Friday evening. I do love a Friday evening. Well, if I am honest, I love certain Friday evenings. The ones where I am sat in queues on the M25, M3 and A303 as we head West are not that thrilling; it is the thought of what lies ahead the following day that keeps me going. Waking up in that dinky little thatched cottage, Gertrude Jekyll roses blooming round the eyebrow window, the promise of a day vintage treasure seeking in Bridders. That's what it is.
Friday evenings like todays, I'm rather fond of: a lazy slide into the weekend, maybe Mr HenHouse will get home on time, gentle sunshine on the lawn outside, the birds singing in the trees and the promise of a glass of something chilled. Monty Don on BBC 2 and I'm happy.
It's been a busy old time of late. Splitting our time between life in the city and life in the country. One is filled with crafty times, lots of lovely fabric, rippling yarn and Liberty lawn on tiles or on patchwork bags. I'm glossing over all the mundane chores that tend to get in the way from time to time. The rooms are large, the ceilings high. The stairs with their 140 year old treads exposed while waiting new carpet a lot more vertiginous than their country counterparts which wind their way up, hidden behind a centuries old oak-planked door with its iron latch. One hundred and forty miles away, there are country pubs high on hills in country parks to be discovered, beautiful old china and textiles to be rescued and rooms with centuries old wooden beams and doorways of decidedly dinky proportions to navigate. Not forgetting lots and lots of delicious clean fresh air to breathe deeply in.
Life is not always that clear cut though, and I am very glad of it. There's a definite cross-over between the two rather different styles of our lives. Here in the city, I have surrounded myself with constant reminders of the country: my roses are blooming oh so early and I am happy to bring little bouquets indoors where I watch their petals open then fall. They might grace the table I set for a quaint afternoon tea with friends met through the marvellous world of t'internet. How very old meets modern. My city sitting room is home to two stunning wing chairs; bought at a West Country car boot sale for ten pounds and reupholstered by a clever lady in Dorset. From Somerset to Dorset to London, they have a tale to tell.
In my crafting, I am reminded of my Somerset cottage garden: in the vintage-inspired fabrics that make up my patchwork quilts strewn with daisies and roses; the Liberty Tana lawn tiles I make for my bathroom, a riot of 1930's flowers; and my beloved posies crafted from felt just like they did in the 1940s. Charlie Boy reclines on cushions made with fabric bursting with blooms, squirrelled away on foraging trips in the West. I think he's dreaming of all those green fields, of doormice and birds in the trees. I think I'll join him, along with my glass of something chilled.
Enjoy the weekend (as Monty says). Xxx
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