative, either.

Oh, and if you're anywhere near The Museum of Country Life in the next few weeks, pop into the Café and see this lovely exhibition while you can - I don't know how long it'll be there.

Time to get felt all over.

Flower Power

I took a day off a couple of weeks ago.
A real, proper, in-the-car-and-out-of-here day off.
Being something of a a rare event, I expect my demeanour was that of a kid going to the seaside.

Last year I heard about a 'Garden Festival' in Claregalway, and as my gorgeous young French friend, Chloe, was visiting, we decided to go and see what it was all about.
We had a fab day.

My gorgeous friend, Chloe

 
It wasn't quite what I'd expected - there weren't show gardens to look at, or anything like that, but we enjoyed the whole expedition thoroughly and came back with lots of delicious additions for the garden.
So this year I made sure to put in on my calendar, and took my friend, the New Yorker, with me.

The restored tower house in Claregalway

Claregalway is a couple of hours drive south, and not somewhere that I'd been to before last year. The festival is held in the field attached to the restored tower house, and although it is mostly about plants and gardeny stuff, there are other things to see and do, too.

In the courtyard beneath the tower they have a band - several bands in fact, over the course of the day, so there's all kinds of music as you mooch around the grounds.

You can sit and have a coffee and listen to the music.
And when you've got your strength back, you can head back into the mêlée.

Last year, there were people re-enacting battles, with someone telling you the interesting and gory bits while you watched.

The gory bits

There was a jester last year who had stepped straight out of the past to cause mischief and botheration. You could tell by the look on his face that he'd done it before - professionally. He was particularly keen on paddling people's backsides when they weren't looking. I could do with one of those sticks.

This year there were two live hobby-horses also causing mischief and botheration and neighing fit to bring the ISPCA out. There was also a poor little chicken called Free Range who laid an egg for me.

 She got very shy when I chatted to her.

Last year it was so hot that the seats in front of the bandstand were full most of the time, but eventually Chloe and I found a gap and collapsed for a breather while we enjoyed the band. We watched small children become entranced with the music, others be overtaken by its rhythm, and were thrilled when one couple got up and just danced. It was perfect.
Romance.

No one danced this year, but the New Yorker and I sat and ate some cheese and charcuterie and wondered if anyone queueing for the loo had noticed who was peering down at them from above.

I fell in love with a heron last July, but sadly he is now living beside another pond, not mine.
Seeing him now makes me wish all over again that he was in my potager.

But I did buy some ingenious little cane toppers which look a gas in the garden and make canes a joy rather than an eyesore. (No pun intended, but I have poked my eye with a cane before now, so..).

I hurried back to buy another quota this year, and was delighted to find the potter, Baurnafea Ceramics, there once again. Even more delighted when the lovely New Yorker bought me a present from his stand - how kind is that!

Presents!

Cane toppers and ceramic orbs for the flower bed - quite episcopalian

We had a delicious lunch, sat and listened to the band, paid many visits to the plant crèche and viewed all that was on offer inside as well as out.
It was a fabulous day, and by the time we left there was barely room in the car for us.

Definitely one for next summer's calendar.

Confessions of a Hopeless Addict

I have to tell you, dear Reader, that I am a woman of several vices, most of which I have kept hidden from this page.
I did plead guilty to one, some time ago, in Secret Vices,  but there is more.

I am an addict.
A plural addict - there are quite a few habits I just can't kick, but yesterday one of them rose up to confront me as I was preparing to entertain 30+ people to tea in the garden.

I am a mug-aholic, as those who know me well will testify. We have lots and lots.
If I ever buy a mug, the In-Charge says: 'Oh good, we needed one of those.'
My response at times like that is immediate and brisk. 'Be grateful it isn't shoes,' I always say.
But, like most men, he doesn't get the joy of small, pleasing things.
Mugs, after all, are not boys' toys.

It started long, long ago, so my collection has been building for years.
In fact I can fairly and squarely blame my mother. She gave me a set of four mugs as a present in the distant moons of the past.
That was all it took to get me hooked.

The RNLI's wonderful Spring, Summer, Autumn and Winter mugs

The other side of each mug is the same but different

You can see why. They are totally fab, but sadly the intervening years have taken their toll and they are all now ex-mugs, used for other things. I have tried to find replacements on eBay, but possibly in a somewhat desultory fashion, as my search yielded nothing. But even in their sad state, I still love everything about them.

