jane brocket

edible jewellery

I have never owned or worn much jewellery, but I have always loved the boxes that jewellery comes in. I used to collect the boxes my mum discarded and used them for other purposes. My all-time favourite was a little white box that once held a ring; it was lined with peach-coloured velvet and in it I kept all the teeth I ever lost or had extracted. My own ivory jewels, I suppose you could call them. (I also kept my appendix in a jar for eight years until I left home - one of the few treasures I couldn't store in a jewellery box.)

So when I was in Paris and armed with The Patisseries of Paris (one of a number of beautifully produced mini guides published by The Little Bookroom), I was struck by the fact that so many smart patissiers and chocolatiers these days are packaging their goods in what could easily pass for jewellery boxes. Which makes them doubly attractive to me: I can eat the treats and keep the boxes, whereas I have mostly only ever had empty (real) jewellery boxes.

Of course, this being Paris, the packaging is very posh, and the edible jewels very delicious. I bought macarons from Pain de Sucre, a fabulous jewellery shop patisserie in the Marais. (The bright pink and green macaron is cherry and pistachio flavour - or ruby and emerald.)

But the Tiffany of chocolates must be Patrick Roger, whose creations come in heavy, deep turquoise boxes, whose shop windows are magnificent, whose interiors have a reverential hush, whose goods are almost, but not quite, displayed on velvet pads.

The glowing, jewel-like fruit jellies even have a little magnetic closure on their box, like a precious compact. I half-expected them to come on a chain with a clasp so I could wear them round my neck before eating them.

And when we have eaten all our jewels, I shall have the fun of deciding what to keep in the boxes themselves. No teeth this time though, as I am hanging onto the ones I have. (Even though I am partial to sweet things, I am also very partial to teeth-cleaning. The teeth in my original box were unblemished - I simply had too many for my mouth so they had to come out. Or they were teeny-tiny first teeth, like little one carat diamonds.)

never mind paris in the spring

Because Paris in December is beautiful. 

Because the graceful facades and the iron and glass canopies look even more elegant in the weak winter sun. 

Because spending time reading a book and/or watching people in one of the famous  literary cafes is just as good with a hot chocolate as with a glass of Petit Chablis. Or both.

Because the details stand out when one's thoughts and eyes are not distracted by the prettiness of spring. Like this gold 'ribbon' wrapped round a tall gate-post.

Because the bareness of winter reveals that there is a Parisian passion for passementerie both indoors and out.  

Because the Centre Pompidou is suitably avant-garde and does not shut on Christmas Day.

Because there are geraniums in window-boxes even in December. (In apartment blocks that look like something out of Jacques Tati's Mon Oncle.)

Because you can be romantic with roses in Paris all year round.

Rick in Casablanca was right. No matter what time of the year it is, we'll always have Paris. 

reflective

Late this afternoon by the river.

benchmark

On a walk today I found this lovely resting spot at a bend in the river. It may not be the most preposessing blue bench in the world, but it is perfectly in keeping with its surroundings, especially when the sky and river are the same colour. 

This is a beautiful stretch of the river at Runnymede with the Magna Carta Tea Rooms in one of these Lutyens-designed lodges (run through the NT photos to see them) where you can get a fine cup of tea, a slice of Victoria Sponge Cake and an outdated copy of Hello! (with photos of various locals) to read while you recover from the walk and the weight of history. 

woolfish

Still feeling Woolfish, I went up to town yesterday. Of course, I never normally 'go up to town'; I 'go into London', but I do like this expression when used by Virginia (and many a provincial lady in many a novel) when she visits London to go to a Picture Palace, a concert, a library or to carry out a few 'commissions'. Like Virginia, I travel by rail, and yesterday passed through Richmond Station where she used to catch trains ('non-stop' if she was lucky), and gazed at the river as we crossed Richmond Bridge, looking at the path where she and Leonard often walked.

