Off the Beaten Track- Freshwater's Elegant Economy

Dearest Emily,

Do you remember when we spoke about Elizabeth Gaskell's 'Cranford', and in particular its 'Elegant Economy'?

Well, fast-forward one and a half centuries or so, and I shall set the scene here-abouts...

Though not constrained by Victorian sensibilities, and without the 'shape' of a season (April to late September) and societal houses to hop from- the innate sense of economy- (possibly in living memory from the second World War) prevails.

But here, to my mind- it has something else.

One big reason for me- is the locality. The rich, mind-provoking if not blowing landscape is something appreciated throughout the economic scale- and it is possibly that one sphere that determines my topic of observation.

There is an un-avoidable and spoken or unspoken agreement of 'otherness' here. Whether its the grandeur of the panoramic cliff scenery, the expanse of sea, the rural settings right beside- something bigger than ourselves is omniprescent.

Grumpa and I in our relatively short history here, have always decreed that the Island chooses, and gives and takes in equal measure. Maybe it is something to do with it being an Island- metaphorically if you put your arms out, you feel that something you do, might make a bit of a difference.

How this translates, in my focus, becomes something quite amazing.

I first saw this when engaged in running the Trading Company at Dimbola ( Julia Margaret Cameron's former home- now Museum to her work. ) It had a fantastic support mechanism of Volunteers ( as does many a Museum. ) However, Dimbola's Volunteers struck me particularly. It didn't matter what the politics where, or how their circumstances panned out- they love the place and gave and gave and gave. When one suggested we should enter the ring for a National award, and goaded me on facebook, I must admit, I thought it a little above our then current sites. Transforming and theming a Tearoom and Gift shop in a month. But- whaddy know Em, we did all the work necessary with a budget of £1,500, because the volunteers deemed it so. And, with their help, we actually won the award over the great and the good of Museum-hood.

I wouldn't have entered the ring without their encouragement, and it could never have been achieved without their application.

Then, when I left, I thought that the magic I felt there, belonged to the house and appreciation of Julia Margaret Cameron and all that went with her. But no! - since my journey of six months took me to my new/old shoppe that you will see on Feb 22nd- the 'magic' is alive and kicking and rocking in Freshwater and the West-Wight.

We opened our new/old shop at Christmas. I wanted to test the waters in low season here, as Freshwater has a strong mix of local and in season- tourist custom. I have been amazed and delighted by the support and by the way this cherished community works.

To give it a 'personality' might be the best way to show you what I mean. Of course, money changes hands here as is the establishment norm. But not as much as you'd expect in order to live. Maybe the long history of smuggling comes in here. Local fishermen share out a catch. It is normal to run an account at Orchards the local shop which celebrates its 150th anniversary this year. In the distant past- children of the 'back of the Wight' often went to buy groceries saying "Mum says she will pay you next shipwreck" . I've been pleasantly surprised over my Morris Minor's regular demises meaning she was a regular visitor to the doctors- and when she was made better- to be told to pick her up and settle when you are ready. There's a lot of trust here. Trust works- much more often than it doesn't. At the end of the summer- boxes of apples, pears, cucumbers and marrows are left out- with messages to 'help yourself'. Eggs sold similarly with an honesty box to pay into. Dogs with owners at work are often walked for free by someone who wants the exercise and a dog to go with them.

There's more too Em, I've been amazed at the support I've had to get my shop up and running. Books donated, books sourced and sold in. Volunteer cover while I walk my dogs. Spare reading glasses donated in case customers forget them. Local knowledge about news, council affairs, the thoughtfulness and peripheral vision around here is second to none.

Today, along these lines, I am the 'banker' for a local collector who needs to raise a sum over the next few months. So- he strikes a deal- here are some books (thoughtfully those that I favour.) The profit is mine- the books all a set price. He wants the money as he needs it. A week or so's notice.

And I could go on. My point my dear Em, is that there's a magic that comes from somewhere that has a great deal of commonsense and humanity about it. I would call it elegant. It has a quiet pride and dignity. It takes no prisoners, it just keeps things going around, and it is nice.

