Scilly narcissi

Alex and I have formed numerous traditions since relocating to England. We toast the shift from autumn to winter with the first mulled wine of the season each Guy Fawkes night. Every December we ice-skate under the night sky in Bath. On New Years Eve we dine at a seafood restaurant and see a film. In mid June, just before midsummer, we visit Badminton House for their charity garden open day.

Perhaps they are less traditions and more patterns of behaviour; things we enjoy doing and so make an effort to repeat each year. Ever since we met, Alex has given me an angel decoration for the tree on Christmas morning. And ever since we moved to England, each winter he has sent me a shipment of narcissi from the Isles of Scilly. This year, two big boxes of erlicheer that filled the cottage with beautiful spring-is-coming scent arrived on a very spring-like Thursday afternoon.

They have now faded, but I took photos of them dotted around the house.
Of course I did.

All gathered together, before I started putting 

them in every room of the house.

My bedside table.

 His bedside table.

The dressing room.

In the bathroom.

The living room (there was also a vase on the dining table 

and another on the sideboard).

Excessive? Perhaps. Much appreciated? Absolutely.

The Isles of Scilly have a long history of shipping the first daffodils and narcissi of the season to the British mainland. I wrote a little about it HERE.

Kate  x

There's pleasure in both

Yesterday, I arrived home after a fortnight away to the first crocus tips emerging from the ground, a garden full of birdsong & sunshine, and the comfort of my own bed. My dear friend had turned on the heating in our cottage a day before I arrived. She had also very kindly put groceries in the fridge and daffodils on the windowsill.

Yesterday, was a day of hot buttered toast, sunlight streaming through the house, and a desperately needed afternoon nap (that dangerously turned into a whole evening and into the night nap thanks to jet-lag).

Today, the wind is gusty and the rain is driven. I've done numerous loads of post-holiday washing and hauled up to the attic the general flotsam and jetsam that accompanies the return from long-haul travel. 

Today, I have run out of almond milk. But there is beauty and simple pleasure in both kinds of days. Sunshine or not. The tapping of rain or the trill of birds. Black tea or milky tea.

It's just so nice to be home.

Kate  x

The good life

In a previous post I shared THIS wonderful short piece by Bill Nighy about all the things that bring him delight.  I loved it so much that I wrote my own, prompted by a new pair of cotton pyjamas. Sexy they are not. But if you think after seeing woodland animal print pj's that I was not going to purchase them, then you're probably unaware of how obsessed I was with The Animals of Farthing Wood when I was eight. Fox & Vixen 4 ever!

Romantic country hotels. Wellies by the door. Curling up in bed with a hot water bottle on a rainy Sunday afternoon. Getting engrossed in a book. The Shipping Forecast. New pyjamas. The unfurling of spring. The bite of autumn. Perfect ranunculus. Mottled hydrangeas. Repeat-flowering roses. Choosing next years tulip bulbs. Food plucked from the hedgerows. Washing that dries on the line within the day. Watching the ocean in rough winter weather. Lighthouses. Bell towers. Pure wool jumpers and cashmere cardigans. The smell of toast. The tang of blackcurrant jam. Crisps. Rosemary. Walking country estates in autumn mist. Hand written letters. Taking the perfect photograph. Watching the countryside rush by from the window-seat of a high speed train. Switching on lamps at dusk in the wintertime. Waking to an unexpected snowfall. Finding the perfect gift for a loved one. Outdoor eateries lit by fairy lights. Alabaster lamps. Antique mirrors. Linen sheets. The sound of trees. Swallows doing aerobatics against candy-pink sunsets. Collective nouns. Cakes that turn out of the tin easily. Coming back indoors all weather-beaten from a walk. The cup of tea he brings me in bed as he leaves for work.


Kate  x

The roses are here

I have been watching hopefully,

 and counting buds eagerly,

 and excitedly anticipating

 the roses blooming in my garden this year.

And now they are here!

These are the first snippings for this season. It is a DA rose named The Ancient Mariner. 

And it smells as exquisite as it looks.

Kate  x

The month of May

In the British countryside, the month of May is best summed up as abundant.

The verges and laneways are cloaked with dandelions that reach for the sky and lacy cow parsley that grows at a rate of knots. The hedgerows are filled with blossom, bluebells and a dozen more things I still can't name. Woodland undergrowth is a sea of wild garlic flowers and wild anemones. Agricultural crops are inching up, higher and higher each day. The perimeters of the fields are dotted with clouds of hawthorn in mid-blossom. 