Looking back, I expect the seed had already been sown, as by then I had acquired two mugs that I still have, although no longer use, as I wouldn't like them to get broken. They are both butterfly mugs, and they sit in the Butler's Pantry, in honoured retirement. (I'm still looking for the Butler, by the way. The whimsical term was wished upon my lovely old pantry by the In-Charge and #1 Son, way back when.)

My two original butterfly mugs

These days, I am very picky about my mugs. They are mostly - but not exclusively - bone china, and if I don't love them, they're gone. I know I'm a bit odd, but it never ceases to amaze me that people just open the cupboard, grab, pour and drink without even looking at the mug they're using! It takes me longer to choose my mug than it does to boil the kettle.
But mostly my pickyness is about seasonality.

Some of the Christmas seclection

Every now and again, I see someone drinking a cup of tea out of a Christmassy mug - in June.
How can they do such a thing?
Does the drink not congeal in their mouths, the milk not turn sour, the taste sicken?
It leaves me astounded.

The boy's Christmas mugs from long ago

My FAVOURITE Christmas mug, that Henri broke - also irreplaceable on eBay

WonderBrother has a mug with Garfield on it. Garfield. I ask you.
Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against ginger cats - think of Hobbes - but Garfield on a mug isn't even aesthetically pleasing.
Perhaps we are not, after all, blood-relations, my brother and I.

I am sure my mother's present was the beginning of my seasonality. In our house the mugs are changed with a regularity that leaves other household tasks dumb with outrage. We have spring, summer, autumn, Christmas and winter - naturally. And every now and again, a mug just appears for a month and then is gone again.

Some mugs are only out for a month

Yesterday, with rather a large party visiting the garden at tea time, the Butler's Pantry was forced to disgorge some receptacles that were not - strictly speaking - due for an airing. Mercifully, push didn't come to shove, as they say. I wasn't forced to use my February crocuses, or - heaven forbid - any autumn designs.

Autumn mugs

As it was, I was able to rummage out enough to seasonally 'mug' everyone. Any more people and I'd have had to say that, sadly, tea wasn't available.

Summer mugs

More summer mugs - well, a few spring ones too I suppose

Either that, or I could have called the non-players into use.
There are other mugs on the premises. Ones that are used for Bovril, or soup, ones that I don't mind the In-Charge using. (He is guilty of leaving mugs outdoors, in odd places. I find them, weeks later, filled with rain.) Also, it must be remembered that he drinks coffee morning, noon and night and coffee is very hard on mugs, so I tend to point him towards the beakers that will take the strain.

Mugs that can take the strain

Coffee stains china and gets into places that it won't come out of. Plus, quite apart from his other mug-unworthiness, the In-Charge has been guilty of breakages. He broke my favourite summer mug - the #1 Son mug - and committed the cardinal sin of not telling me, so I had to find out by spending a futile morning searching for the missing vessel - to no avail.
Luckily for our marriage, I was able to buy a replacement.
I hardly need add that his use of the replacement is verboten.

#1 Son mug on the left - it makes me think of him. The other one was a gift from him, so is also verboten

My mother can't have realised what she was starting, all those years ago.
I was brought up to love things, and look after them, but not to be acquisitive.
As with many aspects of every upbringing, that proved to be a miserable failure.
I adore things and am happy to acquire.
I love colour, craft, pattern, texture, textiles, art, pictures, images - the whole merry shebang.
I suppose to the wartime generation, acquiring things you didn't actually need was considered extravagant, but that was then. To me things are the produce of mankind, the wonders he dreams up in the fabulous tangle of his mind; the constant evoking of the wonders that surround him in nature.
I suppose art comes from the need to find within ourselves some meaningful way of either expressing or exorcising everything we experience in the world we are brought into, it is our constant struggle to turn it into something tangible and meaningful.

I create lots of things, but I don't create mugs, so I don't suppose my addiction will ever end.

Each one is beautiful, and someone's design, using shape, colour, pattern and form.
That is wonderful in itself.
So why not have your tea out of something uplifting? You never know, it might do you more good than the drink itself.
I know I will.

Favourite dog mugs

My special mug, decorated by #1 Son in the style of a fashion designer he likes, Paul Smith