The year is growing old and I feel a little sad, but this year I have Hygge

This morning I was wakened by the sound of lots of geese flying over our house, a sure sign that autumn has arrived. I have known it was coming for weeks. I have felt it in the air, I have been able to smell it and I have seen it in the subtle changes in the leaves.

When I was young this was my favourite season. I loved the colours, I loved the feel of it as the cold air wrapped its arms around you and hugged you, I loved the smell of bonfires, but as I have grown older I find I like it less. Spring is my new favourite season, filled with promise and new life. To me autumn now makes the year feel like a friend in the twilight of their years who you know is approaching the end (Winter and another year gone). I think the problem is that I suffer with S.A.D. and as I have become older I have begun to associate Autumn with the approach of feeling bad.

This year I am even more determined to do battle with this condition. I always start to feel a little down as September approaches. I think that stems from when I was a teenager and the approach heralded the end of the wonderful summer holidays and the return to school. Now when the children go back to school I always get the urge to buy stationery and sweaters. This retail therapy cheers me for a while but then comes October with the dark nights and frequently gloomy days and I'm sad all over again.

This year I have decided to do battle with my S.A.D. and I am starting early. Today I got out my S.A.D. lamp. It's only August but it's gloomy and with a cold I can't quite beat I'm already a little out of sorts. I am also making plans to make this Autumn and winter a much happier time than usual. I may not beat it totally but I may make some difference. I have been researching Hygge - Danish secrets to happy living and am about to adopt Hygge myself.

So, what are my plans?

1   Fairy lights and candles around the house to give it a magical feel
2   Delighting in walks - I used to love walking the dog, there's no reason I can't walk on my own
3   Steaming mugs of tea, hot chocolate, chai lattes and a good book
4   Crunching dried leaves
5   Baking parkin, apple crumbles, cinnamon crunches
6   Knitting - I knitted through last winter and it helped
7   Warm bubble baths
8   Snuggly rugs for watching TV under
9   Baking bread
10 Reading a favourite book from childhood
11 Gathering leaves and twigs to make a nature collage
12 Cosying up with a favourite childhood film
13 Dressing the bed with new, brushed cotton linen
14 Getting comfy by the window and watching the birds outside
15 Taking an evening away from the TV and playing board games
16 Trying out a farmshop for breakfast or lunch
17 Wearing a warm jumper and leggings & treating myself to 20 minutes meditation
18 Lighting a scented candle
19 Doing some colouring in
20 Inviting family round for a roast dinner
21 Starting a gratitude journal in a beautiful, new notebook
22 Snuggling up in woolies - socks, jumpers, hats, scarfs

As you can see I have plenty planned. I shall let you know how it goes. I'm really hoping that Hygge, vitamin D and my S.A.D lamp will get me through this winter mostly smiling. So if you see me wandering about in the park picking up twigs or you come visit and the house looks like Christmas came early be indulgent and remember Hygge.

The Reader Who Was Stolen Away (A Fable)

Polly was born in 2004, on a sunny spring day. She was named Polly after her Mother's favourite story character Pollyanna who thought for herself and was always positive and cheerful.

Polly was born into a world of books. People of my generation see that as a world of magic - and for many years Polly's world was magical. First there were board books that you could touch and taste, then came simple story books with happy, fun characters and ones that told you that your parents would always love you no matter what. Every night Polly's parents would read to her, initially brightly coloured picture books and then gradually books with more and more words in them. Polly explored the world, she went on adventures, she laughed, cried and learned with friends she had made in books.

When Polly was 4 she started school. Her favourite time was when the teacher would gather her class together on the carpet and read to them. Polly would come home and tell her parents all that had happened in that day's lovely book. As she grew up she found there were more and more books and more and more adventures and lives she could explore.

Then, one day, something dreadful happened. A man with a heart of stone took over Polly's future. His world was cold and hard. He lived by figures and acquisitions. He didn't understand how books could be read just for pleasure. He thought that they should be broken up and separated into individual sentences and analysed. It was important for Polly to learn fronted adverbials and causal connectives. She must learn to recite poems by heart, not just enjoy the beauty of them. Polly still loved to be read to but gradually she stopped listening in school as the beautiful stories were dissected before her. She would look out of the window at the clouds and imagine she could travel to a world beyond them, filled with magical people and sweet shops. Polly began to get into trouble for not paying attention and then she thought that she was a bad girl for not concentrating.

