Elizabeth is taking a rest from blogging. She sends her love and best wishes to all her blog visitors and hopes to be back soon.

A final look at the hydrangeas before cutting them to dry. This year, I added more aluminium sulphate, coffee grounds and pine needles to the soil to influence a much bluer colour. I’ve tried various drying methods over the years, but the one I’ve found works best with hydrangeas is to cut the flowers when they are just starting to go papery and there are lots of clusters of the tiny flowers, removing the lower foliage and any browning leaves or petals. Put about two inches of water in a deep vase and arrange the flowers. Sounds batty, but by the time the stems have drawn up the water, the flowers are dry – it usually takes about a fortnight. To test whether they are ready, gently shake the individual flower stems – there should be no ‘give’ there.

I had never encountered this charming story before;  it was a gentle, lovely read, that absorbed not only me, but two of my children. It is a novel that sits very firmly in the historical fiction genre, set in a small village on the west coast of Korea in the mid to late 12^th century.

    The main protagonist is an orphaned child of about twelve, his approximate age marked by scratches on the bridge, underneath which he lives; Crane-man, the physically disabled, widowed beggar who looks after Tree-ear says, “When you first came and I began making those marks, you were in perhaps your second year – already on two legs and able to talk.” The two care for each other, Tree-ear scavenging for food amongst the rubbish of the other villagers, Crane-man weaving sandals from the reeds along the riverbank and acting as mentor, guide and purveyor of wisdom to his charge. They engage in philosophical discussions together, such as ‘does a good deed balance a bad one?’ and, ‘Is it stealing to take from another something that cannot be held in your hands?’                                                           

    Tree-ear loves to watch, from a discrete distance, the work of the village’s master potter, Min, and dreams of being a potter himself. One day, the potter is away from home and the boy goes to take a closer look at the pots drying in the sun, accidentally breaking one, whereupon he is forced to work for the brusquely mannered, Min, to repay the damage done. The child cuts wood for the kiln, learns to sift clay and observes Min at his work, but is not allowed to handle the pots as the trade is passed down from father to son, and as Min fiercely says, “You are not my son.” When Tree-ear sees another potter using revolutionary techniques he is divided in loyalty and morals, especially as there is to be a showcase of both potters’  work and the possibility of a royal commission. Morals win out and rival potter, Kang, is given the commission. From this, the story pivots to Tree-ear taking a long journey that is as much about self-discovery as miles covered.

   This is a book that interweaves Korean history, folktales and the technicalities of making early celadon ware into a page-turning story, with the author giving direction on the country’s culture and geography of the 12^th century, in a way that it is a privilege  for either child or adult to encounter. There is pathos, humour and opportunity to empathise with Tree-ear, who longs to know a sense of family and belonging. It is a short book, easily read in a couple of evenings and although aimed at the younger reader is not a disappointment for those in an older age group. 

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Review placed in ’Up To You’ category of 2010 Reading Challenge.

Sheffield’s, Kelham Island, was created by the building of a goit, fed from the river Don to serve the water wheels powering the workshops of the area, at the height of its industrial output, when inventions of technologies such as crucible steel gave a cutting edge over other towns. Since that time, it has become so built around, that the fact of the 900 year old island is almost imperceptible, but the historicity remains and gives its name to one of

The Kelham Island Museum, created in 1982, follows Sheffield’s industrial story from the 1700’s through to present day, using archive material and collected objects. From water to steam, revolutionary projects, exhibition pieces, innovations and mass production. The museum has recently been restored after being severely affected by the floods of 2007, which ruined many of the valuable items. Not surprisingly, then, the first exhibits pertain to the flood damage, comparing them with the Sheffield flood of 1864, which my very able blogger friend, Yorkshire Pudding, documented here. 

