Re-inventing oneself

I’ve had to re-invent myself many times over the years, and never more so than when I retired from my job in a bank due to ill health. I didn’t face up to the gaping hole left by leaving the bank, and to all intents ending my career-not until several years later when it came back and bit me in the bum inadvertently through a challenging and difficult chain of events.

Behcets disease means I can go through periods of reasonably good health, although over latter years a good day is just ok. I always have pain somewhere-you just get used to it, and you have to get on with it.

The most frustrating thing about living with it is that my brain is still alive-it’s just that my body won’t always let me do what I want it to!
I was rather pleased when I was able to turn my magpie tendencies of collecting fabric and crafty bits into a small business, Despina Gifts. For years, friends and family told me I should sell some of the keepsakes I’d hand crafted for their birthday and Christmas presents and I eventually I plucked up the courage to go for it. However, because of the popularity of handcrafted items (and my own weakness-being such a ‘driven’ person,) the hobby became a full time job and encroached drastically on home life. Once this happened it had to be worth my while and after several months of sticking my head in the sand, I did concede that making £150 in a month was not sustainable longer term.

Nothing could be as hard as my pronouncement to ‘give in’ to the illness and leave the bank. For years, I told people-“When I lost my job in the bank due to ill health.” Because of the kind of person I am I felt a failure. In addition, I don’t like to do anything unless I do it really well and am successful at it.
The decision to give up my craft business was marginally easier because the facts were harsh-crafting was killing my hands and whilst it was nice to get a bit of pin money I was never going to be a millionaire doing it. And when the arthritis symptom of my Bechets reared its ugly head before Christmas, right at a time when the kitchen looked more like Santa’s workshop, I knew it was time to admit defeat and change what I was doing.

Always the survivor, I’ve become a dab hand at re-inventing myself over the years. As Charles Darwin once said-“The organism that adapts will survive...the organism that doesn’t will become extinct...” Fifteen years in Banking and watching the ‘old dinosaur’ Bank Managers disappear taught me that was true.

It was a hard to feel like a 'quitter' again and be reminded of my fragility, but I’m over it now and just make the personalised PE Kit and Teacher Resources Bags in my spare time and sell through a shop on E-bay called Despina Bags-of-Fun. The bags would get out of control again if I let it-I have orders on the board for 41 bags at present. I think I must be filling a gap in the market somewhere-pity I’m not well enough to exploit it! Instead I’ve told my customers that there is a 2-4 week waiting period which allows me to take my time and work designing and making bags around my other priorities.

Because the great thing about re-inventing yourself is that you get the chance to become the person you always wanted to be, and do the things that bring you joy-it’s a chance to discover your passion, (which may change constantly as circumstances in our lives change) and then live the life.

Of course no one will ever be “picture-perfect” in this life. But “fulfilled and satisfied” is the name of the game for me and I’ve got this far with very few regrets or missed opportunities so it’s got to be pursued. Which brings me to my current passion..WRITING...."Why writing?" I hear you cry.

Well, I've been telling my friends and family for over ten years that this is what I'd like to do. I have so many ideas for stories and bits of writing after ten years of thinking and daydreaming about it that it is ridiculous. My notebooks of scribbling are weighing down the loft. I have made enough excuses-been busy doing other things/nervous/putting it off/not sure where to start for too long.
I have a filofax now and a copy of Jane Wenham-Jones's book, "wannabe a writer?" about getting into print. And I want it, (to write and be published, that is.)

I’ve done enough pontificating, prevaricating and procrastinating. It's time to just get on with it. And I am getting on with it, even though there are many of you bloggers that do it better-You are funnier, more descriptive, more accomplished, maybe already a published author. I just can’t miss the chance to re-invent myself and try and live a dream once more. And it is only thanks to the bloggers on this site that I have been able to free up my mind in the last year or so and see clearly that it’s time to have a go at achieving my next ambition, and with any luck, my health shouldn’t be too much of a barrier for this one.

I’ll tell you more about where I’m up to another day, (and catch up on my homework, I promise Headmistress.)


Until then

Bye for now




WesterWitch/Headmistress said...
Ahhhhh - weird - we are both at the same point in life. Good for you. And remember as writers no one of us is better than the other - if you love to write then you write and your love of your gift and your creativity will shine through and they will touch the people they are meant to touch.

Friday, April 18, 2008


ChrisH said...
Good to have you back and best wishes for your new career.

Friday, April 18, 2008


Frances said...
Hello to you, fellow adapter!

Every time that I have been able to choose to make a change, or have been able to make an un-sought change, it has made my life much more interesting. Stretch, stretch, stretch.

Every switcheroo turn has introduced me to unknown personal aspects, but also has opened me up to meeting all sorts of new people, and learning new skills.

From reading your blogs, I know that you are indeed a writer. It is going to be fun to see where giving your writing more priority will lead.

All best wishes to you! xo

Friday, April 18, 2008


Pipany said...
Hurray, you're back! Love to hear of you reinventing yourself (while remaining the same lovely you of course); it always excites me to read of new beginnings and to follow how they go - keeps life fresh and full of possibilites, so I shall be following this closely (though not like a stalker obviously!) xx

Friday, April 18, 2008


Milla said...
good for you, CCA, keep on keeping on.

