All That Jazz...

...for Knots in the String.

I took a little time to regird after the ballet concert.

At least that was the plan, but you know what life is like – curveballs and all that.

Whilst I was dancing on stage, my husband was on the coast with The Terrier, painting bedrooms, gardening, and walking with the dog.

Something odd happened on that first day.

The Terrier ran into things.

It culminated this week in the vet giving the Terrier a tentative diagnosis of SARDS in his right eye (Sudden Acquired Retinal Degeneration Syndrome). It fits with symptoms he displayed two weeks before, and so my little muse is apparently almost completely blind in one eye.

We’re having to adjust to seeing obstacles in his life which we never bothered with before and so I covered my right eye, got down on my knees and navigated the house to see things his way. A salient lesson. So it will be a learning curve. For instance, on rubbish bin night and despite being on a shortish lead, he ran into two bins. My fault because I should have been navigating much better. But we’ll get there…

One curveball down.

Then there was this:

Another skin cancer removed. Hopefully the scar will lie in one of the many furrows that are the ley-lines of my life. I always say that each cancer removed is a marker of a life well-lived by the sea and in the sun – way before sun protection became a requirement of healthy living. This is just another of so many, and whilst I now wear hats and sun visors, creams, long sleeved shirts on the beach, swimwear with short sleeves and closed backs, it’s all too little too late. So I really do have to say c’est la vie. If nothing else, I’ve discovered I like wearing hats. (Although I hate hat-hair!)

There were other balls that hurtled toward us this week for two members of our extended family – but we kicked those back. Bent it like Beckham. Even if I do say so.

My husband and I capped the week with a picnic day in the small rural town of Longford. We attended an Open Gardens festival where the properties were spectacularly curated, borders overflowing with spring and early summer blooms.

Fluffed with white doves and dovecotes, and with trills from canaries in bespoke aviaries.

There were busy bees in a garden hive (I soooo want one), music performances on elegant verandahs, stalls filled with propagated plants and home produce, bonhomie overflowing.

We walked between ten gardens of our choice, and with feet throbbing and aching legs, we finally collapsed onto a tartan rug at our car, sitting peacefully under 150 year old oak trees within the grounds of Christ Church.

Above us, the blue skies were scattered with puffball cloud and an occasional whiffle of a breeze blew down from the Western Tiers. On the hour, the church bell would ring. It was its own kind of heaven and if I closed my eyes, I could imagine Brother Bruno being called from the scriptorium at Sext. Seeing him with his tonsured hair awry, fingers stained with oakgall ink, his robes spattered with pigment, flying along to the chapel, late as always because he would become so lost in his work. A white cat would follow, to dash up a nearby elm and wait until prayers were done. Brother Bruno could then go to the refectory and salt away a little food for his feline companion.

My time:

Reading on kindle: Fiona Valpy’s novel The Storyteller of Casablanca, set largely in WWII. I like Valpy’s work. She creates cinematic settings alive with poignant stories. I’ve said before, there is a touch of Rosamunde Pilcher and Alexandra Raife in her writing.

In print, I’ve finished Catherine May’s Enchantment. It was a lesson in reaching for the small things. We get so bound up in the big picture, don’t we? I constantly refer back to what a psychologist once said to me: ‘Keep your goalposts close.’

Via audio, I finished the most excellent Blood on the Snow by Giles Kristian. 11/10, people, seek it out! The narrator, Philip Stevens, is perhaps top of the tree for me. His ability to designate character by a shift of tone, an accent, a pause – subtle and brilliant.

And because of that, when I finished the above, I bought Lancelot by Kristian and read by Stevens. I had already listened to Camelot which was another 11/10 experience. Kristian’s writing is as lyrical as an epic poem and yet it packs a lethal punch from a hard, closed fist.

I also enjoyed reading this. What a joy it would be if Shakespeare’s missing works were found.

And so predictable , this from the Big Publishing end of town with nothing on the future of indie publishing. Although I do think indie publishing needs a BIG pull-through. But then so does mainstream. Big time!

Disappointed though, in the Galah newsletter which is publicising a new podcast for 2024. They are aiming at the 40-somethings. Why, I ask? How age-ist! Believe it or not people over the age of 40-50 actually do have intellects, a reservoir of wisdom and experience and might I say could offer relate on how best to approach life and the future. Ho hum.

Watching:

We binged both series of Annika and I realised how much I like the 4^th Wall in TV and film because it draws the viewer in on such a personal level. I enjoyed it in Enola Holmes, and in Annika, the lead character’s references to camera, of scenes of classic literature that underline each of her cases just chimes with me.

All The Light We Cannot See. Poignant - we like it. If nothing else it is proving once again (how many more times do we need to be told?) that history repeats. That the same mistakes from WWII and countless wars before, are being made again and again. When will we ever learn?

As well, we’ve watched Joanna Lumley’s Spice Trail and Martin Clunes’ Island’s of the Pacific.

On Substack in what has been a very personal, watershed-week, I was forever grateful for 3 delightful posts.

Rebecca Holden’s letter to Terry Freedman

109. A letter to Terry ✒️ #25

where she talked a little of Jane Austen, and it was only natural that I respond in kind. It reminded me of my own off-the-wall Jane Austen experience, but that’s for another post.

Sabrina Simpson:

When home is a century older

where I could almost imagine Jane Austen’s friends walking out of garden gates with wicker baskets filled with little jars of jam and loaves of bread for villagers.

Elizabeth Beggins:

From the sound of things

Amongst other things I discovered that Elizabeth and I share love of a certain ring tone.

Total synchronicity because that’s my phone ringing!

Being harps, it brings me back to our churchyard picnic, Brother Bruno and heavenly things taking place within a village.

Villages and small towns have such a sense of community, don’t they? It’s the essence of what I found in those country gardens we were privileged to visit. Owners have deep and abiding friendships with their fellows – long table lunches to celebrate voluntary work, cups of tea and cakes just because, and gins when the sun starts to slide.

It smacks of all things good, all things enchanted, all things that create joy in this bad mad world.

As we wandered about the stunning grounds of Kilgour House in Longford, a jazz trio played on the verandah. I think if I hadn’t visited any other garden, I would have been happy to run to the car, grab the rug and picnic basket and set up under the gracious trees for the day. Gazing at the elegant house with its immaculate gardens and listening to the cool, cool music…

Thus, my choice of melody today is an homage to Kilgour House in all its glory. The clip is 3 hours long but just listen for a moment if you can.

It’s such lounge lizard music…