viewsfromthecottage

The Early Morning mist and dew.

The early morning mist and dew
The faintest sunlight shining through,
The branches of the languid trees
That slowly forms this autumn frieze
With subtle shades as leaves now turn
And fiery glows of amber burn,
That warms the chill of breaking dawn
Upon this late October morn.

The silver birch in primrose stands
Its trunk is flecked and striped with bands,
While bracken frames this stony course
That winds its way through thorny gorse,
A carpet made of leaves and twigs
While berries ripe on holly sprigs
Glow scarlet in the shade of night
And almost hidden from my sight.

The air is still so hushed the sound
As leaves are falling to the ground,
Like raindrops from a passing shower
They gather there beneath the bower
A squirrel roams the woodland floor
While searching for some food to store,
Amongst the span of empty husk
He seldom moves from dawn to dusk.

When evening falls and shadows rest
And sunlight sinks within the west,
Then soon descends the cold of night
Beneath the stars that shine so bright
A frost does form now winter nears
That glistens like the fallen tears
Of autumn for its end is nigh
As if to say its last goodbye.

Andrew Blakemore.

Today is Michaelmas day the 29th of September.  Michaelmas day is the feast of St Michael the archangel, who is the patron saint of the sea and maritime lands, of ships and boatmen and horses and horsemen.

He was the Angel who hurled Lucifer (the devil) down from heaven for his treachery.  In folklore Michaelmas day is the last day blackberries should be picked, this is because it is said on the day Lucifer was expelled from heaven, he fell from the skies straight into a  blackberry bush.  He then cursed the fruit, scorched them with his fiery breath, spat and stomped on them and made them unfit to eat…

Michaelmas day is sometimes called Goose day.  Goose fairs would be held in the towns and villages and plump geese would be driven to market to be sold.  Goose fairs are still held in some parts of the country, with Tavistock being one of them. 

Michaelmas is a traditional time to eat goose, one reason given is that Queen Elizabeth 1 heard of the defeat of the Armada when she was dining on goose, and resolved to eat it on Michaels day thereafter.

Mop fairs or hiring times were held at Michaelmas, it was traditionally a time when labourers and servants were hired out for another year.  They would dress in their best clothes and go to the centre of town or village carrying the tools of their trade, hence the name mop fair…The new master and mistresses would walk round the fair and talk to the people, when they came to an agreement, they would give the servant a small token, something like a 5p.  The servant would then remove the sign of his job and replace it with a bunch of brightly coloured ribbons to let everyone know he had been hired.   Then he would probably spend the token at the fair, on food drink or rides.  Michaelmas was also a Quarter day, which was a day when rents and bills were paid.

The song of the Michaelmas daisy fairy.

“Red Admiral, Red Admiral,
I`m glad to see you here,
Alighting on my daisies one by one!
I hope you like their flavour
and although the Autumn`s near,
Are happy as you sit there in the sun?”

“I thank you very kindly, sir!
Your daisies are so nice,
So pretty and so plentiful are they;
The flavour of their honey, sir,
it really does entice;
I`d like to bring my brothers, if I may!”

“Friend butterfly, friend butterfly,
go fetch them one and all!
I`m waiting here to welcome every guest;
And tell them it is Michaelmas,
and soon the leaves will fall,
But I think Autumn sunshine is the best!”

We`re very lucky here at the cottage, to live so close to Dartmoor especially at this time of the year when the heather is a purple carpet, flecked with the gold of gorse….its very beautiful..

There are three types of heather on the moor, which vary only slightly in flower, they grow in lovely tussocks over and around the huge granite boulders, and are alive with bees collecting the pollen.

`Lucky` heather would be sold in the local towns and Exeter in days gone by, although traditionally white heather is supposed to be lucky.