She asked her parents to let her read for herself now that she was bigger. After all they just read stories and thought they were fun. Polly knew now that stories were to be broken down and analysed. That was how you really read. And all the books her parents bought her were wrong. She knew what books she was to read - she had a set list.

Gradually Polly came to realise that reading wasn't for her. She was 'no good' at it and neither were her friends. She became very good at repetition and regurgitating information but the adventurer with the imagination that would have changed the world was lost, crushed beneath a world of rules and regulations. Her mother watched that adventurer die and, as Polly went out into the world of work just the same as everyone else, her individuality stolen, she cried.

A Day With Emily Brontë

Last weekend I made one of my frequent pilgrimages to the home of my beloved Brontë sisters. As this year is the 200th anniversary of Emily's birth I decided that I would go in search of Emily Brontë. At first I was a little disappointed because I felt the exhibition hadn't focused on her enough but then when I came home and looked over my photographs Emily was there throughout in the quiet, retiring way she always was. This blog looks at some of those photographs and goes in search of Emily Brontë.

I started the search in the front garden of the Brontë Parsonage, walking where Emily often walked, chatting to her sisters. A little time should always be spent here before walking up the steps and into their home. I always feel a tingle as I enter the Parsonage as though I expect one of the sisters to appear and talk to me. Oh how wonderful that would be, to travel in time and find out what they were really like. I have so many questions.

Once inside you turn right and enter Rev Brontë's study. Here one of the most prominent things is

Emily's piano. Emily was by far and away the most musically talented of the sisters and played this piano often. I would love to hear how it sounded. It was played at the Parsonage in 2010 following some restoration work. I'm rather sad I missed it.

From Rev. Brontë's study you cross to the sitting room opposite. Here you find the table at which

Emily wrote Wuthering Heights and around which the sisters would pace nightly. reading their stories to each other.

To the right of the table is the disputed sofa. Disputed in that some people claim that this is the sofa upon which Emily breathed her last breath. Whether this is true or not I cannot say but I always feel sad when I look at it. Emily had refused to see a doctor for her consumption until the day she died, regarding them all as 'quacks' She died about two o'clock in the afternoon and being a person who rose daily despite her illness she could well have been on the sofa, as Mary Robinson said. The discrepancy comes because Charlotte refers to Keeper lying at the side of his mistress's deathbed. I choose to accept the sofa could have been made up as a day bed. You may accept whatever version you choose. We will never know.

The next room you enter is the kitchen. In here Emily would help the servants peel potatoes and

bake bread. (this photo was taken last September during Branwell's bicentenary year) I love the fact that Emily was so down to earth and grounded to the extent that, when a well loved servant grew older and sicker, she stepped in to ease her burden.

For this year Emily's Christening mug has been moved to the kitchen display cabinet. I love this mug, I love its simplicity. It reflects Emily's personality so well.

From the kitchen you move opposite to Rev Nicholl's study. For this, Emily's bicentenary year a very special manuscript is on display here. For some time people have been taking turns to write a line of a Wuthering Heights to complete a copy of the novel. I am a little sad that my visits have never coincided with the hour when this was taking place.

From Arthur Bell Nicholl's study you come out and climb the stairs. Over the staircase is a copy of a

portrait by Branwell Brontë of his three sisters, sadly with himself painted out. I always feel it is the spirits of the sisters watching over their old home. I also feel that their expression disapproves of the strangers walking through - yet I still go.

The first room upstairs where I feel a connection with Emily Brontë is the children's playroom, where they made up their stories and wrote their mini books as children.

The room is somewhat smaller than it was when the Brontë children played there as the right hand wall has been moved inwards by later residents, still this was where Emily played and the imagination that produced her wonderful novel was fed.

Passing through a recreation of Branwell Brontë's studio you reach a room filled with treasures. In display cases are such things as a sampler completed by Emily in March 1829;

Emily's mahogany artist box;

Then your heart breaks as you see one of the mourning cards sent by Charlotte following Emily's death at such a very young age by today's standards

 This year as you descend the stairs to the special exhibition area there are many more memories of Emily, both possessions and artwork

This is a sketch of a mullioned window, the earliest known sketch by Emily then aged 10, 19th January 1829

Then there is a tin box used by Emily to hide her diary papers. Viewing this made me think of the scene in To Walk Invisible where Emily comes downstairs so angry that someone has tampered with her things.