Friday, April 18, 2008


toady said...
Yippeee you're back. So sorry that your health problems are encroaching but that positive outlook is fantastic.[send some this way!]
Now don't disappear again.

Friday, April 18, 2008


Crystal Jigsaw said...
So lovely to see you blogging again. Another blog to look forward to reading. I shall read the first 2 chapters in your other blog later on when I have a little more time to sit down and concentrate. Writing is such a wonderful way to be at peace with yourself. There is no doubt you will do well and one day be a published author.

Love Crystal xx

Friday, April 18, 2008


bodran... said...
GReat to have you back and reinventions good i call it evolving and i'm always at it!
I maybe in your area next week i'mm doing a delivery to Ludlow and i've set myself a challenge to do it on the scooter, so if you want me to pop in pm me your number. if not i'll see you on the 1st xxx

Friday, April 18, 2008


elizabethm said...
welcome back and great to have you blogging again. Very best of luck with the writing.
see you soon!

Friday, April 18, 2008


Elizabethd said...
Lovely to see you again, and with such exciting news. Good luck with your new 'career', and with your sewing too. But how sensible to hold back a bit and ask people to give you time.

Friday, April 18, 2008


mountainear said...
Glad you're back - I've always enjoyed reading your blogs.

Re-invention/evolution is a terrific thing - something I think I managed when we moved here.

See you on the 1st - more news then I hope.

Best wishes, F

Saturday, April 19, 2008


CAMILLA said...
Best of luck with the writing CCA, and all the best for your new career.

Camilla.xx

Wednesday, April 23, 2008


Working mum said...
Just to let you know, I have starred this post in Google Reader to come back and read the start of 'Passport to Happiness' when I've got the time.

Good luck with the writing.

Sunday, May 04, 2008


Exmoorjane said...
Now then, you ARE a writer - it said so in the paper so it MUST be true! You go girl!
Janexxx

Tuesday, May 13, 2008

A Typical Day in the Life of Country Craft Angel

I suppose if I was a really good wife I would have got out of bed to see Workaholic Hubby off for the train to London at 5.30am. But it was SO warm on his side of the bed after he got out and I was so tired that I couldn’t resist rolling into his space and snuggling in and back to sleep.

I stirred realising Nicky Campbell’s dulcet tones had stopped and I had long overslept. Oh my god! It’s 7am and with hubby gone I have to walk the dog and take Idle Jack down to the bus stop myself as well as the usual other morning routines! I did negotiate with Idle Jack last evening that I would only do one or the other but nothing short of an atomic bomb will get him out of his bed at present. It must be the hormones. I brace myself that I may have to do it all.

I am not at my best in a morning. I don’t mean that in a grumpy way. (although come to think of it I suppose I am rather grumpy these days in a morning.) Sleep depravation is a form of torture I’m sure. To be fair I don’t think it is just the owl or the fox or Puffer Billy lying next to me that wake me all the time. Pain robs me of deep sleep, the really deep slumber where nothing wakes you. I stir all too easily-last night the continual stabbing knives in my left shoulder woke me every time I turned over. I dreamt at one stage that I was trapped in some farm machinery. By my side, flipping 360 degrees was Workaholic Hubby, no doubt mindful of oversleeping or missing the train. I lay there for what seemed for hours, looking at the oversized illuminated digital clock that projects itself in bright red up onto our bedroom ceiling, watching the rythmic flashing on and off, on and off, as the the seconds tick away.

First job is to feed Simba, the extremely hairy yellow Labrador who's shed great clumps of hair round his bed which I must hoover up later. He hoists his great body out of his warm bed as gingerly and reluctantly as me in a morning. It takes me and him an hour or two to get ourselves moving and our bones working to optimum effect because of the pain and stiffness of our arthritis.

The creak of the kitchen door has woken Quiet Mousie despite my attempts not to disturb him. He helps himself to fresh orange and a yogurt and settles to the island with a book and piece of paper which he copies from. He has discovered the joy of reading; books, spellings, writing; word searches, his little mind like a sponge soaks up every minute he can. Well, that is if he can’t go outside and kick a football of course. I flick the kettle on as I will for the umpteenth time before the boys go to school. The trouble is I always let the tea go cold before I drink it. My pain killers in hand and I brace myself for the most challenging task of the morning, rousing Idle Jack.

He’s hidden somewhere underneath the quilt. I know he’s there as I can see his black socked feet sticking out of the end, facing down. He’s covered in the quilt, blanket and several cushions. Quite why he insists on cocooning himself up like this I don’t know, but he has done it for years now. I put the big light on and turn on his radio.
“Wakey Wakey, Cam...come on, time to wake up...We’ve overslept. Have you remembered I need your help this morning as Dad’s in London?” Nothing.
“Come on Cam, I need you up, time to wake up!” No movement. I prod the bed.
“I’ve fed the dog and he’s desperate to go out...are you coming?”
“Mmmm-m-m.” We have life. I pull his covers back, desperately trying to stay patient.
“Come on Son. I can do without this. I’m late as it is and you said you’d walk Simba. Now get up please if you want a lift down to the bus stop.”
“Ok, ok, I’m coming!” How come he’s got the attitude? I stand there mouth open in amazement. He’s still corpse-like.
“Look, I can’t stand here all day waiting for you to get up. Get yourself in the shower and liven yourself up! Split splot!” Well, it worked for Mary Poppins.