Another harvest of the moor would be Whortleberries or `tis a hurt` as the local people would call them.  They grow on small shrubby bushes and are rich in vitamen C and D.   The picking season would be treated as a holiday, and the pickers would set off early in the morning, laden with baskets and pick all day….Most of the berries were sold at local markets, especially Tavistock, and then made into pies and jams.

Whortleberry Jam

650g whortleberries
500g granulated sugar
juice of 1 lemon.

First wash the berries.
Place the fruit in a pan over a low heat and gently crush the berries to release some juice.
Add the lemon juice then simmer gently until the fruit is soft and squishy but with some still retaining their shape.
Add the sugar and stir until dissolved.  The sugar will dissolve quicker if you`ve warmed it in a low oven first.
Once all the sugar has dissolved bring to the boil and boil rapidly for 5 minutes.
Test for set, when ready pour into warm sterilized jars and seal.
Makes approx 3 medium size jars.

One of my favourite things about the moor are the `crosses` they are dotted all over the moor for various reasons, and are a wonderful ancient monument to the past.  One of my favourites is the Windy Post or Beckamoor cross, it sits beside the little gurgling leat and is surrounded by the beautiful tors, where dartmoor ponies and sheep graze under the wide blue sky. 

The Windy Post

Lonely there betwixt moor and sky,
Where great grey clouds go drifting by,
And the Peewit utters her plaintive cry,
The Windy Post stands silently.

A little old cross on the windy heather
Roughly hewn out of granite gray,
Fretted and worn by the wind and the weather,
Carved by the monks of a bygone day,
There on the hill where at sunset and dawning,
They paused as they travelled the Abbot`s way.

Oh, was it for hope that the monks were praying?
The hope of the gay little leat;
That through the gorse and heather was straying
Singing and sparkling there at their feet.
Drowning their sighs and their cares in its waters,
As joyful it flowed the great river to meet.

Or was it for Faith that the monks were sighing,
There on the windswept Abbots way?
The faith of the patient hills that were lying,
Silent and still `neath their boulders gray,
Those ancient hills where the sunshine and shadow
Down through the ages have ceased not to stray.

Or, little grey cross on the windy heather,
Was it for love that the monks did cry?
The love of the tors and the wind and the weather,
The love of the infinite sky
That the moorland lays at the feet of the Master
At sunset and dawn when the He passes by.

V.L. Phillips, 1923.

A misty grey morning after a night of heavy rain.  I drove along wet roads with pools in the hollows, but the trees were hanging gold from the woods on both sides.
                                                                                             Miss Read.

black bryony trails of scarlet berries all hung in the lane….

The Song of the Black Bryony Fairy
For the Autumn festival,
I will hang from tree to tree
Wreaths and ropes of Bryony,
To the glory and praise
Of the sweet September days.

Tea was called supper on sunday.  There were usually cuts of cold meat off the joint, pickled beetroot and red cabbage, cheese, and potato cake washed down with rough cider.
                                                                                                                        Brian Carter.

Some apples hang on the trees, the late apple, but many have already gone to be spread on the floor of a bedroom..

Pots of jam stood on the little larder shelf.

When I saw this lovely painting, it reminded me of Home…..well not the cottage, which obviously is home, but the little market town that I grew up in…Beccles…it has the same crooked beamed houses, and square towered church, and the hares run and leap over the corn and sugar beet fields all year round….

Beccles is a small market town that clings to the banks of the river Waveney, which winds through the misty marshes, reed fringed and willow shady…it is full of age, and history…the houses red bricked and sun warmed flow down the winding roads to the slow flowing river, where ducks  and boats pass too and fro, and overhead in summer the swifts scream and dive and fill our hearts with joy…..

St Michaels church dominates the town, the bell tower seperate from the church, which sits on the cliff edge and drops down into the lovely named Puddingmoor with quirky `crinkle crankle` walls, pretty cottages with gardens tumbling down to the rivers edge, and damp water meadow where Ladies smock and orchids grow in the spring..