There are some fascinating artefacts and we as a family were kept occupied for most of the day. I actually took photographs of a lot of the display boards so that I could digest the information at leisure, later. There were things to marvel at such as the silver ship, the giant saw, the 136 piece pocket knife that is every twelve-year- old whittler’s dream and the cake knife that was used as a razor. The testimonies of the Steel Workers were in turn, gruelling, funny and riveting. I was  drawn to the room dedicated to the National Fairground Archive; although fairgrounds aren’t my thing, the evolution of the artwork used on rides was! One of my boys couldn’t take his eyes away from watching ‘Little Mester,’ Stan Shaw, at his work and another was enthralled by the conservation workshop, viewed from the transport gallery on the mezzanine floor. There was a lot to see. The boys asked many questions, about other aspects of history, from information given, which is always a good thing. There were some good, basic attempts to encourage the younger visitor, ‘though, oddly, some of these were not at child height. Yet, this visit somehow missed the mark for all of us. When a place resonates like this, I start to watch other visitors and see if their reaction is the same. We noticed a number didn’t stay long, then I overheard a gentleman talking to his family and his remarks equated with some of the things we had been saying. I always feel so sad when there are fantastic stories to be told, a wealth of things to be seen and yet there is such a block on the way that things are presented that the message becomes disconnected and distorted.

Please don’t hear me wrong. This museum has some amazing footage, information and objects, we picked up a great deal of knowledge and there was so  real a sense of  effort being put into the venture, that it seems almost churlish to be saying this, but remember that we are a very museum-orientated family, whereas many visitors will not be. For anyone wanting to investigate or research the history of the area, it is all there, but that is quite a different remit to something that functions and places itself as a tourist attraction and aims to draw families from all backgrounds. I think, perhaps, my youngest described it best when he said, “This place is all muddled up.” Some traditional museums are ‘muddled up’ and are all the more special for it, but Kelham Island was messy and inarticulate in what it was trying to convey. The children’s trail hadn’t been thought through properly, involved  covering the same terrain several times and was unattractively presented on several pieces of tatty paper. We abandoned the thing half way around and decided to look up the answers on Google, later! The boards were great and gave lots of information, but were too wordy for youngsters to pick out relevant bits. The sequencing of the museum didn’t appear to be very logically set out – though I can appreciate that that was very much dictated by the shape of the building – and some of the exhibits that are most likely to capture the imagination of young people were either too high up or hidden in amongst less important ephemera. The dressing-up clothes were missing and the smell box needed the fragrance re-vitalising.   Subdued lighting was correct and proper for some parts, but not appropriate for others. There seemed to be such a mis-match of concepts – and so much that could easily be sorted out cheaply and with a little direction.

What I will congratulate the museum on is its appreciation of disabled visitors. All information boards were replicated in Braille and there was full wheelie access, ‘though I would have liked to have seen a warning about the uneven floor levels before I hit the deck!

The café was plain, basic fare but quite adequate.

There is a small, gift shop area, but this closes at least twenty minutes before the rest of the museum. As I would imagine that this is a main source of income for the upkeep and improvement of the place, this is absolutely ludicrous. We, in common with a lot of families, always reserve the last quarter of an hour of a trip for the children to buy a souvenir of some kind, but this time they were not able to. There was no sign giving pre-warning of this. I had seen a local history book that I wasn’t able to purchase. A couple wanted to buy one of the more expensive items of silverware on display and were turned away. I counted thirteen groups of people heading out of the museum, all frustrated that they were unable to visit the gift shop area. Can they really afford to forego this revenue?

We had been looking forward to this trip, had talked a great deal about it and staying in the area for three days, had planned to visit the sister museum, Abbeydale Industrial Hamlet, the following day, but decided to go elsewhere, instead. Kelham Island has some great-sounding events lined up … not least, one featuring a ukulele band, later this month, which initially made my ukulele-playing son squeal with excitement, but now we’ve seen the place we are unlikely to return, which is sad, because it is a location rich in history and with so much potential to pass it on to new generations. 

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“September: it was the most beautiful of words, he’d always felt, evoking orange flowers, swallows, and regret.”
                                                                                                  -   Alexander Theroux.

Long, long ago, in this fair shire, there lived a Saxon chief by the name of Wade. Wade and his wife, Bell, were of giant stock; so huge in stature that no town could contain them, so they made their home on the expanse of the North Yorkshire moorlands. They were kindly rulers, both fine builders, but with only one hammer between them. Bell set to building Old Mulgrave castle whilst Wade built Pickering castle, contentedly flinging the hammer between them as they worked and shouting out a warning so as not to alarm the people nearby, for a giant’s hammer is a fearsome thing when thrown through the air.