I go outside to feed the birds. Mr Robin is chattering away already in the dark. It’s a good job Hubby can’t see me. He goes mad when I go out to the birds in my dressing gown and slippers, especially if it's frosty or raining. “You and those ruddy birds, you’ll catch your death!” He doesn’t realise they will be my company for the day and I need to get the food out for the flocks that will join me after the school run.

The dog follows me wagging his tail expectantly and crossing his legs at the same time. He is desperate for his walk and won’t ‘go’ in the garden so I hurry as best I can to get dressed and yell at Idle Jack that if he is not up in the next two minutes I’m going to pour a cup of water over his head!

I grab the torch and head to the woods. I always used to be frightened of woods and being alone. Now I love it. The sheep have all been moved-I think they must be due to lamb any day now as I see the lights in the farmers shed in the bottom field on permanently day and night. A blackbird witters and flashes right in front of me startling me. I think I startled him more.

As I come back into the house I can hear Idle Jacks deep, croaky and intermittent squeaky voice yelling “Stop turning the berludy light off!” (J K Rowling has a lot to answer for-how many times does Ron Weasly say the ‘B’ word in her Harry Potter books? Or maybe it is me or his dad he got it from?)

Quiet Mousie has him cornered in the shower and is outside the bathroom door flicking the light on and off.
“Right, that’s it!” I yell. “Stop doing that to your brother and go and make your bed and tidy your bedroom!” I scold Quiet Mousie. “I’ve already done it, and brushed my teeth and washed my face” The halo pings above his head. He really is such a sweety, I can’t stay angry at him for long.

At last, after numerous reminders Idle Jack saunters out of the bathroom with his hair gelled into precision spikes.
“Have you picked the towels up?” I remind him, coughing and spluttering at the waft of the Lynx coming through the house.
“I’ll do it later, I’m off to walk the dog now” He says. The towels will still be there tonight.
“Too late, I’ve already walked him!” I state triumphantly. I’m still choking. Heavens, does that stuff really work with the ‘chics?’
“Aw, mum, I told you that I’d walk him! “ His head automatically throws back and his eyes roll upwards as his mouth parts in a loud sigh.
“I can’t walk down the lane. Please take me down, I’ve got PE today and have to carry my sports bag.”
Puppy dog eyes. Hmmm.
“I used to walk over 3 miles to school every day and when I was old enough I cycled...” He can finish the story he’s heard it enough times.

I didn’t live in ‘the sticks’ with a dark country lane measuring 1.2 miles and perverts who knows where...And anyway, by the time he’s made his bed and tidied his room and got his dinner money and things together I always end up having to chivvy him along and he’s never ready on time.
“Just get your breakfast, I’ll see...” He’s won...again.
“Thanks mum.” He knows he can twist me round his little finger.

The phone rings. It’s Workaholic Hubby sounding incredibly chipper, “Hi darling...Oh, me...yes, I’m fine...Just got here...it was a great journey...so much better than in the car. I had a nice coffee and bacon sandwich and got loads of work done....”
Grrrr.
”I’m just ringing to check if you’re up ok and if the boys are being good for you?”
“Oh, yes, we’re all fine, no worries.” I say breezily.
Grrr again.
“The dogs walked and the boys are just having breakfast. I’ve got the tea prepared. You have a good day.”

Twenty minutes after taking Idle Jack down the lane to the bus stop and I’m taking Quiet Mousie and the neighbour’s girl back down the lane to the bus stop.
Then it’s back up to the barn on the hill, and my dog and the birds...
What will I do today?

Maybe some sewing or a bit of crafting...











or writing...almost certainly a lot of dreaming...in between planning the veggies for the garden this year...I need to check how the strips of native hedging have taken. We've put them in between us an the neighbours for a little privacy. And my birds, of course.
But mostly today will be peace and quiet...that is until the boys come in from school and the chaos resumes.

Hmmm...And I’d better hoover up that dog hair too I suppose, or me and Simba will both be in the ‘dog’ house.


So until another day

Bye for now

Tardy Sights and Sounds Homework..

I have been shamed into blogging. Is it really nearly 2 months since I last blogged? Where does the time go?...
Holidays, getting the boys back to school, doing Craft fairs and parties, making stock for Christmas, orders and some health problems (again) But it is no excuse. I am no busier than anyone else nor do I consider myself ‘more important’ than anyone else not to do it. As the kind of person who is always usually driven to complete a task I am shamed into confessing that I never completed my homework. Does anyone remember the’Smells and Sounds that touch me homework?’ I know it hasn’t escaped a few of you that I never did mine...

As I write my list I am struck by how many of them are reminiscent of my childhood and see that after over forty years I am still happiest with the simple things in life...

SMELLS
The smell of the woodburner as I come into courtyard...makes me feel happy and secure at the promise of a cosy afternoon or evening reading or crafting and listening to music in front of the fire.