The town sign depicts the town receiving the charter

Rubbing shoulders with the old well established shops that have been there through generations, seed merchants, hardware stores, gunsmiths are the new flighty boutique shops…..with all manner of trinkets, expensive decorations, and chic clothes…..and inbetween enticing you to pause and rest are the smart resturants and cafes with little tables and chairs set outside for sipping a frothy coffee and enjoying a slice of something delicious..

Old traditions still survive, with Friday being market day….and the market square will be filled with stripey topped stalls selling fruit and veg, racks of clothes to rifle through, eggs and sweets and many more interesting things…and the local folk will come down from the hills basket to hand, browsing, gossiping and making off with many a bargain and `something for the old mans tea!”

But best of all is the lovely river flowing lazily between the water meadows where cows stand knee deep in lush green grass spangled with buttercups in summer, rimed in silver with frost in autumn and a blanket of white snow in the winter

 The Waveney.

Listen to me-
There is a little river, fed by rills
That winds among the hills,
And turns and suns itself unceasingly,
And wanders through the cornfields wooingly,
For it has nothing else to do, but play
Along its cheery way:
Not like great rivers that in locks are bound,
On whom hard man doth heavy burdens lay,
And fret their waters into foam and spray
This rivers life is one long holiday, all the year round.

Listen and long-
It hears the bells of many churches chime
It has a pleasant time,
The trees that bow to it their branches strong,
Hide many birds that make its spring one song,
And orchard boughs let fall their flowery wealth,
To float away by stealth,
And land in tiny coves a mile below,
Or round and round the stems of rushes veer,
Like snowy foam, but truly none is here,
So calmly gurgle on the waters clear, with endless flow.

Jean Ingelow (1820-1899)

Today is the Autumn Equinox which means its the moment when day (light) is equal to night (dark) and balance is created between them.

In the pagan calander its called Mabon and is the ritual of thanksgiving for the fruits of the earth and recognition of the need to share them to secure blessings of the Goddess and God during the winter months.

“Leaves fall the days grow cold,

The Goddess pulls her mantle of earth around her, as you, O Great Sun God, sail toward the west,

to the land of eternal enchantment, wrapped in the coolness of night,

Fruits ripen, seeds drip,

the hours of day and night are balanced.

“Now the lamp is lit and the sky empty beyond the golden glass”….Magriad Evans.

Here at the cottage we love the nights drawing in, pulling the curtains early against the chilly night and being cosy by the fire……but that wont be for a little while, we`ll still enjoying some warm weather, and its not dark till seven.

Today has felt like a proper Autumn day…its had a wistfulness about it…a sadness that tugs at your heart…its made me yearn for something, but I dont know what….a homesickness….the sky has been that lovely cornflower blue, and the sun a wonderful old gold, that only happens in Autumn…

Then the sadness of it all  reached out to me, there above the valley with dusk closing, lights coming on, smoke curling from the chimney, the barking of a dog – all gone, all gathered to the wind……Brian Carter.

September – it was the season of brown cob nuts and sweet spanish chestnuts of yellow apples and freckled pears.

Among these bushes the skeins of cobwebs hang like old knitting, damp and beaded with mists of Autumn.

the valley smelt of woodsmoke and tired trees…

It just rained again, lightly binding the red dust of the fields.  We put in the potatoes.  Then in the late evening the walk through the quiet garden edged with the sound of trees.  The bushes.  The bricks of the greenhouse, the vine writhing against the glass, and the path faint between the box.  It smelt of rain-water tubs.

Harvest festival is usually celebrated on the first sunday after the harvest full moon…

This sunday the churches will be holding their Harvest festivals to celebrate a successful harvest, traditional hymns like “We plough the fields and scatter` and “All things bright and beautiful` will fill the little churches adorned with wonderful displays of fruit and vegetables…

There would also be a golden baked wheatsheaf which signifies abundance, a  good harvest, fertility and a closeness to the earth and her resources.