After months of dormancy, everything unfurls, climbs and blooms all at once. 

After a long, bleak winter, you easily forget that England could be this green and fertile! 

The sun has drenched the West Country all month long, sending crops and weeds alike hurtling ever skyward. The daylight and the birds softly begin around 4am, our thin linen drapes no match for their early morning enthusiasm. I really don't mind though. I relish the languid nature of this time of the year as British summertime stretches the days to their pinnacle; 17+ hours long. Going for post-supper walks in the warmth of the sinking sun is such a treat. 

I regularly pull on my wellies and squelch up my favourite local bridleway before wandering along a long forgotten cobbled Roman road running alongside lush, sheep dotted farmland. The Fosseway is close by and Roman history is well documented in this rural pocket at the junction of Wiltshire, South Gloucestershire and North Somerset. My route takes me across a Roman footbridge, though I usually eschew it for the opportunity to wade through the crystal clear water of the brook, giving my wellington boots a much-needed wash in the process. I walk home through the village, peering over garden gates to see what will be in flower next.

As May draws to a close, I see roses blooming around cottage windows, foxgloves outstripping dandelions and hot-pink valerian sprouting from the crevices in stone walls. 

Which means only one thing, 

summer is nigh.

Kate  x

April showers

If April showers do indeed bring May flowers, the west country should resemble a flower farm come next month. So far April has been a soggy wash out, which feels doubly unfair seeing as March was punctuated by unseasonably cold temperatures and multiple snowfalls.

Despite a slow start, my garden is finally blooming with life. The daffodils and narcissus are opening their cheery smiling faces. An overgrown forsythia has burst with bright sunshine yellow blossom. The flowering currant is heavy with flowers as well as raindrops. And my tulips are not far behind.

But the mud!!! The mud is never ending. Oh, what i'd give for a lovely boot room to contain wet coats and muddy wellies in...

Even a porch would suffice. Unfortunately for my floors, we step straight from outdoors into the kitchen in our home. With no where dry or covered to remove shoes and coats other than the kitchen, it has been quite a long winter trying to keep the floors clean. I shouldn't moan. I wouldn't swap countryside living for (almost) anything. I adore being able to pull on wellies and seconds later be stomping through the woodland or splashing up the lane to get eggs at the farm gate. 

Mud is simply a close companion to country life. 

I know this very well. 

Now. 

But the first time after we moved here and my new friend asked if I wanted to go for a walk, I stupidly pulled on my active wear and laced up my trainers. I really did think she would be similarly attired. Moments before she arrived at my front door I came to my senses and changed into jeans & wellies. Context is everything. I wasn't going for walks around the leafy suburban streets of the lower north shore in Sydney anymore. No! The paths I now walked were made entirely of mud. A couple of minutes later she knocked on my front door wearing Le Cheameau's and I knew I'd come very close to looking like a clueless townie playing at country pursuits.

Jeans + wool jumper + wellies. 

That's my uniform now. Such is living in the English countryside.

Kate  x

Spring?

Currently, the village looks like this. 

We're expecting a top day-time temperature of -2 today. And snow. Lots of snow. It seems strange that as the daffodils emerge with their bright yellow trumpet faces, snow will sweep in, bringing a Siberian wind chill with it. 

Much of the UK is being battered by blizzards and freezing temperatures. Poor Scotland has been placed on a 'red weather alert'. Here in the Cotswolds the snow flurries have been coming and going for much of the week, never lasting long, but sending fat flakes swirling through the village just to remind us that it is in fact still winter for a couple of weeks yet.

To counter the frigid temperatures outside, indoors vases are filled with any and all spring flowers I can get my hands on. Now that the snowdrops in the garden have finished flowering and flopped over there is a lull before the next spring bulbs will bloom. Cheap and cheerful supermarket flowers fill the temporary void quite nicely.

How severe this cold snap will be, and how long it will last is anyones guess. I hope it's not too long though, I'm starting to need to ration the firewood.

Stay warm,

Kate  x

Muddy wellies and lent lilies

My wellies might be the muddiest they've been since first treading on English soil, 

but yesterday I spotted daffodils in the dappled light of School Lane.