A roast dinner...As a young girl every day seemed to be a Sunday dinner day. Most days we ate the 'cheap' cuts of meat; breast of lamb, belly pork, heart or something similar. The meal was always accompanied by two types of potato, tinned green beans or peas and carrots and my Nan’s thick lumpy gravy.
These days the boys favour loin of pork, beef tail, turkey crown and whole chicken and we only usually eat a big dinner on a Sunday. My hubby and boys never fail to comment about the smell that permeates through the house on a Sunday afternoon when we have a something in the oven.

Ripened tomatoes...As a small child I used to visit my other Grandma and Grandad and spent all my time in the garden with Grandad Ken and his collie dog Jip while Nanny Burnett was indoors making the dinner or reading. Grandad Ken had the most wonderful greenhouse and vegetable plot, more like a small allotment....or it seemed to be to a small girl. Sadly I never saw Grandad after I was about ten years old. I recently found out that he died about eight years ago. So sad, I think of times past and wonder if my love of gardening comes from the short but precious times spent with him and the smell of the tomatoes that will forever remind me of him.

Lavender and roses...I have always had a love of ‘vintage flowers’ since the house I lived in with my Nan had a plethlora of colour and fragrance by the back and front doors. As a child I used to pick them and collect the fallen blooms and mix them with water to make ‘perfume.’ The strong aroma of those vintage flowers was so very different to the sticky green gunge that the perfume turned into after a couple of days.

At this time of year I am surrounded by the smells again as I make lavender bags and rosehip and rosebud hearts for Christmas Fairs and parties.












Carbolic Soap...Bathtime on a Sunday evening in front of the fire when Nan would fill the tin bath with hot water first and used to scold me when I complained about it always being hot.

Violets...or rather African violets which remind me of my old piano teacher who was an old tyrant and used to rap me on the knuckles when I got something wrong. But I still have fond memories of her and that part of my life.

Manure, muck, whatever you call it...I love the distinctive smell of any sort of smell that I so firmly associate with the country and a reminder that have fulfilled my dream to live in the country.

Cinammon and Christmas spices....this is another smell which drifts through our barn at the moment as every day I am making Garlands and Decorations for Christmas Stock.


Cinammon is such a sweet and sickly smell. But I love it. Anise, Nutmeg, Ginger, Cloves; such aromas remind me of Mulled Wine, Mince Pies, Christmas Pudding and Cake and all things Christmas....my favourite time of the year.












SOUNDS
Rain on the barn roof...Hubby calls me a hermit that I can craft on the island in the daytime with no radio or tv blaring away in the background. Instead I prefer to listen to the sounds of the countryside and there is nothing more relaxing than listening to the rain smattering onto the barn roof.
Birds chirping. All birds touch me. I get so much pleasure from ‘my birds’ and now know all of their songs. As I walk the mew of the buzzard makes me look up to see him gliding majestically overhead. I can tell when the woodpecker makes a flying visit past our garden, or when the blue tits are hungry and looking for food, or when Mr Robin is warding off any other robin who might be daring to steal some of the meal worms that I have put out for him. Or when the wagtail is chirruping. Or when spring has arrived and the first sounds of the swallows chattering away overhead tells me ‘they are back...’ And surely no better sound on a summers evening than to sit and listen to the blackbirds beautiful melody.
Crickets...warmth and association of faraway lands and holidays with pine trees and balmy nights.

Dog snoring...The dogs snoring always makes me laugh...to be so contented...Pity the hubby’s snoring does not have the same effect....
Piano music...I love almost all solo piano pieces and find I am unable to resist listening to a piece that is well played without being lulled into listening intently and hypnotised by the artist.

Piano music...like the franetic 'Flight of the Bumble Bee' by Nicolai Rimsky-Korsakoff can energise me and motivate me to do something I may well not want to do like housework. I can master the housework even if I can never master the ‘Vivace’ pieces with my arthritic fingers.
Listening (or playing) something like the beautiful Le Onde or Beethovens Moonlight Sonata has the ability to stop me in my tracks and entrance me to listen to the serene beautiful lilting. Braveheart-Love of a Princess or the magical Prelude No 2 played by someone wonderful like Dustin O'Halloran can move me to tears.

Please listen to this-it really is one of the most beautiful pieces of music I have ever heard. Such a talented composer and artist still not really recognised as great.

Laughter...Is infectious. Especially my Boys laughing. But in fact anyone laughing will touch me, and to hear myself laugh.



Right, I can tick another task off my 'things to do list'

So until another day

Bye for now

Quiet Mousie learns a hard lesson...in Greek...

“Go on darling..you will be fine, just say it nice and loud..” I encouraged Quiet Mousie as we sat at the table following our lunch in Stavros’ Greek taverna. Positioned along the quayside of the harbour and with the most welcoming and charming of owners, one Stavros and his son Nicos, it had soon become our regular lunchtime eatery and welcome respite from the mid day sun each day.

I caught the eye of one of the young waiters that we had befriended over the first five days of our holiday who quickly came across beaming at us. I looked at Quiet Mousie and smiled, giving him eager eyes “Go on then...” The waiter looked on amused.

“To logariasmo, parakalo...”whispered Quiet Mousie. The Greeks face lit up “Ahhh...” he said, and he beckoned to my youngest to follow him. Quiet Mousie is a timid soul at the best of times, so unlike his big brother. He looked a little hesitant. “It will be ok...go with him...you will be fine. I think he must be going to see Nicos and get the bill with you...”I assured him.