Next comes a diary paper of Emily's mixing fact and fiction, writing about the coronation of Queen Victoria and a similar event in Gondal

In the following cabinet is a toy lion played with by Emily and her brother and sisters as children

This is a wonderful sketch of a fir tree by Emily, probably drawn from nature circa 1842

Here are the three sisters' author signatures, this I found really exciting - this was the beginning of the publication of those wonderful novels.

In the next cabinet, wonderfully preserved are a pair of stockings, hair tongs and comb used by Emily Brontë. 

In the final cabinet is an unfinished sketch of St Simeon Stylites by Emily Brontë, 4th March 1833.

So as you see I spent a day with far more memories of Emily Brontë than I could have imagined and, looking back over that Saturday, I feel closer to her than ever.

This time I wanted to remember Emily as she was, hardworking, artistic and strong so I omitted a trip to St Michael and All Angels but next time, as is usual, I shall go to pay my respects. I may even take her some heather.

Book Review - Little Women

                                                    LITTLE WOMEN
                                                 By Louisa May Alcott

This was a delightful book from start to finish. The fact that I thought so and commented on what a happy book it was surprised my daughter who had other memories of reading it and there being some moments where she expected me to cry. I began to wonder if we had read two different books - I did some research and found that we had and we hadn't. The version that I read was a copy of the original book, first published in 1868 which was intended to be a Happy Ever after stand alone novel. As the book did so well Alcott's publisher pestered her for a sequel - in 1869 that sequel, called Good Wives, was published. Over here the two books continued as separate editions whilst in America they were combined under the one title of Little Women. My daughter read the combined version, hence our different experiences.

Little Women is set during the American Civil War and focuses on the lives of the March sisters. Their father is away serving as a pastor in the war and they and their mother struggle a little to make ends meet. They do, however, have plenty of love and positive attitudes and their adventures are a joy to read. The lives of the girls are explored through a series of events and celebrations and are compared with the lonely Laurie who lives next door with his wealthy grandfather and how a friendship is built between the two families.

The characters are a delight - shy Beth, tomboy Jo, beautiful Meg and little Amy all grow and learn in this story. Even when they go wrong they are brought back, forgiven and learn from their experiences. As I said before I found it to be a delightful book filled with happiness and fun. Now I am undecided about reading Good Wives. I loved this one but apparently the sequel will make me cry and a little frustrated.

So should you read it?
9/10 - an absolute joy (but if you read the combined version instead, don't blame me if it isn't as happy as you expected)

The Scottish Play

Last night I went to see a live screening of Macbeth from the RSC. I had been looking forward to it for weeks. It is one of my favourite plays, it had two super actors in the lead roles. I just couldn't wait.

When the production actually came I was sadly disappointed. I have read social media reviews and many people were, some leaving the screening in the interval - but some absolutely loved it, which made me think why there would be such differing views. For me Christopher Eccleston played angry Christopher Eccleston - but does that just mean that I know the actor too well and cannot disassociate him from other roles? He was angry throughout and I could feel no sympathy whatsoever for the character. This I found hard because a small part of me always feels a little sorry for Macbeth and the path he took. Niamh Cusack for me was far too emotional and overblown throughout. The madness scene was very good but, in my opinion, she played the emotion too strong from the beginning. For me Lady Macbeth is one of the strongest characters who eventually descends into madness when that strength fails her. I didn't see the strength in this play. One of the main parts of Macbeth for me is the love shared between the two main characters - this did not come across in this production. The devastation felt by Macbeth at his wife's death wasn't there, there was still just a lot of anger. I also struggled with the witches being played by small children with dolls. I didn't feel any of the malevolence I usually associate with the characters. I did love the Porter's role. He was hilarious. MacDuff and Banquo were finely played. The countdown clock that only made sense to me at the end was an inspired idea.