Signing off, as I have just seen the snaps of you on your holiday (poser!), lucky you- looking forwards to seeing you here later this month,
Your ever-loving Grand-mother, GiGi xxxx

Freshwater Malarkey

Dearest Emily,

Knee deep in some research currently regarding Secret Societies and their Island history, I was delighted to discover one today- that's right up my Carrollian street!

Whaddya know Em, this was 1862- right at the time when dear Edward Lear was becoming famous for his Nonsense, and Dodgson was here-abouts lionising Tennyson, and scribing squibs and parodies a-plenty about his Oxford peers. Just down the lane in Norton was the HQ for a satirical 'Society'- with its own Poet Laureate, and Fizz/Lear/Punch-esque illustrator.

The 'Larky-Lot' met for the season at West-Cliff House. With members from society local and on North-Island (near where you live for example Em) their motto was Semper Roare.

A tongue-in-cheek bunch, they wrote verse, drew cartoons and generally involved themselves in silliness.

Here's another example of their nonsense- a Limerick about Norton, where GiGi lives.

There was a young person of Norton

Whose cloak was by no means a short 'un

When they asked " Is it long?"

She replied  "Get along"

That evasive young person of Norton

So, the fashion for nonsense didn't confine itself to children's verses, or the still to be written Alice and in particular- Through the Looking Glass. 'Twas something in the zeit-geist breeze Emily, and a less stuffy, straight-laced and repressed take on the Victorians than commonly opined.

Maybe it was just here in Freshwater that the daft-mood overcame our Victorian visitors- though I doubt it. But there is something in the air here Em, don't you think?

Your ever-loving Grand-mother,

GiGi xxxx

Birds of a Feather

Dearest Emily,

I am looking forward to your next visit. We shall have our tea-party at GiGi's new old shop. Last time you were here it was all sixes and sevens. Now it is a more ordered number.

My new route to work takes me over Golden Hill, where a Victorian Fort was built (now turned into apartments.) Golden Hill must take its name to the incredible golden light that the daily sunshine beams across the hill, with its myriad walks around its circumference. Then, again at sunset- its position allows golden vistas across towards Totland. I'm loving just drinking in the ever-changing light on my way to and home from work.

Daddy warns me that you now constantly dress as a Princess, and that you are going through a rather 'wilful' stage. Hmm, I cannot affect surprise there. Mummy and Daddy's gene pool have generated a mix to be reckoned with. Of course, GiGi was an angel-child with no predisposition to wearing whatever she felt like and causing imaginative mayhem whenever the mood overtook her- you must have inherited it elsewhere!

So- moving on (birds of a feather.) GiGi's painting challenge is to decide on the first of the month what to paint from the landscape around me. I am not allowed to predict it- just find something each first of the month- and paint it.

January first saw me plodding off to work at my new old shop. As I walked over Golden Hill, suddenly a flock of Pigeons swooped up above me. It was an overcast day- but still here-abouts there's that magical light that shines through whatever weather fronts abound.

I didn't like Pigeons. Neither did Uncle Joe- we used to walk together to school in Marylebone silently annoyed by their omnipresence, scavenging and flapping away at every corner it seemed. Eventually we spoke about it- and nick-named them 'flying-rats'. They seemed to be about more when take-aways were discarded in the streets, and everywhere after the markets off Lisson Grove.

They seemed to us- colourless, irritating creatures. So- why, here on the Isle of Wight did they seem less irksome? Bonkers, I thought, and even now Uncle Joe is a full-blown Teen-ager with less bent for unintelligent discussion with his mum about the merits of birds- he too announced that he didn't take against them here.

So, I started to paint what I saw on January first- and looked up examples of my quest.

Hah! The Pigeons here- very varied in colour aren't yer common or garden ferral variety. They are called 'Rock-Doves' that inhabit the Islands around the UK. They do- Em, rather look more like Doves, than the Pigeons you are used to from Fulham, and I imagine in Tonbridge Wells too.

And, they vary in colour.  All over the place, some fan-tailed with much white, some skewbald brown and white- and lots of shades in-between.

I shall use them as my example for my post to you this week, dear Em. Birds of a Feather still come in different sizes and guises. As we know, and you are showing us...

