yarnstorm

fields of dreams

   

By the time I left the Keukenhof Gardens, it seemed like there was at least one person per bulb in the place -all seven million of them. I'd guessed it would be busy so arrived as early as I could (the gardens open refreshingly early at 8.00) so when I saw the 10 mile queue of cars headed into Lisse as I left, I felt rather pleased with myself.

So I am amazed I managed to take a few photos without a billion humans in each one. It took some doing and I would have liked to have some stepladders with me for some aerial shots and to cut out the people who spoil the views...

The Keukenhof is big enough to have a huge diversity of tulip- and general bulb-planting styles and experiments. So there are formal, linear beds of single varieties (above) which mimic the bulb-fields, and there are the multi-coloured drifts which aren't so much pick 'n' mix as mix 'n' pick in all sorts of sweet colours. This example below works so well because it keeps to one single type of tulip (lily flowered).

There are some lovely two-colour beds which throw all colour-caution to the winds and which make me think immediately of quilt pieces,

and sometimes there are three-colour patches like this one which made me want to find a fabric version immediately.

 

There are beds in full sun (below) and plantings in woodland where a delicate, dappled light is cast onto on the flowers and stops them from opening up too quickly.

like this (below).

I also liked seeing tulips near buildings - giving an idea of how they work in gardens. Mind you, I've never seen such a brilliant shed in any garden I know. And how about that for a living roof?

I even enjoyed the contrast of a more mellow setting which matches paler tulips to softer wood colours.

Just looking at all these photos again gives me frissons of excitement. I phoned Simon as I was walking around and told him it's possible to hire bikes at the Keukenhof to cycle round the bulb-fields and avoid the crowds. Suddenly he seemed interested in tulips and said he'd come with me next year. It's a date.

how many?

How many tulips does it take to make a tulipophile extremely elated?

Well, I think I know the answer.

This many.

Plus these.

And these.

And a few more.

 

These, too.

 

And especially these.

I booked my quick trip to Holland in January, and have been on tenterhooks all spring. I was taking a gamble on nature and terrified that I might have mistimed my visit. But the end of last week was the only time I could go in between school holidays, Simon's various trips abroad for work, having a Spanish exchange student to stay, and the small matter of teeth extractions for Phoebe.

This time last year, the tulips were more or less finished. But this year I was lucky; the cool and wet season which I've moaned about in other contexts has been a tulip-blessing, and it turned out that I couldn't have timed my jaunt better. There were millions of tulips in full bloom both in the fields around Leiden and at the Keukenhof Gardens - resplendent, brilliant, vibrant, tall, healthy and utterly wonderful.

It's quite something when you first come across this flat landscape streaked with long, thin lines of pure colour - yellows, oranges, pinks, purples, reds, whites. The way the growers transform the view with glorious stripes and blocks of densely planted bulbs for just a brief moment of the year is breathtaking. And when you get into a field and see the flowers both up close and in the long, long perspective of the neat rows, it's hard not to feel light-headed with elation.

I went twice; first to see the fields and get over my excitement (which, I admit, I could hardly contain), and again the next day to see tulips planted for show at the Keukenhof - all four and a half million of them. I like that number; it's a good answer to 'how many?'

Photos to come.

white album

I went to New York with two very excited girls and came back from New York with two very exhausted girls and some wonderful memories.

They will remember the sheer exhilaration of being caught up in Manhattan for three days, the pace, the noise, the stop-start of walking up and down avenues and, of course, the shops which cater to every teenager's every whim. Whereas I shall do my best to block out the memories of places like Abercrombie & Fitch and Lady Foot Locker as quickly as possible, to sift them out of my brain so that I'm left with memories of New York in its pale, springtime splendour.

New York is looking particularly white at the moment. I love the blossoms on the trees that line the streets; when you look up to admire the buildings, you see them through a delicate lacework of dark branches and little white flowers. And there are spectacular white lilies around the Rockefeller Centre looking as if they have been planted for a film-set (then I remember that Manhattan has an incredibly theatrical quality, so I shouldn't be surprised).

I saw some beautifully pale architecture, too. These clean, white buildings have a wonderfully elegant simplicity to them, and I couldn't help seeing quilt patterns wherever I looked in midtown Manhattan.

Phoebe had her first pale, super-sweet American cupcake at Billy's Bakery, while Alice chose a whipped cream and cookie confection which rivalled some of the taller buidings for height and design.