So what was so wrong for me, when obviously there are people who have enjoyed it? I have thought about that all morning. I have come to the conclusion that is is because I know the play too well. I studied it for O level and then I studied it again for A level, that was when I went down to Stratford to see it for the first time - a wonderful production, but then it was my first one. I have seen it many times since then. My favourite being Kenneth Branagh in the Manchester production a few years ago. For my daughter it is the David Morrissey version at the Liverpool Everyman, which I think was her first Macbeth. This is where my problem lies - I have read, studied and seen it so many times that my view of the play and the characters is entrenched. I go to productions with preconceptions and that was my problem last night. I knew what I expected and that wasn't it. Every director wants to put their own stamp on a play and different interpretations are good. We cannot endlessly repeat the same performances.

Last night's play was not for me. I felt the same with the last Midsummer Night's Dream I saw though. Maybe it's time I stopped going to see my favourite plays and started going to plays I know less well. I absolutely loved the NT Othello - that was a play I have only read once. Perhaps that is the answer - new plays which I can approach without preconceptions.

Book Review - Fingers in the Sparkle Jar

                                                      FINGERS IN THE SPARKLE JAR
                                                                        A Memoir
                                                                  by Chris Packham

This was an interesting book to read. It is filled with personal reminiscences of a childhood spent with nature and books. The author's love for wildlife shines through. It is an honest memoir that doesn't gloss over the upsetting side of nature or things you do as an interested child that you may frown upon as an adult.

The book also deals with how the author struggled to fit in as a child (he was diagnosed with Asperger's syndrome as an adult) and eventually retreated into his own world. A fine world of nature. I found myself frequently angry with people who won't accept someone who doesn't fit into a box they regard as 'normal'.

I struggled a little with the way the memoir was set out - a tale from 1978 may be followed by one from 1974, then one from 1968 and one from 2004. This I feel says more about me than the book. I like things organised and chronological. That is just one of my foibles. The thing is the book is a memoir. If I was sitting telling a friend about my childhood I would probably tell it in the same way a story from when I was 9, then when I was 7, then I'd remember a tale from my teens etc.

In this book are many childhood tales of collecting, watching, caring for and exploring to find out more. Not all pleasant tales. The love and encouragement of his parents shines throughout.

As well as tales of nature Chris also talks about his battle with depression through memoirs of meetings with a therapist. This is a totally open and honest memoir and I can understand why it was loved so much by Winterwatch viewers.

So should you read it?

8/10 An interesting and thought provoking book. Even if you're not a great reader, this is set out in a series of short reminiscences which makes it ideal to dip into in your lunch breaks. I'm sure that you'll be glad you did.

Stationery

You all know how much I love books but another of my favourite things is stationery. I have a wonderful collection of it, some of which is in the photograph above. Whenever my children need something for school or university, before they get to "Mum have you got....?", they know that I will have it in a box or a drawer somewhere.

Next to book shops my favourite place to visit is a stationers. I can feel the excitement build as I walk in. I have never lost it from childhood. In my teens I used to love shopping in Blacklers Bargain Basement where you could buy everything seperately. I would have multicoloured paper and envelopes that didn't match, scissors that cut in different patterns, stampers,staplers, holepunches and I would rush home to write letters and use them all.

My favourite time at school was the first day of a new term when I arrived with my bag filled with new pens, pencils, rulers, erasers etc. I loved the feel and smell of the new books. I especially liked the fact that they were perfect. I had a whole new start without any crossings out, ink blots or work marked wrong and they were going to stay that way all year, Of course they never did but I still had the same hopes the first day of the next new school year.

That September excitement still stays with me now. The beginning of autumn always makes me want to go out and buy new stationery. So I rush out to Paperchase, W H Smith and that lovely art shop by the Blue Coat Chambers and I stock up. I don't actually know what I am stocking up for but I stock up anyway.

My house is filled with notebooks with records and lists that I've made, my cupboards are filled with lists - jobs for the day, week, month - feel good activities for each month- weight loss targets - menus for the week, all multicoloured and ticked off with highlighters. Don't laugh, it makes me feel content.

I still have a collection of fountain pens. Nothing writes as well as a fountain pen. I love my fountain pens. I think it stems back to handwriting lessons at school where you were not allowed to progress from pencil to fountain pen until your handwriting was up to scratch. I progressed to fountain pen, it was a big achievement and so I still want to write with a fountain pen. I still think the move to biros at the local comprehensive school was a bad move. My presentation was never as good.