Your ever-loving Grand-mother, GiGi xxx

Ygdrasil

Dearest Emily,

It was fun talking to you on Christmas eve. I shall need to tell you something about my 'conversation' with Father Christmas (who arrived just out of face-time frame) one day- but that can wait.
It was also charming to see Annabel's delight- again on face-time over her favourite gift- a music-box that played 'La Vie en Rose'- GiGi's favourite piece and sentiment.

Oh, the magical joys for children at Christmas.

Grumpa and I, as I mentioned in my last post- were set to enjoy a well-earned rest- post house and shop move.

Which we did. Our little cattle shed cottage, a completely different environment to Christmasses-past. No little children, no big children (no Monopoly- that Uncle Eddie insists we play every year.)

Even Uncle Joe was away, as you know, because he came to you for his birthday two days ago- and Daddy, Uncle Ed and him painted the town of Tonbridge Wells their own particular shade of vermillion.

And you know what Em, that's just how it should be. We had just what we needed. A rest-ful, cosy and peaceful Christmas, peppered with shop days, Lifeboat for Grumpa, and lunch over with Kyra of Cowes.

Ahh, and I got to finish my December painting. Whilst I was about its painting- I kept thinking about 'Ygdrasil' which was a doodle that a character called Henrietta made constantly throughout Agatha Christie's 'The Hollow'.

Though I haven't read it since I was about thirteen, something about the imaginary wriggly tree seemed aposite.

So, I nick-named it Ygdrasil. It is our Beech tree here in our garden Em- a magnificent old beast of a tree. I'm very fond of it.

As I neared finishing my painting- I looked up Ygdrasil- thinking it only a Christie phenomenon- and here's my findings- (Wiki)

The cosmos in Pagan Norse mythology consist of Nine Worlds that flank a central cosmological tree,Yggdrasil;

Pronounced [ˈyɡːˌdrasilː]) it is an immense tree that is central in Norse cosmology. Yggdrasil is attested in thePoetic Edda, compiled in the 13th century from earlier traditional sources, and the Prose Edda, written in the 13th century by Snorri Sturluson. In both sources, Yggdrasil is an immense ash tree that is central and considered very holy. The gods go to Yggdrasil daily to assemble. The branches of Yggdrasil extend far into the heavens, and the tree is supported by three roots that extend far away into other locations; one to the wellUrðarbrunnr in the heavens, one to the spring Hvergelmir, and another to the well Mímisbrunnr. Creatures live within Yggdrasil, including the wyrm (dragon) Níðhöggr, an unnamed eagle, and the stags Dáinn, Dvalinn, Duneyrr and Duraþrór.

Conflicting scholarly theories have been proposed about the etymology of the name Yggdrasill, the possibility that the tree is of another species than ash, the relation to tree lore and to Eurasian shamanic lore, the possible relation to the trees Mímameiðr and Læraðr, Hoddmímis holt, the sacred tree at Uppsala, and the fate of Yggdrasil during the events of Ragnarök.

Around Yggdrasil, units of time and elements of the cosmology are personified as deities or beings. Various forms of a creation myth are recounted, where the world is created from the flesh of the primordial being Ymir, and the first two humans are Ask and Embla. These worlds are foretold to be reborn after the events ofRagnarök, when an immense battle occurs between the gods and their enemies, and the world is enveloped in flames, only to be reborn anew. There the surviving gods will meet, and the land will be fertile and green, and two humans will repopulate the world.

Hah! More reason to research if ever I needed some.

Here is my picture- I hope you like it.

And so we shall see you here in January Emily- looking forwards to it very much. I hope you have had a marvellous Christmas- see you next year,

your ever-loving Grand-mother, GiGi xxx

A Fezziwig Christmas

Dearest Emily,

As Christmas Day approaches, I expect your excitement knows no bounds and Mummy and Daddy rush around with all the preparations for your first Christmas at home together. Uncle Joe is off to his Daddy's and Grumpa and GiGi are quite frankly looking forwards to a much quieter Christmas than historically- here in our new little old house.

Following years of Family Christmasses, this year after moving house and opening a shop- it figured as a welcome break for Grumpa and I. Fast approaching, we made vague plans for Christmas lunch over at Cowes (a first to have Christmas Dinner away) and carried on with the businesses at hand.

