Toussaint

Tomorrow, October 31st, is Halloween. Thursday 1st November is the day when the French traditionally visit the graves of their loved ones, placing flowers on them. This is known as Toussaint, or All Saints Day.

The most popular flowers are Chrysanthemums, very much associated with death in France. These plants are grown by the thousand for this day, and at any garden centre you will see hundreds of pots of enormous plants, all colours, beautifully shaped, and some even grown in an arrangement of different and rather lurid colours, usually bright yellow teamed with purple. The cost of these is high. 35 - 45 euros is normal for a large pot.

I find it a little sad that all these flowers will be bought and just left to die...but it is their tradition. Thursday will be a holiday here too, when families get together to talk about the departed members.

It is only in the last few years that the American version of Halloween has crept in here, and I think it came about the same time as MacDonalds, when children were given rather horrid little Halloween toys. The French aren't really sure what is being 'celebrated', but spend a lot of money on costumes for the children, witches, ghosts and so on. We have the occasional timid knock at the door , an apologetic mum with a child, saying she hopes they arent bothering us! A far cry from the sometimes vicious Trick or Treat. We keep a few bags of goodies to give them, but I'm sure they are wondering what it's all about.

I have 'borrowed' the lovely photo from Rhian, another local blogger, as I hadnt time to take one myself.

Here's one I made earlier

Sadly most of my quilts have been made for people, family, grandchildren.... So I dont have them anymore. I have never

got round to making one just for me.

This cushion was made for a friend's 70th birthday, to go with her green and yellow bedroom. The design is called Dresden Plate, which is self explanatory I think. It is quilted with a half fan design on the corners and two rows of stitching around the 'plate'.

I love the way all quilt blocks have names. There is often a historical meaning to them. One is called Sherman's March, another Hole in the Barn door. Yet another is Ohio Star. so very many have connections with the slave trades, with the early American battle history. My on -going project...and how long has it been on going one might ask.....?? ..is to finish a Schoolhouse wallhanging, made up of little houses in a very traditional design. It is done in shades of blue, my colour! One day I may even finish it.

Patchwork time.

Well, once again it is Patchwork time. A friend and I run a small group teaching patchwork and quilting. There are only 6 ladies, but that's nice as we have time to talk to everyone.

It reminds me of the original quilters groups, the brave women who accompnied their men, with their families, on the long treks to America and Canada.

Can you imagine the hardship that those first Mayflower passengers endured as they came to form a new nation? The first settlers lived in one or two rooms in primitive conditions, bug infested and smoky homes with one fire place for warmth. Women played a huge part in the domestic lives of these families, growing food, sewing spinning and weaving, making household items such as candles, and of course, rearing children.

Fabrics were scarce. All they had was what they haad brought with them. Mens shirts were cut up to make a warm quilt for the children to sleep under. Get -togethers such as barn raisings were a time when the women would meet and sew, would exchange fabrics and patterns, would socialise. Quilting became part of a social life.The quilting bee was a time when the women were free to just enjoy time together, whilst still creating something of use.

I have a passion for fabric, and have carted boxes of the stuff from house to house. The memories evoked by one piece of fabric can be so intense, and I cant easily part with my collection!

Our little group are so excited when they learn a new technique, when a quilt is almost finished, when a block turns out perfect. It is wonderful to pass these ancient skills on. It is even said that the coat of many colours worn by Joseph was perhaps a patchwork garment!

PS; Can you see why i want to make a quilt based on Villandry?

Nearly Christmas?

I know it's nearly Christmas when I see the gigantic boxes of chocolates arrive in the supermarkets. And there they were yesterday. I suppose it's not bad, considering England has been selling Christmas since August, but I could do with another few weeks without the commercial hype.
It is a much lower key approach here, as the main celebration is at New Year, but I have noticed that over the last few years things have ratcheted up a gear or two. You can now buy Christmas cards, wrapping paper and stick on tags in the Presse shops. So far, no Christmas crackers in our area, tho maybe Un Peu has seen them?
The Garden shops are the most Christmassy, and will soon be setting out their selections of every possible sort of decoration, streamers, beautiful glass balls, rather horrid plastic cribs, singing Father Christmases, et al.
Our first Christmas here was in 1995, when we were amazed to see......nothing. A few days before Christmas one shop put some gold paper in the window, but that was all. Nowadays, the towns do decorate, trees tied with big glitterpaper bows line the streets in town, and the very favourite thing appears on houses. That is----- the blow -up Father Christmas, usually perched on a ladder and attached somehow to the roof or the wall of many houses. Round about February they are still there, somewhat deflated and looking very sorry. Some houses have adopted the Canadian form of decoration, strings of lights all over the roof, the walls, gardens lit up with brightly coloured flashing lights, Santas, reindeer.....
We spent a Christmas in a little town in Austria one year, where there were no decorations. On Christmas Eve we walked to midnight mass at the local church, and gasped in wonder to see every grave lit by a little red candle, fir branches draped around the graves, and the path lit up with tiny lights to show us the way in. As we came out, there were trumpet blasts from the tower , echoing in the cold stillness of the night. Wonderful.

