A Yeatsian Twist

BLOOM 3


I'm probably the only person around who hasn't got a picture of the eclipse.
I was in the woods with the Models at the time. It was mizzling and then it went dark - ish.
The dark didn't last as long as the mizzle actually.
Squinting up at the sky, I managed to blind myself with a fingernail, a crescent moon of white-hot sunlight.

Not that it shows in this photo.

Last time there was an eclipse, we were in the south of France and it was all much more dramatic.
The sky really did darken, birds rose screeching from the trees and the world seemed to go out of sync for several minutes, an untimely wind whipping out of nowhere to whirl briefly around the market square and cathedral tower in the town where we were shopping.

Today's event wasn't quite so cinematic, although the official pictures from elsewhere are rather amazing.
Watching them, a snatch of Yeats twisted in my head, describing the photos perfectly:
'The golden aura of the moon, the silver crescent of the sun...'

I daresay Yeats is groaning in his grave, but there you go.
As it happens, my son has the original, correct version of those lovely lines tattooed on his body.
I wonder if that would make yer one groan even more loudly, or would he be quite pleased?

Who Wants to be a Millinaire?

While I was at Claregalway Garden Festival with my friend, the New Yorker, we did - eventually - feel that we ought to see what was on offer inside the buildings around the old Tower House.
You can't just think about plants. Well, we can, but on this occasion, we didn't.
And if we hadn't gone in, we'd never have found the hat ladies.

I love hats. I always wore hats to weddings, when we were young and went to lots of weddings, and these days, I generally garden in a hat. (Not my wedding hats, obviously.)
And not these hats. They would have to be reserved strictly for garden visiting, or garden partying, not garden weeding.

They were a treat to behold.
And vastly elegant.

So beautiful

Every single hat had a sense of occasion about it, the sort of hats that just make you feel absolutely at your best, the moment you put it on.
I instantly wanted a glass of champagne in one hand, and someone thrilling to talk to.
Luckily, I had the New Yorker with me.
She is very thrilling.

Hats with a sense of occasion

We stopped and chatted to the milliners for quite a while.
What an amazing, creative, talented and sparky duo! And what craftsmanship.

Beautiful, and beautifully made

You know the old saying: 'If you want to get ahead, get a hat!' Well they've certainly got the hats, so watch out Philip Treacy, is all I can say. (And interestingly, he comes from Co Galway as well.)
These ladies are going places, so if you want to be able to say: 'I wore one of their hats long before the Duchess of Cambridge discovered them...' then get on the blower.

Confectionery for the head

I don't see how you could possibly regret it.
Weddings - Garden Parties - Leopardstown - the Curragh - Your kid's graduation - knock 'em dead with one of these smackers while you can still afford them!

Affordable glamour

The New Yorker bought two. One is for a wedding later in the summer, but knowing her, she'll probably wear them out and about in the Big Apple - quite possibly with an old pair of jeans.
I mean, look how good they are on top or plaits, for goodness sake!
She'll look fantastic.
She'll probably bump into Sarah Jessica Parker as she strolls nonchalantly through Greenwich Village.
Parker will drool and catch her arm.
'Where did you get that hat?' she'll hiss.
'My hat?' the New Yorker will say vaguely. 'Which one am I wearing today?'

She'll look fantastic

She'll innocently put her hand up to her head.

'Oh this one! Of course! I have this little Irish designer - no, not Philip...he's so passé this year, don't you think?'
I can picture the whole scene now.

 

So folks, you know what they say about she who snoozes...

Crevation Design, the hat ladies call themselves.

I have to say, the name doesn't grab me. It doesn't have the necessary sense of occasion. And it seems a waste not to have a bit of pazzazz.

Now, Majella Dalton - that's a name with pazzazz. That's a name to conjure with.

Watch out for it in Hello, ladies!

OK?