Then, on Saturday night we set off for two parties (two-Em, and we rarely go out!)

A busy day at the shop- a quick turnaround and out- all the way down the lane to a neighbours house! It's the first time we have met many of them. In this quiet dark peaceful little valley, at this time of year- without any street lighting we are more likely to come face to face with a fox- rather than a human. So, in we go, and are warmly welcomed by a sea of cheerful faces, mince pies and mulled wine accompanying. Almost immediately, I was introduced to three charming children, aged between seven and eleven, who announced that they had just got off the ferry and were about to sing carols- and would we join in please. A few numbers later, I turned round to see the whole room engaged in 'The twelve days of Christmas' acting out seven swans a-swimming, six geese-a-laying etc. It would have been impossible to feel anything other than welcomed and involved in this yearly tradition (Some things never change Em- as I read about the residents here-abouts in a book dated 1897- 'the people revel in freedom and unconventionality here'.) Off we went, having sung and chatted and felt very cheery to the second venue on our little junkette. A Pagan Yule this time. Once again- the welcome, this time accompanied by home-made Meade, and soup,  and decorated pine-cone gifts was the same. 

Two very different parties, but the very same sentiment.

And dear Em, that is the story of my post. Christmas should be everything it is to you and Annabel- magical, exciting and exhausting for your parents! As you grow up things change and evolve. Grumpa and I now have a Christmas holiday together- glad of a few days well-earned rest. 

Christmas to me now means a warm and cheery celebration in the middle of Winter- when the days are short and the nights dark and long. A mid-point before the awakening of Spring, where we use up food in the store-cupboards, visit family and friends- old and new, make fancy gifts and trimmings to dress-up our daily landscapes.

Here is a passage from Dickins Christmas Carol- that sums it up for me this year-


Clear away! There was nothing they wouldn't have cleared away, or couldn't have cleared away with old Fezziwig looking on. It was done in a minute. Every movable was packed off, as if it were dismissed from public life forevermore; the floor was swept and watered, the lamps were trimmed, fuel was heaped upon the fire; and the warehouse was as snug, and warm, and dry, and bright a ballroom as you would desire to see on a winter's night.

In came a fiddler with a music book, and went up to the lofty desk and made an orchestra of it and tuned like fifty stomach aches. In came Mrs. Fezziwig, one vast substantial smile. In came the three Misses Fezziwig, beaming and lovable. In came the six followers whose hearts they broke. In came all the young men and women employed in the business. In came the housemaid with her cousin the baker. In came the cook with her brother's particular friend the milkman. In came the boy from over the way, who was suspected of not having board enough from his master, trying to hide himself behind the girl from next door but one who was proved to have had her ears pulled by her mistress; in they all came, any-how and every-how. Away they all went, twenty couple at once; hands half round and back again the other way; down the middle and up again; round and round in various stages of affectionate grouping, old top couple always turning up in the wrong place; new top couple starting off again, as soon as they got there; all top couples at last, and not a bottom one to help them.

When this result was brought about the fiddler struck up "Sir Roger de Coverley." Then old Fezziwig stood out to dance with Mrs. Fezziwig. Top couple, too, with a good stiff piece of work cut out for them; three or four and twenty pairs of partners; people who were not to be trifled with; people who would dance and had no notion of walking.

But if they had been thrice as many, oh, four times as many, old Fezziwig would have been a match for them, and so would Mrs. Fezziwig. As to her, she was worthy to be his partner in every sense of the term. If that's not high praise, tell me higher and I'll use it. A positive light appeared to issue from Fezziwig's calves. They shone in every part of the dance like moons. You couldn't have predicted at any given time what would become of them next. And when old Fezziwig and Mrs. Fezziwig had gone all through the dance, advance and retire; both hands to your partner, bow and courtesy, corkscrew, thread the needle, and back again to your place; Fezziwig cut so deftly that he appeared to wink with his legs, and came upon his feet again with a stagger.

When the clock struck eleven the domestic ball broke up. Mr. and Mrs. Fezziwig took their stations, one on either side of the door, and shaking hands with every person individually, as he or she went out, wished him or her a Merry Christmas!. 