Now it so happened that Bell had a cow. An enormous beast put out to pasture on rich grasslands near Malton. The task of milking the animal was an irksome one and as Bell made the daily journey there and back, usually after an arduous day’s building work, she became weary and the return route, carrying a huge jug of fresh milk through rough heather, caused her to stumble often, spilling the precious liquid along the way. Wade was an affectionate and attentive husband and hated to see his wife suffer in her daily toil, so he decided to build her a fine highway stretching from Eskdale all the way to Malton, to make the walk an easier one. He would call it ‘Wade’s Causeway’ and it would be a road of such strength that it would be sought out by future generations of walkers wishing to traverse across Wheeldale moor to milk their cows or, indeed, for any other purpose, for Wade was a generous and open-minded giant.

The task began. Wade gathered stones,  hurling them across miles to the place where he was working. When he needed earth, he scooped it up with his bare hands. Bell helped by filling her apron with stones and carrying them to Wade, but one day the weight proved too heavy, her apron strings broke and the stones were scattered all across the moor where they can still be seen today. Wade, in mock admonishment, picked up a clod of earth and playfully threw it at Bell who giggled with the fun of it all.  Where the heap of earth landed was named, ‘Blakey Topping.’

Wade concentrated so much on the work that he didn’t realise, until he was finished, that the earth that he had scooped out created a basin, ridged around the sides by the shape of his fingers, a natural amphitheatre measuring almost a quarter of a mile wide, a mile long and 600 feet deep. He called this tiny hollow – for so it was to him – the Hole of Horcum.

The couple lived out their days happily in married bliss, beloved of each other,  their two sons, Wayland and Egil, and the people he ruled, but also by many who skipped along the road that he had built and came to stare in amazement at what came to be known as the ‘Grand Canyon of Yorkshire.’

*Of course there are archaeologists and geologists who, although they cannot besmirch the very existence of Wade and Bell, for they are mentioned in medieval literature and their son, Wayland, is pictured on Franks’ Casket in the British Museum no less, will have you believe a different tale. They will tell you that Wade’s Causeway was built possibly by the Romans,  ‘though there are signs that it is earlier than that, and, even worse, will tell you that the Hole of Horcum was actually created by ‘spring-sapping’ and rainwater seeping through the porous rock. Springs are made when the water meets an impenetrable layer of clay below and this water gradually erodes the sides of the hole and enlarges it over many years. As if anybody would believe that …

The

North Yorkshire moors are my homeland. They are where my heart is and I feel their pull on my life with an emotion that I can’t find words rich enough to describe, especially at this time of year, when the heather is in full bloom. The deeper coloured, ‘bell heather,’ comes first, with its characteristic shape and tinkling sound when a hand is brushed across it and then the more easily thought of Ling (coming from the Norse, ‘Lyng’ and the Anglo-Saxon, ‘Lig’, both words meaning ‘fire’ and referring to the plant’s usage as a fuel). The Ling has a wide variant in its colouration, ranging through a spectrum of coppers, greens, purples, pinks and white, but the scenic effect of vast acres of it is a velvety, purple haze that imprints an image on your memory for ever. The locations of white heather patches are passed on  from one moorland generation to another and are never revealed to outsiders incase the plants be uprooted for their rarity value or their supposed disposition to good luck.  

Legend has it that when God created the world, He looked around at the hillsides and stretches of land that He had made and felt something was missing. These places needed an extra special tree or flower to enhance their beauty. So, He went to see the Oak Tree, the biggest and strongest of all the plants that He had made, and asked him to stand on the hills and far-reaching plains to make them more beautiful. The Oak Tree gently refused, explaining that he needed deep, rich soil in order to grow and put down strong roots; the spongy peat, poor soil and the rocks that were in those places were no good to him.

 So God left the Oak Tree and sought out the Honeysuckle with its delicate yellow and pink flowers and beautiful, sweet fragrance. He asked the honeysuckle if she would like to grow on the hillsides, spreading her beauty and fragrance amongst the barren slopes. The Honeysuckle thanked God most politely but refused Him, also. She needed a wall or at least another plant to cling to and climb up, so the sparse hills would not do for her.

God turned to another plant, considered by many to be the most beautiful of all – the Rose. He asked her if she would grace the rugged country with her splendour. The Rose was flattered, but declined. The hills were no place for a plant that needed pampering; the winds, rain and cold would destroy her in no time.

 Disappointed, God turned away. He had looked to the strong, the fragrant and the beautiful, but still had no covering for the hillsides and land that He had created. Then He spotted a small, green, low-lying shrub with the tiniest of petals in purple, pink and white. It was the Heather.