Majella Dalton

Millinery Designer

+353(0)86 834 7049

crevationdesign@gmail.com

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

My Boy Cecil

It all started when my friend DodoWoman rang about two weeks ago.
'Can I put you in charge of the snake?' she asked. She was up to her eyebrows in feathers, beads and over-sized potted palms at the time, preparing for the Great Twenties Speakeasy.
'Of course,' I said, kissing goodbye to the intensive week of Reclaiming My Veg Garden, which had been on the cards.

I haven't had much experience with snakes, but on the few occasions when I have been up close and personal with them, I was quite surprised to find that I wasn't panic-makingly frightened.

Up close and personal

We even had one visit the Market recently. Her name was Cinnamon and no one knew she was present - curled up inside her owner's jacket - until suddenly there she was, in the arms of his small daughter instead.

Cinnamon visited the Market

But I digress. Cecil was to be the new snake in my life. Cecil the Snake.
That had a nice ring to it.
I thought about him quite hard for a day or two, and put in several requests for vital equipment, but then I put it all on the 'long finger' as we say in Ireland. Which turned out to be a mistake, as come Thursday evening I was frantically trying to make up for lost time and get organised for imminent Cecil-dom.

On Saturday morning, I loaded the car with everything I could think of that any large snake worth its salt could possibly need, and set off for Beltra Country Market. There was barely room in the car for me. But lots of eager people were waiting when I got there (most of them under 10), but all potential Cecil-fans, and we set about the serious business of preparing for the advent of this slithery creature.

By the time I got home, I was shattered, but we had created all the accessories a snake could desire.
Now we just had to wait, as patiently as possible. One more vital process had to be undergone.

But it wasn't until the following Thursday that another Beltra friend - the Upcycler Extraordinaire - and I were able to get together to complete the gear that Cecil would need. Assisted by her lovely new dog Feena, we launched ourselves into the final stage of reptile-preparation. We sewed, snipped, shaped and stuffed, pausing only to eat a delicious salad at lunchtime.  It was a tiring day, but we both felt quite excited. Cecil was finally about to put in an appearance.

He turned out to be a good deal larger than I'd really anticipated - more anaconda than adder - and although he was still rather sleepy, and not yet totally 'with it' when I finally got him home, I had some difficulty in transferring him from the car into the kitchen on my own. The In-Charge had not yet returned from college, and I couldn't risk involving the dogs in case Cecil was hungry after his long day.

The kitchen table proved to be the only surface big enough for his huge, sinuous body. But that was fine, as it meant that as he was up high, so I could keep an eye on the cats down below. I wasn't sure whether he'd go for the cats, but he didn't show any interest in them at all, even though Hobbes, our big ginger boy, was foolishly curious about him.

He lay there for days, happily curled up enjoying the warmth of the stove while I tended to his scales and his eyes. His scales had been in a sorry state when I first got him home, half of them missing altogether, and he looked blind, I don't think he could see at all. But it didn't take too long to rectify those problems, and the following day the TalentuiGoddess came by and dropped off some lovely shells that she thought he might like.

I got rather fond of Cecil. He had a sort of bashful air about him, more like a dog who's hoping to be noticed than a snake, I thought. But it was not to be - our house wasn't his Forever Home.
On Monday the order came from on high, and Cecil moved on to greater things.
The In-Charge and I carefully loaded him into the car - we couldn't risk damaging any of his new scales - and I drove him into Sligo. The TalentuiGoddess has organised that Cecil will live in the windows of the Sligo Tourist Office for the whole of March, by way of saying 'Happy St Patrick's Day'.
I suppose St Patrick must have missed Cecil when he got rid of all the other snakes in Ireland.
I'm quite glad really, as he's very beautiful, and extremely placid.

But I do worry about him.
Will they look after him in the Tourist Office? Will they talk to him?
Will they remember to feed him? He was looking nice and plump when we delivered him, but that won't last for a month.
He's not hard to please, he eats almost anything.
Speaking of which, where is Hobbes? I haven't seen him for days...

Val Robus's wonderful picture of Cecil in pride of place

The children and Nancy making Cecil's scales

They made hundreds!

Cecil - you're surely not thinking of eating the Upcycler Extraordinaire!