You've probably gathered that I am a total Luddite. I have a selection of writing paper, stickers and pencils for writing proper letters. I got out of the habit for a while with the advent of email but I was never excited to receive an email from anyone. I have a friend who sends me proper letters and, as they come through my letter box, for my excitement she may as well have sent me the crown jewels (which incidentally I wouldn't be excited about at all). This year I put 'write a real letter' on my monthly feel good activities list. I have a whole host of new stationery - pens, pencils and stickers to do this with and I am loving writing proper letters again.

This year when we go on our summer holidays, besides my books, my stationery is going with me. I shall write letters, draw sketches of places we visit and colour in my lovely colouring books. It may not be cool but it's me. My Mum always told me that everyone is different and that's what makes the world such an interesting place. As I have gotten older I have realised she was right and these days I'm just me and I accept other people for being them, even if they don't like stationery.

Book Review 'A Brief History of Time' by Stephen Hawking

                                               A BRIEF HISTORY OF TIME

                                            From The Big Bang to Black Holes

                                                   by Stephen W. Hawking

This is a book I have picked up many times and never started because I thought Mr Hawking was far too clever for me. I finally picked it up a few weeks ago and actually read it.

I was very pleasantly surprised. Stephen Hawking writes with humour and  clear, detailed explanations. He puts things in a way that are understandable and as simple as physics can be. I found myself reading it and saying 'Ah, that makes sense now' or 'I never knew that, but it's so interesting'

There are clear diagrams to explain theories so people like me can follow the ideas. I make no claim to be able to explain more than a third of it now. It made sense as I read it but I haven't retained all the information. I was poor at science at school and am only just beginning to pick up more science books, mainly to keep up with my physics obsessed son. I intend to reread this book next year, a more updated version next time - this was a first reprint and some ideas, I believe, have been updated since.

I am far more aware of how the galaxy has expanded, how what happened before the Big Bang is not relevant to our understanding of the universe, how black holes are created and I know to be be sure to never travel close to one and be spaghettified! The Unified Theory  I actually thought had been found, though I didn't really know what it was prior to reading this book. There were many terms I had heard but hadn't much idea about. I found out a lot as I read this book and was delighted to find easier explanations of things that have always bamboozled me. There is only one equation in the whole book - which for me was great  as I struggle with them - something else I'm working on. In the introduction Mr Hawking actually states that someone told him that each equation included in the book would halve his sales. They obviously knew people like me.

This book has renewed my interest in physics and made me ready to revisit Carl Sagan's Cosmos too. And to start on more Feynman.

So - should you read it?

10/10 - a superb book with clear, detailed explanations of the cosmos, written with humour and intelligence

Book Review - 'On Chesil Beach'

                                                         ON CHESIL BEACH
                                                             by Ian McEwan

I had heard many good things about Ian McEwan but, until this week, had never read any of his books. My husband and daughter had both read this one and told me it was excellent so it has been on my radar for a while. A few weeks ago I saw a trailer for the film and being a firm believer in 'Never judge a book by its movie' decided it was high time I read it.

On Chesil Beach is a superbly written tale analysing the relationship between two innocents, Edward and Florence. It analyses their romance throughout their courtship to present day, told in flashback and current situations. There is one detailed sex scene in the book but it is totally relevant to the plot.

Ian McEwan gets under the skin of his characters and doesn't hide their flaws, from us or themselves. There are some very endearing scenes in this book and you certainly feel for the protagonists. The novel is quite short and you won't want to put it down. I will definitely be going to see the film.

So, should you read it?
8/10 - a good read, with interesting characters, tugs at your heartstrings at times.

Book Review - The Swiss Family Robinson

                                             THE SWISS FAMILY ROBINSON
                                                         by Johann R Wyss

This book was my Mother's favourite book and the copy in the photograph is her copy. She told me how she would read it over and over. Looking back I don't actually remember her reading it, I saw her read many books but not this one, yet, whenever I asked what her favourite book was, this was always her choice. This fact never occurred to me until I began to read it for myself recently.

When I first began the book I was a little disappointed. I think this was because I was reading it with a cynical adult's eye. 'Oh for goodness sake how many different animals are there on this island?', 'I don't believe they could find all that' were frequent complaints coming from me as I read successive chapters.