Me, Hubby and the eldest sat at the table cooing over him. Bless him. How proud we all were of him. The Greeks love you to make an effort speaking their wonderful language and my boys had delighted them all holiday, practising the language and ordering their food in pidgeon Greek. They always say “Kali Mera” (good morning,) “Kali Spera” (good afternoon) and displayed good manners, “Epheristo” (Thankyou.)

To ask for the bill is a very difficult sentence for a six year old. But Quiet Mousie had done it after five days of enviously listening to his big brother and the responses he got from the locals.

After he had been gone for more than a minute or two, we smiled and thought that the waiter had taken him into the kitchens to choose some ice-cream as they often do.

Two or three minutes passed and we presumed that he must be eating it in the kitchen.

After five minutes we started laughing between ourselves at the table and imagining him chatting away in the kitchen’s to the owners wife whilst eating his ice-cream.

Nearly 10 minutes later and knowing how shy Quiet Mousie is I sent the eldest to look for him. I had visions of him in a kitchen with the owners and not understanding a word they were saying!

Idle Jack came back “I can’t see him anywhere mum...”

About twelve minutes. Panic. Be rational. He’s fine. He’ll just be with Stavros or Nicos.

We waited another couple of minutes. I looked around. No sign of anyone. My heart starting to race a little now. “Where do you think he is?” I asked the hubby. With that the young waiter came back, alone.

“Signomi?” (Excuse me) I attracted his attention.“Poo eene o yos?” (where is my son?)
He looked around the taverna and shrugged.

Real panic now. We all stood up ready to dash through the alleyways looking for him. Maybe he was lost at the rear of the taverna somewhere?

We were just about to throw some money on the table and Nicos the owners son, walked in holding a bereft Quiet Mousie by the hand. He was sobbing and crying and slipped the hand of the Greek and flung himself into my arms, yelling at me and sobbing “Where were you mummy?”
“Oh my god, what happened baby?” I looked at Nicos and the waiter who both shrugged together this time.
Quiet Mousie was unconsolable. He sobbed and clung to me. I asked them to get him some water.
“Where did you get to?” I asked him. And he sobbed the story to me....

“That waiter ...he...he...took me to ...sob....the ...toilet....and he shut the ....door....sob...on...me...” More tears as the whole story came out of how he stayed in the toilet for nearly fifteen minutes bewildered as to why he had been put in there and the door closed behind him.

Initially I was angry.
Then I realised. The waiter had misheard him. Quiet Mousie had softly asked “To logariasmo, parakalo...”
The waiter had misheard him and thought he ask “To toiletto, parakalo...”


Poor Quiet Mousie.
It took him nearly two hours to calm down. And he continued to fret every time we ate out.
"Please Mummy, please don't make me speak any more Greek this holiday," he begged me.




No hard feelings with Nicos...


















So until another day


Bye for now

Simply Greece

There is something wonderfully seductive about the Greek way of life and it’s simplicity. Ever since my first trip to Crete as an eighteen year old girl I have, for over twenty years had a love affair with Greece-not the ancient history, art and architecture or mythical Greece, but it is the people of Greece and their outlook on life that capture my heart.

When the only place left on the Manos Website for a late getaway was a 1 star apartment in a tiny unspoilt island called Meganissi, satellite island to Lefkas we jumped to book it. We go to Greece to ‘lose ourselves’ and forget the worries and strains of daily life. I think out of twenty three years there has only been one year when we I haven’t visited Greece; the temptation to spend a week or two without a phone ringing or not knowing what the news headlines are always proves too much.
Meganissi is one of the Ionian islands but unlike it’s sisters, Kephalonia, Corfu, Lefkas etc time really does seem to have stood still. We reached it by ferry from Nidri, on the island of Lefkas, and were immediately struck by the contrast between the bustle of that busy resort and the quiet solitude of the picturesque harbour and fishing village of Vathy that we sailed into. We all felt the immediate sense of peace and calmness, the harbour entrance is flanked by chapels which apparently are there to bless all those arriving and leaving and to give boats safe passage. It must be one of the few last remaining truly authentic and unspoilt Greek Islands.















The Greeks are of course all great philosophers and love nothing more than to talk and put the world to rights. And as we stepped off the ferry the blue tables and chairs of the first taverna that we saw were already full of the local men sitting with expressos and ouzo discussing politics and world events while they whirled ‘worry beads’ and flicked them around their wrists.

Meganissi is an island, the antipethese of the larger commercial Greek Islands like Corfu or Crete; as we stepped off the ferry it was like taking a step back in time-unspoilt, charming and full of unadulterated natural beauty. The island is a miniature Greek Island, measuring just 20 sq kilometres and has a population of only approx 1400 people. There are only three villages, barely more than hamlets and with little tourist development. In each, a labyrinth of tiny lanes and alleyways like ‘kantounia’ form a maze of whitewashed stone houses and courtyards full of tin-potted plants to the top of the hillside. It is this that evokes the bygone eras, especially with so few cars on the island. .


How I wish I'd had more time to paint or sketch the small and spartan, clean little houses which are the stamp of the rural life of the village's inhabitants. Those remaining inhabitants of the island are farmers and fishermen, whilst those who have left were expert boatmen and sea captains.
