The European wild daffodil is also called the lent lily as it blooms concurrently with the lenten season. The smiling yellow faces of daffodils are such a welcome sight each year. Here in our village they cling to the damp banks of the brook, tall and proud, gazing at their reflection in the swirling water below them. I remember when we first moved here I really appreciated the great number of daffodils planted throughout this corner of Wiltshire. In just about every village we drove through, dense clumps of daffodils greeted us along the roadsides. To have the bright canary yellow colour spreading their cheer after a winter devoid of colour was such a joy to see. 

Spring is starting to creep in, tinging the air with warmth and sunshine, unhurried, but growing in strength with each passing week. Even the chickens agree.

More and more often my wanders up the lane to the farm gate are rewarded with fresh speckled eggs. Never uniform, but always eliciting a smile from me.

Kate  x

Winter snowdrops

After two weeks away from England, 

we've swapped the actual snowflakes of Japan 

for the first snowdrops of the season in our garden.

It is so good to be home.

Of course I had to snip some to bring indoors. 

I admire snowdrops so much. 

Always the first sign of the coming spring 

(even when it is still quite far off), 

they never fail to push up through frosty days and nights. 

So delicate, yet how tough they are to endure gloomy January and frozen February.

Kate  x

Last years snowdrops at Cerney House Gardens.

Bare rose bushes

Summer roses are a very distant memory now. My three rose bushes are in a deep slumber. They were only planted in the spring, so hopefully an autumn and a winter to settle their roots will result in a more prolific flowering period next year.

Kate  x 

Living in an English idyll

Logically, now is about the time I should be sitting down to compose my thoughts on a year living in England. Realistically, I find it hard to reflect on an entire year and translate those feelings into a single blog entry. For the first six months we lived a little like nomads, in three different temporary places, our shipment from Australia frustratingly still in boxes in an Oxford storage shed. But these past six months of being settled in our own space, has allowed for a proper sense of living in England. I feel better able to articulate the last few months, rather than a whole year.

You can recap on the anticipation of moving, here if you like.

As I type, over six months have passed since we moved into this Cotswold cottage next to a brook in what is often described as "the prettiest village in England". We are feeling more and more at home; our neighbours recognise us and chat to us if we pass them on a walk in the woodland. We've volunteered for the village charity car boot sale. And we are very excited to attend the next few Christmas social events organised by the social committee. I am particularly looking forward to Carols by candlelight in the village church. 

As village residents we've seen three seasons, and all the delights that they each have to offer. We moved in at the very beginning of spring, when the daffodils were blooming en masse on roadsides and along the brook, seemingly welcoming us with their endlessly cheery disposition. Primrose carpeted the churchyard, vines unfurled. Wild ramson shoots scented the air, lambs bleated in nearby fields, ducklings appeared on the brook and bluebells in the woodland. I clipped whatever was in the garden to bring spring indoors whenever I could.

Summer swept in with warm breezes that swayed the branches in the towering trees around the cottage, windows were flung open to let in the grassy scent of summer and the rustling noise of the tree canopy. Farm traffic thundered through the village multiple times a day, a frenetic energy took hold of this beautiful agricultural region as farmers used every second of the long days to harvest & bale and plough & sow. Sunlight stretched long into the night and the birds anticipated dawn sometimes as early as 4am.

Autumn has gripped now. Misty mornings are frequent, smoking chimneys the tell-tale sign that fireplaces are being put back into use. And those lush green trees I gazed up at all summer long? Some days I silently curse them as another burst of wind leaves the doorstep inches deep in leaf litter. Again.

A couple of days ago I lit our first fire since moving in. 

Our basket of woollen hats and gloves is back next to the front door for easy reach as we walk outside into crisp morning air. And there is a lovely comfort that comes with walking through the house at dusk drawing the curtains and switching on lamps.

We're still buying pieces for the house to completely make it a home, but I think i'll start sharing pockets of the house as we find items and style rooms. I had intended to photograph and share more of the interior of the cottage- an 18th Century building is interesting after all. In truth, it's been a slower process than I anticipated to find furniture we truly love. But with a few recent, much dreamed of finds, I hope to get some photographs taken before the autumn sunshine is dimmed by winter fog and it becomes too dark to take pictures indoors.


Kate  x

As summer winds down

Having just about finished my first summer in England I think I am well placed to say the season was a blink-and-you'll-miss-it affair here. As the leaves turn to gold at an alarming rate, I can't help but think of all the quintessential summer activities we didn't manage this year. No trip to paddle the frigid water at the seaside, no late night dinners al fresco under fairy-light lit trees, no croquet on spongey green lawn, no village cricket spectating. I think I only had one glass of Pimms. Here I am, perusing the spring bulb catalogue, all the while thinking where on earth did summer go?