Once 'up', Virginia was always meeting friends such as Clive or Vanessa Bell, Duncan Grant or Katherine Mansfield, and frequently bumped into Lytton Strachey or Maynard Keynes on the street. I was also there to meet a friend; Alison is someone whose blog, knitting and creativity I have admired enormously for years and luckily, like those in Virginia's circle , she is more than happy to meet somewhere we could enjoy a treat. Virginia at al were often to be found in London cafes and tea rooms (ices at Gunter's sound particularly good), but Alison and I met at Ottolenghi. (If there had been a Bloomsbury Ottolenghi in 1919, I'm quite sure it would have attracted the Bloomsbury set. )

Virginia would go up to town for spectacles or books, or the occasional purchase of clothing (always mentioning the colour, as in an 'apricot coloured coat' or a 'ten and elevenpenny blue dress'). Like her, I found a place where the 'shop women' are 'charming' (not 'superb' and frightening); Jigsaw is the place for me and I found a pink satin-lined, veryVirginia/Vanessa coat which made me look quite artistic (I like to think) but I couldn't afford it. I wished I could put it in a novel instead, as Virginia would no doubt have done. Instead, I treated myself not to books or a concert, but to some gorgeous yarn (colours: Black Cherry and Blackcurrant) from Loop. I like to think Virginia who liked knitting - as someone pointed out in a comment on the previous post - would have approved of my colour choices, or at least their names.

As it grew dark, I headed home. My day up in town ended a little like Virginia's on 15 February 1919: 'Then I had tea, and rambled down to Charing Cross in the dark [except I rambled down to Angel], making phrases and incidents to write about. Which is, I expect, the way one gets killed.'

  ***

Virginia Woolf is one of the best London companions I know; seen through her eyes, the west of London becomes an even more special and interesting place. I find Dickens does the same for the City and the east of London. Hmmm, time to plan a Dickensian day of pubs and oysters and punch and Pickwickian jollity...

delight

Delight by JB Priestley is itself a delight. Some of his delights such as trying new mixes of tobacco and smoking a pipe in the bath in the morning may appear dated now, but they aren't that far removed from trying new wines and drinking a glass of champagne in the bath, both of which would appear on my list of delights.

Three nights in Aldeburgh are a delight, too.

As is all this wonderful space full of fresh air and light.

 

And the chance to be alone yet stay in touch.

To be able to read three books in three days. And get my work done. And plenty of knitting.

To watch the sky change colour. To wonder what it would be like to sit at the top of this tower and gaze out to sea.

 
To expand my literary horizons with Eric Newby and Susan Hill (both books are a delight).

To call this place home for a short time, but not do any cooking for a change.*

To come home with a head full of fresh delights and a box full of Burt's Chips which are the very best crisps in the universe but difficult to find, so we always stop to stock up here. 

*Best of Suffolk is exactly that, and Naomi who runs the company with her husband is, you've guessed it, delightful. We book all our Aldeburgh holidays with them.

putting the man in manhattan

I'm in the middle of a very interesting little project which requires me to to trawl through the many photos I've taken over the last few years in search of material. As I scroll down the pages and pages of images, I see my recent life unfold and watch autumn turn to summer, summer to spring, spring to winter and so on as I work backwards. They jolt my memory and fill in the months with colours and patterns and flowers and changing, growing children. I am honestly amazed that I have taken so many - as I only show or publish a tiny, tiny proportion of what I take I do surprise myself sometimes.

I came across this picture above and wondered why I hadn't put it in a post. It was taken near Chinatown in New York and I think it's one of my all-time favourites of the city. Just look at those classic buildings in such wonderful colours.

And why did I never show the double rainbow over Midtown?

Or the play of light and reflection on the facades on West 57th Street?

I am hoping Simon gets to see (or pehaps I should say 'notice') the brilliant details of Manhattan. He's there all this week. I couldn't be happier for him. Unless I were with him, of course.

***

Thank you, all you musical-watching librarians who came up with so many great ways to sort out books and so many film recommendations. The problem is that if I'm watching Fred and Gene and Elvis and Doris and Frank, I'm not getting on with the bookshelves. And if I'm getting dusty and sneezy with books, then I'm missing out on some precious tap-dancing and tango-ing time. Ah, the choices we have to make.

english perspective

I'm reading Frances Spalding's biography of John and Myfanwy Piper and considering English perspective in the landscape and in art. It is a ridiculously heavy book at almost 4lb/1740g (not one to carry in a handbag or to read when your wrists are tired) and not exactly a light read, either. I didn't expect it to be a romp (I don't think Frances Spalding does 'romps' but she does do fantastic biographies) but am struggling slightly under the literal weight and the weight of the prose (record so far: 11 commas in one sentence), and am distracted by the errors (so far Geoffrey Grigson has had two second wives, Epsom College is not a boy's [sic] school...).

On the other hand, there's plenty of great stuff on English art and artists in the 1930s and 40s, more than enough to occupy my thoughts and conversation yesterday when we went to the lovely village of Hurley (not far from Fawley Bottom - or Fawley Bum as they called it - where the Pipers lived for decades).  