The main trade is still fishing rather than tourism and the fishermen go off for several months at a time on trips leaving the women sitting and tatting lace and shawls under the shade of the vines. For those left there are still olives to harvest, sheep and goats to milk and chickens to feed. In bygone years the villages were the centres of activity. Everybody would join in with the olive harvest to make oil to sell and corn was grown and milled in one of the many windmills to make flour. Nowadays, olive oil continues to be made on the island but in smaller quantities and is produced by machine instead of donkeys. Flour is no longer made so all that remains of the windmills are the round stone built towers that balance on hilltops and capes, bereft of their sails and looking forlorn.



A recently made road skirts the coast of the island making some of the little bays more accessible and gives a hint of development which may come in the future. However, for now it remains unspoilt, the most secluded bays can still only be reached by boat. The wildlife and habitat of the island is best observed on foot, although my boys found it too hot to do much walking. Paths and tracks twist across the island amongst the olive groves and maquis and the smell of pine emanates throughout. We hired a car for the week which helped with the mountainous tracks which give way to sheer hanging cliffs and the most spectacular views.















The beaches were typically Greek, although in Meganissi you often had the shingle and pebble stretches all to yourselves, even the week we were there which was ‘peak season.’ Sun loungers would have been a luxury and not in the vocabulary of this island so unfortunately the reed mats and towels didn’t provide cushion enough to be able to lie down and sun bathe for too long. But the discomfort was worth it to see the distorted faces the Workaholic Hubby pulled when trying to make a quick dash in and out of the sea!

















The electricity was a typical Greek experience in that it went off several times a day sometimes leaving no power for half a day at a time. We soon stopped plugging in the kettle so as not to overload the circuit and chose instead to stick to retsina and Mythos beers in the end. And it was a little problematic when for the last two and a half days of the holiday there was no water AT ALL to our apartment. Apparently the island had a shortage of water (Deliveries of water by tankers have to ‘shared out’ amongst the islands) Because our apartment was up the hillside the water pump was not powerful enough to pump the water up the hill it was so steep. But Workaholic Hubby managed going up and down the 30 or so steps to the sea, collecting buckets of sea water for the toilet, and our regular Taverna “The Rose Garden” kindly allowed us to use their shower blocks.

Nothing spoiled our enjoyment of this lovely island. It was as they say in Greece “Easy, easy...no worries...”

There were few other children except the locals for my boys to play with and no entertainment or organised activities. In fact there really was very little else to do on Meganissi other than soaking up the relaxing atmosphere of the picturesque villages and harbours, sitting in the shade of the simple tavernas, and ‘people watching.’ But my boys managed to charm the Greeks who adore children anyway with their attempts at speaking Greek. Over 20 years ago I had a baptism of fire backpacking across the Pelopenese and through ‘bandit country’ when no one for miles could speak English. Over the years I can now speak enough Greek to order food, book rooms, find my way around and converse in basic terms and whilst I am far from fluent, they appreciate so much any effort to speak their beautiful language. We manage, as we shrug and scowl and find pidgeon Greek and English between us to reach an understanding. I have tried to influence the boys to make an effort and this has been repaid by the joy on the Greeks faces as the boys try to get their teeth around the tricky words.

Another day I shall tell you the tale of my youngest, ‘Quiet Mousie’ and the trouble he landed himself in when trying to speak Greek in a restaurant. And also of an encounter ‘Workaholic Hubby’ had with Panos, “The only Gay Greek in the Village” and owner of our apartments...


So until another day


Bye for now

Quiet Mousie, the Entrepeneur...REAL Country Living and Runner Beans...

Few things in life can be so satisfying as harvesting (and better still, eating) your own freshly picked, home grown garden produce totally free of chemicals.

So it is a rewarding sight indeed at this time of year to see the bed filled to the brim with goodies that we have painstakingly nurtured from nothing earlier this year. We need to be patient now. It will be some months before we can pick the leeks, calabrese, purple sprouted broccoli, green pointed cabbage and sprouts. In between we have sown lettuce, radishes and rocket, quick growing and ripe for the picking when the leaves are small and tender. The slower growers need to develop thick sturdy bases ready for the winter winds that will surely rock them and test their robustness in their exposed position on the top of our hill.

Several years ago we lived at the old ‘Station House’ and had an enormous vegetable patch, more like an allotment. I cannot think of much that we didn’t have crammed into every row and the greenhouse full of exotics like chillies, aubergines and melons. When we moved house I had to ‘give in’ to the demands of full time market gardening due to my poor health. The optimistic beds we created gradually got smaller and smaller until just a few tubs of salad plants and runner beans remained.

Ah, that old stalwart... the runner bean...

For years they have been the staple of our summer diet. We didn’t particularly like runner beans when we started growing them. Their introduction was an attempt on my part to involve ‘Idle Jack,’ my eldest in the garden by capturing his imagination planting ‘giant beanstalks.’ But unlike his namesake he never even saw the first tendrils creep their way to the top of the cane before he had lost interest. For that small boy runner beans could not compete with Action Man or Power Rangers. But not so with his younger brother.