Looking down I saw vast tracts of pale pavement stones and slabs, enlivened here and there by some lovely bright tulips (these are on West 57th St. near the very tempting Rizzoli Bookstore) and contrasting beautifully with my daughters' boots. 

My white album couldn't be complete without this photo of Phoebe in the Big Apple taking a photo of the white Apple apple.

Tomorrow, New York in a different colour.

                             ***

Later: here's the photo of the white bike, so beautifully adorned with fake flowers, in case you are wondering what the earlier comments are about.

time out

Just about the most comfortable spot in the house is the huge, squishy beanbag we bought a little while ago. While the children prefer to launch themselves onto it and burrow down to create a little nesting spot, I prefer to use it as a huge, soft footrest. If you put a cushion (with an Ehrman tapestry cover - done in the days before I started quilting) on top and wear Alice's socks, it's just about perfect.

This is where I have been enjoying time out with books and films and family recently. I've been looking at this utterly amazing book (there are reviews and photos here and here). I love the spontaneity of this form of body art and decoration, the way it's done quickly and without mirrors and, above all, I can't stop looking at the ways in which these people adorn themselves with fruit and vegetables and flowers and leaves. Quite stunning.

I've also read Gee's Bend: The Architecture of the Quilt - you really do need plenty of space on the settee and beanbag when holding it as it's a huge book. It's wonderful to have such large photos of the quilts sitting on your knee and I spent ages looking at the pages with details of the local architecture which has influenced the quilters of Gee's Bend. And I am determined to make my own version of a half log cabin quilt now that I've seen how brilliantly this design can work.

I claimed the beanbag when we finally watched Nanny McPhee the other night. Although the plot's a little thin, it didn't worry me as the more I watched, the more I thought the whole thing was a cleverly constructed, classic pantomime complete with melodrama, farce, magic, fairy tale characters and plots, and wonderfully over-the-top costumes and scenery. The extravagant make-up and costumes and characters were straight out of the theatre but I have to say I have never seen such wonderful bedding on the stage; those quilts and the crochet blanket on the children's beds were just wonderful. Someone clearly had a great time with the props and paint colours.

But I haven't just been sitting with my feet up all the time. Three of us drove to Manchester at the weekend (yes, it rained) and I saw a lovely exhibition at the Whitworth Gallery with a friend from primary school - in between imagining how it would be to live in a room with tall hollyhocks and delphiniums on the walls (and laughing at the idea that children would undoubtedly be tempted to draw little bugs and worms and slugs on the wallpaper panels), we managed a several good hours of 'all our yesterdays'.

And now it's time to be a little more active. So I must go and get the guide books and passports ready, and pack for a trip with Alice and Phoebe.

Back soon.

brighton sunny

When I planned my away-day to Brighton, I didn't expect to get a mini sunshine-break. But today was glorious; the sun was so bright I could hardly see what I was photographing which explains the tilted horizon above, and I could only squint at my feet on the beach.

Brighton Pier was reflecting the light and a great sense of jollity for February,

and even though most beach businesses are shut for the season,

there were still plenty of people drinking tea and eating fish and chips on the beach, and soaking up the sun and warmth (I'm more than ready to call 13 C warm) on the promenade benches.

The reason for going to Brighton was to see The Textile Treasures of the WI (Women's Institute) - and indeed there were many lovely handstitched treasures to admire and consider. Susoolu had told me it was worth the effort, and she was right. But after the fraught time driving round and round Brighton (where West Street runs north-south and North Road runs east-west), I decided I wasn't getting back in the car while the sun shone and there were places to go.

So I went to the Brighton Museum and Art Gallery which is my kind of place - a wonderfully mad Victorian building with amazing tiles and floor mosaics, a wildly eclectic collection, plenty of civic pride and not a little sense of humour. It even had a little exhibition of Furokoshi textiles and a brilliant Performance Gallery in amongst glass and furniture and oil painting and a lovely room dedicated to the fun of visiting Brighton.

The last time I went to the Royal Pavilion it was undergoing refurbishment and I never really got the wow factor. But this time was different, and I could hear other people saying 'wow' as they moved from room to room seeing ever more exotic and outlandish interior design. Even the amazing kitchen had huge palm-tree pillars. Quite, quite fabulous. 

My holiday day ended at the finest greengrocer-cum-cafe I know, Bill's. They have a way with veg there and it's a great treat to sit and eat and drink surrounded by fresh fruit and flowers and shelves of chutneys and jams and harissa and rice, and to discover this article about Nicola Beauman of Persephone Books in The Guardian.