 We had lunch at The Olde Bell which dates back to 1135 (that's quite some time-perspective) and is quaint on the outside and a wonderful mix of neo-Georgian style and nooks and crannies on the inside. Great food, too.

Then we walked to the river and I reckoned that Hurley would not have enough 'pleasing decay' to keep John Piper interested; instead it is full of well looked-after old buildings with long, tall flint walls and mature shrubs which offer many lovely time-honoured perspectives.

Plus this: a modern ice-cream boat on the ancient Thames.

 

I was delighted to see that there were even three ducks and a dog to complete the wholly English perspective.

And, now, I'm, ready, to, tackle, the, second, half, of, the, book.

edinburgh

Three days in Edinburgh give you:

:: a meeting with a lovely blogger 

:: in a place where coffee and cake are taken seriously (but not too seriously)

:: and a taste of brawn croquettes at a brilliant cafe that sources its brawn (aka pig's head) and all its ingredients locally. I have no doubt that Mrs Rundell has something to say on the subject of brawn in the forthcoming Persephone edition of her book.

:: the chance to wander round the New Town (as in 18th century), a UNESCO World Heritage Site, and imagine what lies behind the beautifully proportioned facades and tastefully coloured doors. (The door above was my favourite - I love the very thin gold and black painted border on the door frame. So refined, so Edinburgh.)

:: time to read a book by local hero, Alexander McCall Smith, because even though we have his novels littered all over the house (waiting to be catalogued - see below), I have never read one. Simon has been recommending them for years, so I decided to read an Edinburgh novel seeing as I was there. 

:: an excuse to walk to Scotland Street to see the setting of the book and to discover that AMS was playing a joke on his readers with the address, like  another famous local writer. There is no number 44, just as there is no 221b Baker Street.  

A visit to Edinburgh also gives you:

:: the opportunity to test your fitness up and down hills and famous sets of steps, and a better leg-muscle workout than any treadmill. Plus you get plenty of real weather (wind, rain, sun, fresh air) while you exercise.

:: a knitting shop where you can rest your tired feet for a few moments and buy some beautiful sock yarn...

 

...K1 Yarns is on Victoria Street, a wonderful curving, double-decker street where you can buy cheese, tweed suits, and second-hand copies of books by literary joker, PG Wodehouse, with titles such as Eggs, Beans and Crumpets,

and plenty of ammunition for practical jokers, too.

:: an opportunity to say your tuppence ha'penny worth about the subjects that everyone is talking about, namely the trams/the new Scottish Parliament building/Glasgow/football/where to get the best coffee (this is a coffee city). Not that I know much about any of these topics, but I like to look willing and it doesn't do to keep quiet in a talkative city. 

:: a taste of Scottish art, poetry, architecture in a legal, financial, medical hub. Fascinating.

:: the desire to go back. Soon.

 

green envy

 

It's not pretty, is it? I don't mean my red cabbage which I think is beautiful despite the ravages of pests, but the feeling of envy. I've been experiencing quite a bit of envy and going green round the eyes over the last few days, and it's all because of other people's skills with growing and photographing things.

We watched Nigel Slater's Simple Suppers the other night and though I was very pleased to see that he has as many slugs and caterpillars attacking his veg as I do, I found myself horribly envious of his wonderful garden. It's a posh allotment in a way; a long, thin, urban plot with neat box borders and classical lines. It's a smart take on an old design, and I would give my eye teeth to have something similar beyond my back door.

On the subject of allotments, I was engulfed with more envy when Tom told me he and his 'A'  Level art group were off to the local allotments to make sketches and take photographs. These are spectacular allotments enclosed by a high brick wall and securely locked at all times. I've driven past them for years and every time I have wished that I could go inside for a peek, so was very jealous of Tom's foray in this secret garden. 

I was very touched when he showed me an 'aerial' view of rows of plants that he'd taken knowing it was my style and that it would appeal to me. But I was bowled over by the photos he took with his own eye - and by the fabulously eccentric and varied allotments that exist behind that high wall.

I had another surge of envy when I saw the organised chaos, the colours, the fruit and veg, the creativity and improvised structures.

For me, this is a suburban eden. Cue more envy.

But the greatest envy wave of envy came when I saw this photo in Tom's album (above - even better printed large on photographic paper). If there is one photo I wish I could have taken, it's this. It's a view of an allotment that I would never, ever see - and that, I think, is what good photography is all about. It makes you see things in a new way or shows you aspects of your world you'd never normally notice. I watched an excellent BBC Imagine programme about William Eggelston last week and was amazed by his photographs and could see that naturalness of vision is what it's all about. Damn it, I'm envious.