This summer I have a willing helper in the garden in ‘Quiet Mousie.’ His weekly trips to ‘Forest School’ and helping in the school garden have inspired him to show me how ‘green fingered’ he is. Forest School had also helped his fear of ‘mini beasts’ which had until this year somewhat hindered his efforts in the garden department. But his hands probe and tug at the soil now regardless of what lies beneath the soil. His favourite activity is helping me weed and water the raised beds and containers. His interest in nature and the garden is tireless and he now knows all about soil acidity and growing conditions and seed germination; his little brain like a sponge absorbing all I have to tell him and storing it in the recesses of his mind until one day he digs the first foundations of his own vegetable patch.
However one area that I won’t be able to impart my knowledge is how to avoid a ‘glut’ of runner beans. I have never mastered ‘succession planting’ with this old favourite and find over the years that however much you try and stagger the growing and planting out, the scarlet grape-like flowers and long green fingers all seem to grow at exactly the same time. By the end of the weeks we have usually given away more than we eat and are sick of the sight of runner beans.

For four weeks now Quiet Mousie has been out early in the morning with the colander picking them for me. He knows just the right size to pick them-when they are long and slender and just before they turn into thick cricket bats with fibrous strings! Still the canes creak under the weight of the beans that continue to proliferate the more we pick.
Earlier this week he sat and divided the beans into piles for a friend and our neighbours. Still there were pounds of them left. What to do with them? We already had ours for dinner. The freezer compartments are full with bags of prepared and blanched beans to see us through the autumn months. Me and Quiet Mousie laughed at how twelve small bean plants could have created the pound after pound of beans.
“I’ve got an idea mum, we could sell them at the bus shelter” He enthused.
“Hmmm, there may be something in that” I thought remembering how Primrose had sold bags of cherries last year by leaving fresh bags each day inside the shelter with an ‘honesty box.’

There is a surprising amount of people who go to the bus stop, mainly because the post box is position right next to it along with a telephone box. I hasten to add that as a bus shelter it is purely ornamental and has been redundant since about 1998 other than a gathering point for locals seeing the children on and off of the school buses that run past the edge of the village. However every evening the Shropshire Star Van lobs a large bundle of papers into the shelter as he hurtles past. We have no newspaper delivery in our remote part of the countryside, but anyone who wants a paper can come to the shelter and pick one up and keep abreast of local events.

Quiet Mousie carefully weighed and bagged up surplus runner beans and took three bagfuls to the bus shelter yesterday morning. It was deserted other than the doormice who have a home in there and a family of returning swallows who build two nests a year. We left a jar that was clearly labelled “THANK YOU-ORGANIC, HOME GROWN RUNNER BEANS-50P” He carefully positioned the bags and the jar so that they were alongside the ‘Egg Ladies’ boxes of eggs and twine wrapped bundles of Rhubarb.
As we drove to the post office later in the morning we checked to see whether any of the beans had sold. And as we came back from the Doctors in the afternoon we looked in again. The bags were still there.
“I hope they sell and don’t go all soft” He said looking disheartened. Then he beamed and added brightly “Still, it is early, maybe people haven’t gone out yet shopping yet?”

Late afternoon and me and the boys went to see our friend and take her runner beans. As we went past the shelter Quiet Mousie got out of the car to check whether the beans had even been moved. But they were still there. Idle Jack laughed.
“No wonder no-ones bought them...I hate runner beans! Uurrghh!” he said.
I threw him a look that told him to zip it and looked at the little one who was looking sadly out of the window. I texted Daddy, the Workaholic Hubby and tipped him off, suggesting that if the bags were still there when he got in later in the evening he might ‘buy them' and preserve our little ones feelings.

Our friend was delighted with the beans and by co-incidence showed me a jar of Runner Bean Chutney that she had in her fridge made by her Auntie Marian. We tasted it with sausage rolls and ham and it was delicious, although not to the boys taste.

As we drove back from her house a 4 x 4 was parked at the bus stop, as a man picked up his evening paper. So we pulled into the village and I sent quiet Mousie back to check for the umpteenth time on the bags of beans. He hid behind the trees until the car had moved off. He must have been gone a minutes or two and I was just about to get out and look for him when he came running over the grass verge with his face aglow, a huge smile beaming across his face and gushing,
“Mum, mum, You won’t believe this, but I’ve sold them! They have ALL gone. All three bags! That man in the car just took the last bag. And look at what I’ve got,” he directed at his older brother.
He uncurled his fingers carefully and there inside were two 50p pieces and what looked like the contents of someones trouser pocket in small coin denominations. We added it up. Short by 2p. They had obviously not expected to find such bounty at the bus stop. But I forgave them for the joy they gave to my little boy.

He clutched the money in his hand until he got home and counted it again. He went to bed talking of picking more beans in the morning and making some more money before we go on holiday at the weekend. Well Messrs Sainsbury and Marks and Spencer started somewhere didn’t they?...And I am sure when we checked on him as we retired for bed the smile was still fixed on his face as he slept...


I was wrong when I said there is nothing so good as harvesting your own produce...To a six year old selling it is SO much better...and seeing that smile on his face...priceless...


So until another day

Bye for now

PS-Below is Aunt Marians Recipe.



