Thinking...

... for Knots in the String.

Thinking that I crave rich blue skies and sunshine.

Our skies are forever grey…

I search for how many words there might be for grey in the English language. Too many, methinks, and in any case, my favourites are things like dove grey, grisaille, canescent, ashen, cinerous, glaucescent, greige, hoary, rimed, silver. Right now, the sky is greige – with an ecru under-light as the sun (unseen as it hides deep in steel cloud) slides to the west.

I may be more fortunate than most as I’ve been otherwise engaged in the last five weeks and haven’t really noticed the disappointing abundance of grey skies. But now that I’m a touch freer than I have been, I make daily promises: ‘If there’s sun, I’ll sit/lie on the balcony/porch soaking up rays as if they’re the Fates’ gifts.’

Waste of time! I’ve been lucky maybe twice in five weeks. And as I write exactly that line and as if to prove me a liar, said sun pops out smugly to wish us ‘Good Evening’ as it sets! Bah humbug!

Neither husband nor self are particularly bright this week. We’ve caught our first ever dose of Covid (I apparently brought it home from the hospital). Fairly mild for me, but much worse for him. But we cowboyed up and drove to the coast for a day and a night. I haven’t got clearance for any longer.

Grey skies took on a different hue as we motored through the country.

Draped in mist, beauty everywhere from lacy spangled cobwebs to drops of diamond moisture on trees and farm fences. Trees standing eery and sentinel in wafting river fog. Once my husband had climbed into a warm bed and the house was like toast, I loaded my puffer jacket with glucose jellybeans for energy, and the Terrier and I wandered through the pines to end up on a storm-foreshortened beach.

I tried to smell the sea air, but Covid prevented me from savouring the fragrance, so I sucked it deep into my lungs regardless, dredging my memory for the sharp smell. I had to hasten as thunder and rain hovered on the edges of the day and somehow the Terrier and I made it back to the cottage before Cats and Dogs fell from the sky.

But then in that perverse thing that the weather does, the sun came out and the terrier and I beetled to another beach to watch it set.

I took some forequarter chops, cut up some frost-sweetened Woodsdale swedes, potatoes, onions and carrots, sprinkled everything liberally with white pepper, added water to cover in the pale blue cast iron casserole and let it simmer for the day. My mum called it Irish Stew and it was a comfort food to be had with slices of thick bread to mop up the juices, along with homemade tomato sauce. I also made a tart lemon jelly with strawberries and a thick, winter-sun yellow custard sprinkled with nutmeg. There are times when food must fit like an old wool sweater – warming you like a hug. Not that we can taste much of it at all but we can feel the hug and memory is everything.

Doing:

Walking the terrier who seems to have slowed in the last five weeks. Has he aged? Have I? He improved on the beach, his eyes sparkling, but constantly looking to me. For what? Reassurance, guidance? Or was he checking on me to see if I was okay?

We had an early morning walk before heading back to the city and he was pinging along nicely and even took himself for a coldwater swim. So I wonder when I’m back in top gear, will he speed up as well? I hope so. I’ve never had a Jack Russell (and we’ve had eight) who hasn’t live life to the max until the end.

*I’ve searched through my thread collection for delicate pink silk threads for a touching commission for @1000hearts.com.au   Small pink satin stitched flowers with lettuce green stamens on creamy white felt and with a pink loop.

*I’ve written a tiny bit, but Covid isn’t a muse. Even so, my imagination still works while I’m lying around and so Jock has a backstory with developments to come.

Watching:

Filling in time until the Tour de France when we become lost in the beauty of the French countryside. We binged Piste Noir, a French crime series. It was good until the last episode when they rushed with easy endings and answers. A shame as it was all French Polish till then. Even so, amazing winterscapes set in the powder snow of Morzine in the Haute Savoie.

Episodes of Father Brown that we haven’t seen, and rehashing Poirot which is never tiresome. Hercules is everything I’m not right now – well-groomed, not a hair out of place, tailored, timeless clothes and a decent manicure. Bien sûr … one step at a time, madame.

Listening to Giles Kristian’s Arthur. 11/10 without doubt.

Reading Substack columns which were food for my little grey cells.

Chicken Scratch writes beautifully on the pure people we all might be fortunate to meet. Tom Ryan Author ( also on Substack) does this beautifully as well. Both people worth subscribing to.

He's never really been small

And this, on where my thumb might land.

Staying grounded in my body

I try to think sharply, to engage my brain, and writing is perhaps the best medicine. Even sitting with Roget’s Thesaurus, reading about grey and other colours besides. Wondering why, in the middle of such intellectual pursuit, my mind should suddenly see scallops and chips with a splendid tartare sauce and a squeeze of fresh lemon from the garden. If I could taste the whole thing, it’d be marvellous!

And so in honour, here is the song for this week. Why this one? Well, Paolo Conte sings ‘chips, chips…’ as the chorus!