In olden times the people believed that the Corn Goddess lived in the corn, and would die when the corn was harvested

unless some of it was saved.  So to make sure the Corn Goddess stayed alive until next Spring sowing, a corn dolly was made from the last sheaf of corn for the Corn Goddess to rest in until the next year.

Here at the cottage we love all these old traditions…the circle of the year, and all the changing seasons with their different festivals and celebrations.

Harvest Thanksgiving is at evensong.  The church is decorated with pools of glistening apples, pototoes and turnips, loaves of bread, great dropsical marrows, bunches of mauve Michaelmas daisies and golden sheaves of wheat.

Brian Carter.

Hello again from the cottage, we hope you`re enjoying your week-end and following some leisurely pursuits.  One of the nicest things about a sunday apart from a traditonal roast lunch, is a nice `high-tea`….a tradition here in Devon would be a cream tea, which would comprise of two warm fluffy scones, jam and some lovely clotted cream…delicious.

What could be nicer than a table covered in a snowy hand embroidered cloth, vase of flowers and spread with some lovely home baked cakes, and biscuits and dainty sandwiches.  Ive jotted down some recipes from my book.

Scones.

9oz SR Flour          pinch of salt

I heaped dessertspoon caster sugar

Handful of sultanas or raisins

3oz butter           I large egg

2 – 3 tablespoons milk.

Preheat oven to gas mark 7..  Sift the flour and salt in a large mixing bowl.  Stir in the sugar and sultanas.  Rub in butter until the mixture resembles fine breadcrumbs.  Beat the egg in a small bowl and mix in 2 tablespoons milk.  Make a well in the centre of the dry ingredients and pour in egg/milk mix.  Using a fork, and working quickly, bring the ingredients together, adding more milk if necessary to make the dough damp.  Form a ball with the dough, and place on a floured surface.  Roll out quickly and gently with a rolling pin.  Cut out, and bake for 10-15 minutes.

Strawberry Jam

1 Kg/2lb2oz jam sugar with pectin (not preserving sugar)

2kg/41/4lb strawberries.          Juice of 1/2 lemon.

1. Put sugar into a preserving pan.
2. Hull and pick through the strawberries, discarding any blemished fruit.
3. Put the fruit and lemon juice into the pan and stir gently.  Leave for 1 hour.
4. Put the pan on a medium heat, bring to the boil and boil rapidly for 15-18 mins, skimming off any scum as it appears
5. Test for a set.
6. When ready, turn off the heat and leave to stand for 15-20 mins to prevent the fruit rising in the pan.

Spoon into jars.  Seal tightly with screw-top lids while it is hot and label.

Clotted cream is readily available from local shops, but used to be traditionally made by pouring milk into shallow pans and leaving undisturbed for 24 hours allowing the cream to rise.

Sponge cake

1. Sift 6oz SR flour and a rounded teaspoon of baking powder into a bowl.
2. Next break 3 large eggs into the flour and add 6oz caster sugar and 6oz butter and 1/2 teaspoon vanilla essence.
3. Mix with whisk about 1 minute.
4. It should be a dropping consistency, if  too stiff, add 1 – 2 teaspoons tap water.
5. Place in oven gas 3 and bake for 30-35 minutes.  Dont open door until 30 minutes have elapsed.

We seem to find here at the cottage, that time does fly…no sooner have we spread the marmalade on our toast in the morning, then the day has flown past and we`re thinking of bed!  Of course it always seems worse on our days off, when we have so many things we want to do, and so many places to go, if only our working day went so quickly!

“No time like the present” 

“I`m late, I`m late…”

Natures clock……

“What is this life if, full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare. 

“Time for a little something”

“The time has come”, the walrus said,

“To talk of many things:

Of shoes – and ships – and sealing wax –

Of cabbages and kings –

And why the sea is boiling hot –

 And whether pigs have wings”