AUNT MARIAN’S RUNNER BEAN CHUTNEY
2lbs sliced beans- soaked overnight in water; drain; cook with salt and bicarbonate of soda. Strain and chop.
1 ½ lbs chopped onions
1 ½ pints vinegar
1 ¾ lbs demerara sugar
½ tablespoon turmeric
2 ½ tablespoons cornflour
½ teaspoon dried mustard
Salt to taste

METHOD
Cook onions in large pan in vinegar until fairly soft. Add sugar and chopped beans.
Mix turmeric, cornflour, mustard and salt into a smooth paste with a little vinegar. Then add to rest of ingredients in pan.
Simmer 15-20 minutes stirring often.
Pour into clean, warm jars, cover and label.
ENJOY!!

Nightime, or is it morning ramblings?...

I looked for the 'can't sleep' forum for 10 minutes at 4 o’clock this morning. I could have done it at 2.30am. Anyway it's not there so I left a comment on a ‘can’t sleep’ post and have sat down at PC again armed with tea and toast, to blog and see if that helps.

It feels a bit like a confession...I don't have time to blog at present and feel bad for not 'keeping in touch’ on purple coo as much as I should and reading everyone's blogs-6 weeks holidays and all that...hey ho, I always wished I could find more hours in the day. Maybe this is the answer?

I could no longer listen to the clock tick tick ticking in my head or stand the bedding being rythmically lifted up and down, up and down syncronised to the gentle "Pphhwww's" of the 'puffer Billy’ lying next to me.

Of course it’s his fault I am awake. The Workaholic Hubby has a VERY IMPORTANT meeting in London and has to be on the train. His last words as we went to sleep last night were "Please darling, whatever you do...kick me out of bed in the morning..."
And so it has been that since 2.30am I have worried about oversleeping...and getting all my orders finished before we go on holiday next week (we got to Greece on the 25th for a week.)

Then in my head, the great bikini v swimsuit debate...I'm only 40 for heavens sake...but despite being blessed with a boy like figure and only weighing nine and a half stone I still have a jelly belly. Two 9lb+ babys and a penchant for Maltesers and Galaxy chocolate. No chance to go swimming every day with the boys off school...and all the orders to do...and all the lists to make to remember everything before we go away.
Anyway swimsuits won't hide the cellulite on my flabby thighs.

It's Nans birthday on Saturday. I have kept the receipts because whatever I buy her won't be right. This birthday I have bought her a tracksuit. Not a Nike/chav type of track suit. She is 89 on Saturday and despite having survived a major operation and spending a week in ITU earlier this year, she won’t be running far with her squeeky zimmer. So it is a Bon Marche 'special'-plum coloured pants made from a soft feel chenille/crimpelene mix with an elasticated waistband and a co-ordinating cream and plum striped top, 'roomy fit' but not like a tent. I have cut the label out already as she doesn't like those sticking in her skin. But I bet she doesn't like the stripes...will say they make her look big...

Good job I have bought her a hand crafted cushion from one of my 'Made in Shropshire'colleagues. That will be the boys gift to her. I hope she can read the wording with her catarracts. I suspect she will complain about the buttons sticking in her back.



She rang me yesterday to tell me my Dad was coming over today from Hull.
“That will be nice for you,” I said.
“Yes, but I hope he doesn’t stop long, I don’t want to miss my programmes...I like my programmes in the afternoons...”
She doesn’t know but he’ll be leaving her at lunchtime. He’s meeting me for the 2nd time in 20 years... and his grandson's for the first time.

Idle Jack asked me last night “Do you think we’ll like your Dad Mum?”
“Remember he isn't just my dad, he's your Grandad" I replied, "and yes I think so. I do...” I answered.
He is a very likeable chap. My dad. Maybe I will become a ‘Daddy’s girl’ after all like some of my friends who that special bond with their dads... ‘Daddy’s Princess’...Maybe I am a bit old in the tooth for that. But it is nice to have him back in my life after all these years. All these wasted years...

Oh, how to tell Nan we are going away again. She complained last week when I came back from the caravan that I seemed to have been away most of the six weeks holidays. That's the idea. I am not her primary carer any more.
Maybe I should just go away and not mention it...she doesn't need to know. I could pretend I was at the Post Office when she tells me she rang...
She will only complain that I shouldn’t be leaving her when she’s so ill. And she won't make it to her next birthday. And that I need to protect the boys from the sun...and me getting skin cancer now I am ‘getting on a bit’...and gypsy’s abducting the boys...It’s the same every holiday. At least I am not going to Portugal.

Every day I think about little Maddie. Every day Quiet Mousie asks “Have they found little Maddie yet Mummy?” He must watch me watching the news. They won’t be out of our sight this holiday.

I haven’t got to Greece yet...Bags to make...Gingham Bags, Dinosaur bags, Fairy Bags, Pink Flower and Heart Bags, Boat Bags... ‘All personalised with a name/wording of your choice’... ‘an essential for the child starting school or nursery in September...’
Every year children start school in September and I say I am going to be better organised...Every year I don’t quite anticipate the demand for my little handcrafted items...but people like their children to have their own ‘special bag’ with their name on. Hand crafted in Shropshire and not 'Made in China.'

It is approaching 5am and the dog hasn’t lifted an eyelid to me. “Mad woman...” he dreams.

At least I didn’t sleep in.



Until another day

Bye for now