Happy Christmas darling Emily and Annabel- your Grand=parents shall be Mr and Mrs Fezziwig this year!

Your ever-loving Grand-mother, GiGi xxx

Mrs Dipity

Dearest Emily,

When I began your 'Tales from the Bookroom' blog, it was fired by my experiences working in The Book shop in Yarmouth. I was constantly surprised, delighted and mystified by the serendipitous alchemy that books in a shop, and the people who desire them produced. Add into the mix some Classic FM, and a zen-like happiness and ever-winding trail of unexpected events seemed to unfurl.

So, dear Em, it has been for myself. The tangents that I've set myself off on- fired up by books and their life-style- have all culminated in my own Bookshop/cafe. Who knew!

It's such fun Em, books to sell, and meeting the interesting people who want them. Plus coffee and cake on tap.  However, an unexpected problem has occurred. Apparently- I am not Mrs Middleton.

There have been so many times that I have been told I don't look like her- and I shall simply have to aquiesce. So here she is Emily- introducing 'Mrs Middleton' (or- as I prefer to call her 'Mrs Dipity'.)

I shall remain, your ever-loving Grand-mother,

GiGi xxx

Hearing the grass grow, and the Squirrel's heartbeat

Dearest Em,

Looking around and thinking about the subject for my November paint challenge, I was as usual uncertain. It seemed very easy to find August- the hot summer and the rich tapestry hereabouts meant a very quick decision. September also came in a flash whilst on my bicyclette travelling homewards. October a little harder in thought- but again the opportunity presented itself en route to work.

October's piece became all about the beginnings of Autumn- as the climate has been pretty temperate, and the oranges and reds were just starting to overtake the lush greens of the landscape. As I have cycled along the same path since, it has made me notice all the more, the subtle daily changes as the season progresses.

November, at least to my mind- should be harder. Historically November and February have been my least favoured months of the year. They held for me a kind of not-very-much-ness, even here by the wild and windy coast- I have to admit. The poem for November that always came to my mind was 'No', by Thomas Hood.

Now, adding in a double-move challenge to our new little house and my new shop- leaving it to the first of November and what chance might show me- was causing a little dilemma. I've committed myself to twelve paintings, painted at the time I see them, and I don't want to fall at the fourth fence because the practicalities of life get in the way.

Lucky me then, as the opportunity to cycle to the Bookroom was afforded by the weather. As I turned left off of Blackbridge road and onto Afton Nature reserve, I wished I had worn wellies, not suede boots as I had to hop off and walk through the muddier bits of path. Then, there was a tree that had fallen almost across my tracks- so I hopped off again. Daddy did his 'Tough-Mudder' challenge recently Em, this is GiGi's equivalent.

Anyhow- as I squelched through the mud with my heavy-framed 1970's bike- all of a sudden a Squirrel ran across the path in front of me. I whipped out my camera as he shot up the fallen tree and I snapped away.

Here he is...

He even looks as though he is looking at me!

At the Bookroom, I trawled the shelves for books about Red Squirrels. It is a widely known fact that they are still surviving on the Isle of Wight, though the Grey ones have overtaken the species in the rest of the British Isles. I've glimpsed him before- and another further along the Causeway, but never been able to capture one on camera.

Let's name him 'Squirrel Afton' Emily, and imagine him a descendent of Beatrix Potter's Squirrel Nutkin, his brother Twinkleberry, and his cousins, who rafted over to Owl Island to collect nuts.

I hope we see him again Emily, let's search on one of your visits.

For me, and my project, I've discovered a few things.

1. Leaving my subject 'to chance'- prevails again, sureing up a sense to trust what comes up before me.

2. I shall eschew 'No' by the good Mr Hood as my choice of words about November. Instead- these words from Mary Ann in 'Middlemarch' by George Eliot summarise better my journey;

"If we had a keen vision and feeling of all ordinary human life, it would be like hearing the grass grow and the squirrel's heartbeat, and we should die of that roar which lies on the other side of silence. As it is, the best of us walk about well wadded with stupidity."

Well that has told me! I shall trust what December offers. Now, back on with the unpacking and decorating.

Your ever-loving Grand-mother, GiGi xxxx