Seven chapters in I was really beginning to wonder how this could have been my mother's favourite book because I was struggling. Then I began to think about it and I realised that when Mum used to talk about reading it over and over again she often referred to the winter nights of her childhood. Then I saw my problem. I was reading it from the wrong perspective. Remembering sharing books with my children as they grew up I began to read it from a child's point of view. Now I saw the short chapters as a boon, each succeeding chapter as a new adventure, wondering what would happen to the family next. I employed what my English teacher termed 'The willing suspension of disbelief'.

So what happened with this new approach? I began to fall in love with the book. I loved the language (I always do with classics), I loved the adventure and I loved the characters. When I reached the end of the book I was sad to let it go. It had become a friend.

So should you read it?

I give it 8/10 and would say it is a fine read so long as you are willing to suspend your disbelief
and just take part in a jolly good adventure.

Snow

'I can never remember whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nights when I was six.' 

So wrote Dylan Thomas in one of my favourite little prose poetry books. I read that book every Christmas and it always brings back memories of childhood - which is quite bizarre because I didn't grow up in Wales and it hardly ever snowed when I was young. Like Mr Thomas though I have vivid recollections of snow in my childhood it's just that I struggle to remember how old I was or, indeed, how long it snowed for. So what do I remember?

I can recall sitting on our living room floor playing with my toys. The fire was blazing and the TV was on. My Mum went to look out of the window. There were six of us living at home then so somebody was probably late home. She came away from the window with a look of excitement on her face and took me by the hand and led me to the front door. As she opened it I saw outside an absolute wonderland. Large flakes gentle as angel wings were falling from the sky and were beginning to form a soft carpet on the ground. It was dark and yet the snowfall gave everywhere such a lustre that it brightened the whole lane. Mum picked some up and placed it in my hand. I can still remember the cold feeling as it slowly melted. Mum was never one for the cold and she brought me in soon after that but by then she had given me a magical gift, she had shown me my first snowfall.

I remember opening the door in daylight and the snow being so high that we had to dig our way out. Mum told me that that never happened, that we never had so much snow, ever. I suppose I must have built into my memory something I read in one of my books, or maybe I dreamed it. It is so vivid though.

Being outside building a snowman was wonderful too, but I was quite a wimp and came inside rather quickly because my hands were beginning to sting. I remember taking off my gloves and being amazed at how red my hands were. Mum told me to sit by the fire to get warm and my Granddad told me that I mustn't warm my hands by the fire or I would get chilblains. I had no idea what chilblains were but the stern look on my Granddad's face told me that I did not want them.

That's the other thing that remains in my memory of winters in my childhood - our roaring coal fire. I never remember our house being cold. I have memories of running home from school to a warm kitchen and sitting before the blazing fire. Mum or granddad would toast bread or teacakes on the toasting fork, then melt butter and I'd sit snuggled by the fire to eat them and drink my cocoa. As I grew older I was allowed to make my own toast there. If you have never tasted toast cooked on an open fire then you have never lived.

I remember only a few more snowy winter days as I grew up and none were quite as magical as that very first time. However, I still get a tingle of excitement the minute that I see the first few flakes start to fall. I can remember when both of our children saw snow for the very first time. For our eldest it was on a visit to Malvern to see her grandparents, for our youngest it was home here - and he still talks about it.

Don't ever grow too old to enjoy snow. Snow is for snowball fights, for making snowmen and snow angels. It's to be watched melting in the palm of your hand and for lightening the whole garden through your window. 

A number of Christmases ago it snowed heavily the day the children finished school for Christmas. We went out as soon as we saw it and began to have a family snowball fight, our lovely neighbours down the road came to join us. I have no idea who won that fight but I remember a large snowball in my hood dripping down my neck - I suspect my children were the culprits. About a week later my elderly neighbour asked if I enjoyed the snow. She said that her daughter was visiting and they heard the commotion. Apparently she didn't even go to the window but told her daughter 'Oh that'll be Janet' To this day I'm not sure whether to be embarrassed that any commotion would be assumed to be me or pleased that she thinks that if someone was having fun then I would be involved.

What I do know though is that snow is bright, glowing and magical. it should be enjoyed and its beauty appreciated so that one day, if you are a little to frail to enjoy it, you will have memories that make you smile.