Support

Support, what is it? A prop? A shoulder? Elastic stockings?
No idea why I should have been thinking so much about the meaning of support lately. On this site there is a huge level of help, listening ear, advice, propping up. Yet, we are, most of us, virtual strangers. Does that matter? Dont think so. I have a friend in Australia, with whom I have been corresponding for 20 years. We've never met, though we share a love of needlework, and talk by phone, send each other fabrics, and get on very well.
She was the one person who wrote all the deeply supportive words when my mother died. So many people had written, rung, but her words meant more to me than any.
And now, she needs support. Her husband has cancer.
All of a sudden there are at least 4 people I know, to whom I can be a 'prop'. Two with husbands with cancer. One with a marriage breakdown. One recently widowed.
I can be the listener, the receiver of anguished howls, calmer of sobs. I never offer advice, it's not what I believe I should do. Support is often nothing more than listening. Sometimes seeing the slightly funny side of a problem, sometimes just remembering together the lovely times that will never be again.
But it is interesting that it seems to be a see saw. The supporter needs be able to give. The supported to receive. And it seems to come turn by turn, so that we are free to help another and they to help us , at just the right time.

Homework, a week away.

It is such a joy when you find a perfect B/B. I spend hours gazing at websites, re reading French guide books, looking at Gites de France books, and still have to take a chance.

Well, this one, on our week away in the Loire Valley, was as perfect as one can get. It is called Domaine du Heron.(www.domaineheron.com)

The house is in a tiny village on the River Vienne, which joins with the Loire near Chinon. You can see the river in the photo, and one of our mornings was spent walking along the bank into Chinon, 5 mins by car, but 40 mins by walk. There are otters, herons and kingfishers here, and each morning I hung out of my bedroom window to watch the fishermen in their flat bottomed punts, sitting quiet and still on the river, waiting.

The house itself was built in 1840 and has been in the same family ownership ever since. They are vignerons, and we spent a happy morning with Jean Louis as he took us to see the late vendange at his cousin's vineyard. It was, of course obligatory to buy a case or two!

Our hostess could not do enough for us, and was one of the most charming ladies I have met. We booked originally for 3 nights , and stayed for 7, spoilt rotten with delicious meals, aperitifs in the garden, all kinds of advice about the area, and just that indefinable welcome that makes you feel you are staying with friends.

Unlike the Japanese visitors, of which there were many, we didnt feel we had to see every single chateau. Just one or two, the most lovely of which was Villandry, a house that I could imagine living in. Colours are gentle, rose painted porcelain adorns the walls, and oh the gardens! Laid out in a deliberate patchwork style they are a mass of colour, of interest, and of amazement especially in the vegetable area, where ornamental cabbages hustle up against cardoons, against aubergines, against chillis.

Chenonceau, built out over the river, was lovely, with another beautiful garden, that of Diane de Poitiers, all pink and cream. Camilla, you would love it!

Chambord is far too big for me, not at all attractive and looks as though someone had a fetish about chimneys.....but , I can appreciate that it is awesome in its own way. It has a strange inner staircase in stone, made from a double helix shape, difficult to describe. (But full of breathless Japanese going 'HAU' very loudly and pointing cameras at anything and everything.)

I love Chinon, and we wandered in there several times to have lunch at the outdoor restaurants, overhung with shady trees, and still pleasantly full of people.

A little runaway that I think we shall do again.

Going away

'Have you packed my cream sweater?'

'Yes'.

'Thanks. Um, did you put enough socks in?'

'Yes'.

'Thanks. Where did you say the map book was?'

Etc etc. I bet you've all been there. and all we are doing is going away for a few days not by air, or train, but in our own car. so not too complicated, then. And yes, I have done the packing, remembered to cancel the papers, given our keys to our friendly neighbour and all those things that you do.

And sweet man that he is, he has tractor mown the lawn, dug through the potager, mended a fence...and all the things that he does. So I can't really complain.

It's maybe 35 years since I visited the Loire valley, then with three children in tow, moaning gently 'pleeeeeeeease not another chateau'. I dont blame them really, one would have been enough.

The one I particularly wish to revisit is Azay le Rideau, a real fairy tale turretted castle surrounded by a moat. I went to a Son et Lumiere there and never forgot the play of lights, the gleaming colours, lights picking out the stonework, reflecting in the water. Beautiful.

So, off we go tomorrow..a little 'evasion' , escape, from everyday things.

A story of a Purple cow, (with apologies to the Arabian Nights).

And tonight, oh my best beloved , I shall tell you a tale of a magical purple cow.

Once upon a time, a calf was born. Its parents looked with a little astonishment at it, finding it to be somewhat different in colour to themselves. After all, Father Bull was a Blue bull slightly related to the Nilgai in Africa, Mother cow was a Red Poll . Why was this calf so different. It was, they muttered to themselves, shamefacedly, purple. Well, maybe , lilac, did that sound better?

Purple was a shy little calf, and grew up mostly on his own, the others in the herd all being rather boring brown or black cows. When he felt lonely or a bit sad he would go and meditate in a patch of thistles, where no one could see him. Being purple.

One evening, when he was wondering what life held for him, there was a sudden whistle of wind, a rushing sound, and across the field swooped a lady in a pointy hat, on a broomstick. He had never seen anything like it before, not at all like the farmer's lady who came to give them food. She didnt have a broomstick.

The lady asked him very kindly, but in a slightly strange accent, if he would care to visit her, and maybe have a new home. She explained that he would have his own field, with thistles too, and he would have rather a special job to do, called 'Looking after some People'. and he would be called a 'Purplecoo'. Not that he was quite sure what that meant, but it didnt matter.

Happy to say good bye to the others, he jumped on the broomstick and flew with the lady to a lovely, lovely place. There was a nice man with a camera who took pictures of him. There were cottages and some more people. But best of all , no one laughed at him for being a different colour. They said he was just what they needed. He was so pleased to be there. He has his own field to graze in, he has thistles but he doesnt hide so often and he has People!

And his special job? Well, every day he goes and looks at some very nice People, and occasionally, just now and then.....he winks.