Cecil turned out to be a bashful boy. He liked hiding under his tail

More anaconda than adder - he took up the whole sofa, but we didn't mind

Hooked

The CrochetQueen, having taught me the basics of her wondrous craft last week, afterwards sent me a link on facebook.
And then, at the market yesterday, I had coffee with a GrandeDame of the art, and we sat happily stitching together while she further instructed me. She too sent me away with a link in my ear.
I'm not at all sure that either of them have done me a favour.

For one thing, I have burnt my knitting needles.
Knitting?
Who wants to knit when there is crochet out there waiting to be knotted?

You see what I mean?

I am not an owl by nature, but long after the In-Charge had carried his bad back off to bed last night, I sat up perusing the crochet-idyll of cyberspace. I stayed up until the candles guttered in their sockets and my screen flickered with the effort of staying awake.

But oh joy, oh rapture, oh itchy fingers!
Here are some of the treasures I found.
I hope no one minds me sharing them with you. Who knows, it might inspire you all to go out there and buy a hook!

Totally thrilling

Much too good to eat

    

Right up my street

If I had these, I'd leave all my clothes in a heap on the floor so I could see the hangers

How pretty is that?

BUNTING! I knew bunting was just WAITING to be made

Bored with making cupcakes? Iam. Maybe I'll give these a try instead. The more you eat, the thinner you get

A touch of Morocco

And some of you may remember this beauty on my blog last year.
I wanted it very badly indeed.
(I still do.)

Well, for all you mad cyclists out there - how about this instead?

Or compromise. Have a rickshaw (probably safer on city streets than a bicycle, and there's room for the shopping too).

Small wonder I lay awake in the small hours wondering if I can spare the time to sleep at all?



Do you think, if I'd learned to crochet at a young age, my life might have taken a different course?

Well, be that as it may, I am well and truly hooked now, at any rate.

The photos on this post have come from:
For the Love of Crochet
Comunidade De Arte E Artesanato
Colorful Arts And Crafts
 

Or if you prefer pure art, have a look at Prudence Mapstone's website

Oh, Glory Be!

As you may be aware, I have recently developed a bit of a passion for guerilla knitting.
First there was the telegraph pole warmer.
Then the wondrous pig drew itself to my attention.
And latterly there were the cool dudes and their bike.

Now look what I've found.
I have purloined this photo from Facebook (all credit to whoever took the picture, wherever they may be!)

I want this very, very badly.

I want this very, very badly!

The silver beast is finally back in its stable - better late than never - and I can just picture myself gazing out onto this joyous sight every morning. It would, indeed, cause me to leap, singing, from my couch.

The question is, does the silver beast really deserve such a glorious present?
The silver beast has, after all, behaved very badly and taken to demanding presents on a regular basis.
First it was a new radiator.
Then, nothing would do, but that we should buy it a new oil pump. It didn't like the first oil pump, and threw a hissy fit at the second one we procured. Out of the goodness of its heart, it finally settled for the third.
Now it has decided to move into cerebral territory and complained that its brain was aching. It wanted a new EDU.
We have given it an EDU.

Enough, I hear you cry.
How right you are.

But...
Perhaps there is a bargain to be struck.

Maybe I should wave this delicious carrot in front of the silver beast's nose. Toss a copy of the picture nonchalantly on the front seat and walk away. Tantalize the creature, bewitch it.
Then leave it to burn with longing, to ache with envy..
To lie awake at night, feeling the hollow craving for a red ribbon around its tow hitch.

In a day or two, I could go out with a tape measure and start sizing it up, then shrug, toss the tape aside and flounce away. That would teach it to have tantrums.

Eventually, when it has slumped on its wheels in misery, we could have a serious heart to heart.
What exactly would I get in return for such a Jacob's Coat?

The beast would have to promise to be very, very good indeed.

I'm sure it will.
I scent victory on this one.
How could it not promise the earth, the moon and the spark plugs for such a possession?

Perhaps I will start knitting - in secret -

What do you advise?