Brighton on a sunny in February is just the best. As long as you just keep facing south to the sun and you don't try to match the streets to the points of the compass.

glasgow hide-away

I know Glasgow wouldn't necessarily be on the top of everyone's list of places to hide away and write for a few days. I'm sure others would prefer something a little warmer/prettier or more rural/isolated/unpopulated, but I love coming to places like this to work. I can't imagine being shut up in a quiet place and trying to ransack my imagination when there is nothing to contrast externally with what's going on internally in my mind. Even though I don't get out much when I'm working, I do like to know that there is something happening nearby, as a sort of counterbalance to all the activity in my brain.

I also happen to love Glasgow, with its incredibly confident architecture and characterful streets. I'm most definitely not here to shop or eat out, but I'm here for the buildings. Even though it's very cold and windy, a long walk round the West End of Glasgow is quite a treat and a great antidote to sitting in my room sorting out recipes and book references and wondering how best to pickle limes (as in Little Women). I must have found dozens and dozens of beautiful houses I'd be happy to live in - solid, plush, beautifully designed and proportioned Victorian and Edwardian houses and terraces built in smooth red or pale sandstone, with fabulous wrought-iron fences and gates and stair-rails and all kinds of lovely details, but never showy or over-the-top. And never have I seen such an amazing collection of stained-glass windows in domestic buildings, especially in the big doorways and porches.

It's so easy to start wondering about the people who live or have lived in these houses, some of which reveal a commitment to never knowingly underfurnishing a room (I've also never seen so many paintings/pot plants/massive mirrors/lampshades/pianos as those glimpsed through the windows). In fact, I wanted so much to find out more about West End domestic life, I realised that if I couldn't find a book to satisfy my curiosity, then I would just have to imagine it. And that, I suppose, is how writers of fiction come to their subjects?

But then I came back to my room and returned to a different world. Tomorrow I get time off for good behaviour before going home, and am looking forward to going to the Kelvingrove Art Gallery & Museum (itself an amazing building) to revisit the wonderful paintings by the Scottish Colourists such as the one below. And to imagine yet another world of high-ceilinged interiors, elegant women, orange and pink roses and silver tea services...

FCB Cadell 'The Orange Blind' c1927

outside in

We are noticing just how much the dynamics of being at home with three teenagers (Phoebe is a teenager by nature, if not actual age) have changed. Simon has taken two lovely, long weeks off work and we find, amazingly, that we are up and about in the morning before the stay-abeds. Never did I really believe this day would come. But it has, and it means we can do the kind of thing we used to do before we had children. Like take a six-minute train journey to admire a view, get a coffee and then catch the same train back to enjoy the view in reverse. Or plant tulip bulbs in companionable silence. Or be one of the first in to Wisley on a cold and sunny morning to revel in the emptiness and space.

The visit was an exercise in getting out of the house and inhaling some fresh air. So we wandered around looking at the skeleton of the garden, the brownness of it all, the deadness of almost everything. And then we came across the new glasshouse.

Inside we went, and found the most incredible collection of exotic plants and flowers, all lush and stunningly colourful. It was quite amazing to think that in some parts of the world these scenes would actually be outside and not all molly-coddled and expensively maintained under glass.

But after the monochromatic English vegetation outside, it was a treat to see these wonderful orchids and jungly flowers. What a blast of colour and vigour.

What sturdy grace and unseasonal profusion.

And I liked the way the top photos picked up the ghostly outside of another part of the glasshouse next to the bright sky and sun of the real outside.

Once we had been heated up to tropical greenhouse temperature, we went back in the chill English air and, my eyes now attuned to seeing colour, came across some beautiful, brilliant red and gold dogwoods.

There's something to go on the to-be-planted-before-the children-are-awake list.

Of course, they are just saving their energy for New Year's Eve, while we shall be slumped, watching a tape of one of the excellent films in the film noir season on BBC 2 this week (they are on in the middle of the night, both far too late and far too early for us).

Happy New Year to all.

on track

Business jargon, with all its level playing fields and singing from same hymn sheets and things being moved forward, always makes me laugh. Even when I worked for multi-national companies I couldn't bring myself to use these cliches and stuck, instead, to plain language. No wonder I never broke down any barriers, climbed the corporate ladder or got close to the glass ceiling.

