Bee - u - tiful!

I treated myself (hmm…seem to be doing a  lot of this 'treating myself' recently - see the purse) to  this incredible, life-like bee and although it's a brooch, I might just frame it, like a specimen in a museum.

It came beautifully packaged and was a sheer delight to open. (I always think that's incredibly important.)

I do have a little obsession with bees. In fact I spent quite some time a while back producing a number of  textile wall pictures that featured these little critters.

Here's a piece of interesting information for you - my daughter's name means 'bee' in Hebrew, so not surprisingly I'm drawn to them. (The bees that is, not the Hebrews, though I'm sure they were quite the most delightful people!)

I was always fascinated as a youngster by the old, wooden entomological drawers in my local museum and could stand for hours gently pulling each lovingly handmade drawer of treasure out to examine a parallel world beyond my own. 

The curator of the museum - a rather dowdy, bespectacled, sallow-skinned man - was, surprisingly, genuinely pleased to see us four tousle-haired children tumble into his dusty domain on the odd wet and windy day. He would pass round his collection of  hand-held magnifying  glasses and would fetch a little wooden stool from his dusty stuffed-to-the-rafters office in order for the toddler to peer into the uppermost drawers.

One hot summer's day, when I was a little scrap of a thing, I found an enormous dead bumble bee lying on the ground and was fascinated by it's gossamer wings and furry little body. I remember sitting on the back doorstep and slowly stroking it until my brother came out and blew it away saying it could still sting me even though it was already dead. I'm still not sure if this is true or not?  

Anyways, bees are my favourite visitors to the garden. I have a plethora of lavender bushes and last year they excelled themselves, behaved beautifully and developed truly heady scents which brought the bees from miles around, or so it seemed.

Oops! ANOTHER 'treat'!

The heavy droning of bees never fails to remind me of a bomber aircraft in an old black and white WWII film that we used to watch with my Dad.

Snapped this greedy one literally drowning in pollen!

FYI - Despite the fact that their bodies are exceptionally heavy in relation to their wing size, they manage to defy gravity AND science by being able to fly, albeit in a rather ungainly manner!

Jules x

A New Addition to the Family

An early morning ghost-like mist hangs motionless over the stream, heralding another eye-squinting, sunshiny day. 

Not yet seven of the clock, yet a brisk, knuckle rap upon the door. 

I slipper-shuffle, hair a-tousled and sleepy-eyed to its beckoning.

Chirpy Postie, tanned arms full length, greets me with a perfectly formed, light as goose down brown, paper parcel.

'Tis empty, I think,' he quips.

A skip of a heart beat, a lighter step and I grapple for something sharp in the drawer that holds all. Scissors poised in hand I cautiously nibble away at the threads of tape woven around its edges; afeared of the damage the blades might wield on the unsuspecting inhabitant. 

With child-like excitement and savouring the moment, I gently ease back the ribbed flaps to reveal a cloud of snow white, gold-spotted tissue, it's expensive crispness sharp against the ears. And, nestling deep inside its folds, a wee white mouse lies still and slumbering.

No ordinary mouse, I'll have you know. 

A mouse of enchanting childhood stories, a magical Bagpuss mouse, if there ever was.

Painstakingly, lovingly created by skilful hands, nimble fingers and an eye for detail. 

Vintage French linens, snippets of delicate lace, felted miniature, mouse-grey jacket and the most exquisite floral skirt all transport me in the flutter of a heart beat, back to my childhood.  

A labour of love, if there ever was one.

This utterly charming little character that has stories yet to be told or thought up, for that matter. Bedtime stories of wee mice that travel in brown paper parcels.

Each perfect item exquisitely made and beautifully presented. 

Though she has been christened, I feel the need to change it to Madeleine.

She of the Bagpuss stories, who narrated and sang her way through the innocent, captivating stories of the shop that held everything but sold nothing.  

Link to video Bagpuss song - We will Wash it. 

I have high hopes for Jan.

Love Letters

I went skiing in April this year.

That’s not strictly true.

I USED to ski (badly) but hung up my boots a little while ago.

It’s one of those sports you either love or hate – there’s no in-between or ‘sort of ‘like.

I’m in the latter camp I’m afraid, if hate is too strong a word for it?

Snow is wonderful to look at and even roll about in for a second or two, but when it’s -35C outside and you're skiing on sheet ice on a piste that’s 4 feet wide with a sheer drop to the right – it’s no fun, I can tell you.

On one very memorable ocassion I was so scared I'd fall off  the edge of the mountain I resorted to  snow ploughing (technical skiing term) the 3 and half miles from top to bottom. Needless to say my legs were like jelly and I retired meekly to the hotel.  

 I was always glad at the end of the last run of the day to get back to the hotel in one piece without any major injuries or scary tumbles over a  cliff face into the white abyss. 

And as for the après ski stuff – who wants to listen to ski bores blethering on about their dance with death on a double black diamond run? And whilst we’re on the subject, why is it  these bores are staggering around at midnight still wearing their ski gear and boots?

 (Answers on a postcard please…)                

Now I prefer to wander around little ski resorts and villages taking the odd photo and  hopping on and off the  local transport; let others do the dangerous stuff.

So April arrived and we had sunshine - lots of it - too much according to the hard-core skiers in the family.

  And the snow melted. (Let’s hear a big ahhhh….for the skiers)

We flew in to Geneva over the Alps and there was no snow. I’ve never seen the Alps naked before. They were brown and quite your average mountains, really.

The plane fell silent. A little boy sitting behind us asked his daddy where the snow was. There was no answer. I assume his father was choking back tears.

To cut a long story short there was no snow in the resort either and all pistes and lifts were closed.

So after consoling skiers for at least a nano second, our group re-grouped and we sat down with a map and looked at places we could visit.

All in all it was one of the best non-skiing holidays I’ve ever had. We trundled up and down mountains, negotiated hairpin bends in a clapped out hire car with virtually no gearbox,( let’s hear a big Hurrah! for the driver) crossed from Switzerland to France on a regular basis to feast on 5 course peasant lunches  and had the unexpected pleasure of visiting Lake Geneva on a blue-sky day with temperatures in the mid 20’s.

So, what’s the title of this blog post got to do with skiing?

Well Evian les Bain, (you know, the famous place where the water comes from) sits like a little pastel-coloured dolls house on the shores of Lake Geneva and it warranted a visit just so we could say we’d been there.

It has to be one of the cleanest, tidiest places I have ever seen. Too clean for my liking, more your clinical clean - possibly OCD clean. Must be all that water they have.

Being British, we forgot that most European shops open at some ungodly hour like 7.30am and close just three  hours later for the longest lunch hour in history. So wandering round an empty, silent Evian was indeed a pleasure. The only shops left open were the local café and an antique shop hoping for passing trade.

I for one could not have been more delighted! I love a good rummage in anything old and dusty.

Piled up outside the shop was a cornucopia of odds and sods, including a child’s iron bedstead that I would dearly loved to have taken home.

Precariously teetering on top of the bed were various cardboard boxes of all sorts including an old shoe box full of ancient musty letters and postcards.

Now, being a compulsive hoarder and collector of anything, I tried to resist the shoe box but it kept calling me and waving at me until I could resist no longer. I grabbed the box, paid the somewhat bemused gentleman in the shop his money and left feeling quite elated.

Here’s the beautiful bounty in all its faded glory.

Miniature envelopes, ink stained love letters, French stamps, old receipts and long forgotten post cards.  All kept by the same lady for over 80 years.

A life in a shoe box.