As proof, and a reminder that it did happen, if only for what felt like a few weeks, here are some summer photographs that perhaps didn't make it to the blog or INSTAGRAM at the time.

A stop by Kelmscott Manor on a weekend away for a friend's wedding was the perfect way to embrace the approaching summer.

Though still technically spring, the signs of summer were abundant. The air was heavy and damp the morning we stopped by, we could practically taste summer on the grassy scented breeze.

We visited Bibury too, ice creams in hand, we walked along the River Coln soaking in the early summer.

Lacock village was dripping in roses in June. 

I was particularly envious of the delphiniums on show in the walled garden at Lacock Abbey. I had only a single larkspur shoot up in the garden, with only four or five flower heads. Still, better than nothing.

The Abbey looks great in any season, but the climbing roses really put on a show in early summer. Right now the creepers are turning crimson as the autumn chill sets in, but in June it was all about the roses.

The long garden beds at Dyrham Park were filled to the brim with summer perennials in mid-June. The bumble bees were working hard to make the most of the short pollen season.

It takes quite a warm day before i'll consider plunging into water, but when we walked around Badminton House for their summer open garden day I experienced pool envy like I never have before. Yes, it looks like a well maintained water feature, but it is in fact the family pool, overlooked by the orangery. I'm not remotely envious of big houses and vast estates, but if a pool as charming as this one was part of the deal, then I guess I wouldn't say no.

The conservatory at the rear of the house was quite pretty too. I have never really liked geraniums, but these soft pink ones climbing up the lattice made for a very pretty and feminine display.

As did the rose gardens, in full flush, under a bright summer sun.

And that bright summer sun was positively ablaze on the evening of the summer solstice. The temperature topped 30 or 31 degrees, so I slipped into a linen dress to wander the village taking photos to mark midsummer. I was glad I went out when I saw these spectacular roses basking in the golden light from the evening sun. Such a perfect capture of summer abundance. I'd love an outbuilding that looked like that each summer.

Yet more roses, this time at Snowshill Manor in early July.

We visited Snowshill when the lavender was in bloom, walking amongst the rows and rows of purple at the Cotswold Lavender farm. 

Bold summer colours were the theme of July. Gem coloured hydrangeas were everywhere. These are a small section from the V&A Museum courtyard. They truly were this vivid and psychedelic, and en masse they were super impressive.

I snipped lots of white buddleia from our garden, bringing that strong honey scent indoors to enjoy as often as I could. It doesn't hold up for long in a vase, but the smell it puts out is just so amazing it's worth cutting as much as you can.

Over the summer I met up with an instagram-turned-real-life friend for the first time. Since then we've met up a few times. I am so fortunate to have met her- a fellow Aussie who lives on a stunning 18th Century farm with her husband and two gorgeous tractor-mad boys in a neighbouring village to ours. I took some photos for her to use on her business website, and she sent me home with these beautiful cornflowers from her garden and a whole load of homegrown vegetables. It was the perfect exchange in my eyes!

August was a wash out. I snapped a photo of these distinctly summery blooms in Bath at the very end of July. In retrospect, from this point on, we had more than our fair share of soggy days and less than summer like temperatures. I thought for a day or two we would get a resurgence of summer, but autumn is really starting to bite now. I tried to hold off on putting the heating back on as long as possible. I just wasn't ready to return to that enveloping heat and stuffiness just yet, it was such a relief when we turned the heat off for good sometime in May (or maybe even early June). But as the autumn sets in and the chill of the early morning becomes undeniable, the heating comes on for 90 minutes first thing in the morning to make getting out of bed bearable. I still open windows as much as possible on a warm and dry day, and when i'm sitting at home studying i'll grab a hot water bottle to keep the cold away, loathe to give the heating a boost. Part of me is tempted to admit defeat, order firewood, and pull all my winter knitwear out. But the other part of me feels deeply unsatisfied by the inadequate summer warmth.

Still, that firewood will need ordering sooner rather than later, and those spring bulbs need to get in the ground this month. We're hurtling towards Samhain, Guy Fawkes night, mulled drinks, frost encrusted everything and twinkly lights. 

Hello autumn, I know you won't disappoint! And right on cue, it has just started teeming rain. Again.

Kate  x