And why are things always 'on track'? Never fine, organised, sorted or just plain OK. 'On track' sounds so portentous, so very important. But I suppose that's why it's so frequently said about even the most trivial of concerns. However, this annoying little phrase actually felt quite apt today, even though it was probably more to do with the fact that I was travelling by train and tube and had railway metaphors running through my mind. I still could never say 'on track' out loud in a conversation or even in a frank and open exchange of opinions.

Thanks for your comments on the last post and the great suggestions for Cherry Cake and Ginger Beer (many of which were already either included or on my list) - they have made me feel really good about this book and it was with a spring in my step and echoes of 'on track' in my mind that I went to work in the British Library today to look at fabulous old illustrations and first editions and descriptions of rock buns and birthday cakes.

This morning was one of those days when it's great to travel by train, especially when there is a wreathy mist rising from the football pitch (not level, very uneven) on the opposite side of the tracks, and a brilliantly lit silver birch tree next to my platform. And trains whizzing past and glinting in the sunlight.

And how about this for modern art? It's where layers of posters have been stripped away on a platform at Oxford Circus tube station with amazing results. Like Jackson Pollock meets Rothko meets Ben Nicholson.

Finally, I emerged at St Pancras to see the clock tower of Sir George Gilbert's Scott's fantastic Midland Grand Hotel (1868-77). I can't tell you how happy I am that this is being restored at last and will open in 2009. As long as everything is 'on track', as I am sure the developers are busy telling themselves every day.

I'm already looking for a window of opportunity to visit this amazing building. Must prioritise and diarise asap.

settling down

Life is settling down again. October was an unsettled month; the publication of a book can do that to your life, I suppose. It was exciting, distracting and thought-provoking but I'm glad I can feel some familiar rhythms and patterns coming back. And, nothing daunted, I am getting on with writing the next book.

I'm picking up some threads, too. The crochet flowers are blooming at a modest rate, and I only have to tip all the squares out of my bag to brighten my day and mood. It works with the yarn, too, and I love to see all the bright colours strewn around on the carpet.

The Kim Hargreaves scarf is progressing and the simple lace pattern is very compatible with listening to the radio or watching black-and-white films - most recently Waterloo Road (1944) with Stewart Granger as a London bounder (complete with drama school-style Cockney accent). I had to drop my knitting a few times to concentrate on the amazing period scenes of a sooty, grimy, war-time Waterloo Station - quite a contrast to the gleaming St Pancras International which I visited this week - so beautifully renovated and restored, with a glass roof like an ice sculpture.

It's also good to be reading again. Ted Hughes' letters. Dickens' Hard Times. Dorothy Whipple's short stories. The two lovely Susan Cropper books on crochet and on knitting which sidetrack me into planning all kinds of projects (where, oh where, can I find wide lucite/plastic/polyester bag handles?).

And I know life is more settled because I'm watching the hyacinths grow on the kitchen windowsill.

streets of london

 

I am always acutely aware of the lessening light at this time of year. It gets worse tomorrow when the clocks go back; from now until 21 December I have to work hard to convince myself that the day isn't over at 4pm. I don't like November and December and the countdown to the shortest day, but much prefer January and February because even though they don't have any extra hours of daylight in total, they are at least moving in the right direction with small, but significant, daily increases.

This morning the skies were particularly lowering and as I walked through the streets of Notting Hill I was aware of the need for headlights on cars and indoor lights in houses.

And then I turned the corner into Portobello Road with its fruit & veg market and suddenly my whole outlook was transformed. Despite the fact that some stalls had artificial lights, I was struck by the wonderful, apparently chaotic melee of boxes and piles and arrangements of colours, shapes and textures.

Here was some lovely brightness from glowing peppers, shiny aubergines,

brilliant green herbs against a backdrop of clothes on rails,

pinks and reds and greens and purples and whites and browns and, in one place, a wonderful play on a yellow and green theme.

But this (below) was my absolute favourite 'arrangement' with richly coloured pomegranates flanked by magenta beetroot, greenish-gold mangoes, royal blue crates and scarlet chillis, all set out on the dark, wet pavement.

Even the packing cases looked great.

I wasn't in London to look at a street market even though it did provide a much-needed diversion from sullen skies, but to meet Amy Singer of the inimitable knitty.com for tea and cake (although only one of us indulged in lime and coconut cake at Books for Cooks, and I have to say it was worth it). It was a pleasure to meet Amy whose work with knitty I admire enormously and she was kind enough to give me a copy of her new book which looks excellent.

And then it was back home via the artichokes and sprouts and ginger and apples and radishes, with my spirits lifted and sufficient colour memory to overlook the still grey skies.