He wasn’t sure how it would look on His hillside, but He asked the question anyway. Would the Heather be willing to grow on those lonely places. The plant thought carefully. She thought about the poor soil, the wind, the rain and the cold and hesitated, but replied that if God wanted her to do it then she would accept the challenge and go there.

As a reward for her willingness, God gave the Heather some special gifts.  First, He gave her more strength than the Oak Tree, making the bark of the Heather the strongest of any plant or shrub in the whole world. Then, He gave her a fragrance stronger than the Honeysuckle, making her scent highly prized  for soaps and fragrances. Finally, God gave the Heather a  sweetness greater than that of the Rose, ensuring it would become one of the bee’s favourite flowers.  

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If I had to say what my favourite meal of all was, I would have no hesitation in answering. There is nothing nicer than homemade bread, still slightly warm from the oven, homemade butter, a slab of Kit Calvert cheese and a russet apple, freshly picked from the orchard. If the whole is conveyed in a basket covered with a cloth, cut with a pearl-handled pocket knife, eaten on a beautiful hillside and accompanied by a bottle of Daleside Crackshot that has served its time dangling by the bottle neck in a nearby cool stream, then all the better. It works as  a family meal (substituting the beer for Fentiman), but, for me, this is an indulgence that is best shared with an extremely, special friend.

S. and I have been friends for almost thirty years. Neither of us can really remember the first encounter but we both recall that as soon as we saw each other we just knew that it was meant to be and although we live at opposite ends of the country now, when we speak on the phone or meet up, it is as if we’re just carrying on a conversation that never stopped. S. knows more about me, my hopes and fears, my disappointments and my pleasures, my foibles and my talents than anyone else on this earth. He knows my perfume, what makes me laugh and what I like to read. He intuits when something is wrong and is the first to encourage me when he knows I need it.  He’s never afraid to be honest with me, sometimes bluntly so, and I appreciate that so much.  I hope I’ve done as much for him. We’ve been there for each other through some major upheavals. We know that we can totally rely on each other and we’ve talked about every subject under the sun, never knowing any taboos. He can read the expressions of my face, the intonations of my voice and knows exactly where I’m coming from. There’s no point in putting on a front when S is around me, because he sees right through it. We differ in lots of ways that many would see as a barrier, but none of them matter. S is my friend and that bond transcends any differences. He knows my secrets and I know his. Sometimes our friendship has been misunderstood by others, but it always pulls through.

I have lots of acquaintances; most of them are very special people. I’m even privileged to call some of them friends. I have an amazing family whom I love beyond measure.  But the kind of friendship that  S and I share is as rare as hen’s teeth.

Every year, when the moors are at their most beautiful, we meet. On that hillside, sharing our simple meal, we laugh, cry, walk  and hug, carrying on the intimate, deeply rich, conversation that runs through our silences as well as our words and that hasn’t halted for nearly three decades. A celebration of friendship.

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“With every friend I love who has been taken into the brown bosom of the earth a part of me has been buried there; but their contribution to my being of happiness, strength and understanding remains to sustain me in an altered world.”
                                                                                  – Helen Keller

“The friendship that can cease has never been real.”
                                                                                  – Saint Jerome

Woken up by youngest son, eager to show me his newly acquired skill at  juggling with three neon mice, one of which later lands in my glass of freshly squeezed, orange juice with a hint of cayenne pepper, splattering said liquid over older son’s just-bought-to-impress-the-new –girlfriend t-shirt.  Begonia scented washing capsules have been left on the kitchen windowsill and melted in the heat, so resort to expensive, liquorice, salon shampoo to wash stain out of, “mumitsruinedthatstain’llnevercomeout,” garment, whilst simultaneously comforting youngest son who steadfastly believes his sibling’s intentions of pinning Thornton softy cat, by his ears, to the notice board.

Hanging out the washing, a man wanders into the garden to tell me the end of the world is nigh unless I pay a yearly subscription to his magazine and take to wearing black outfits that reveal nothing of my body but my left ear-lobe. I am doomed to hell and have the runner beans trampled  in the process of evacuating him.    

Regular readers of my comment boxes will know that the lovely people at Acer sent me a new fan for my computer from their special ‘obsolete’ box in Japan.  For four days it was fantastic. No more overheating. I could relax and write knowing that it wasn’t all going to disappear in a puff of ether. Then the fan cut out again, so, I go to discuss the matter with my local repair man.

“Ah,” he says, with a serious shake of the head and one of those looks that some men perfect from the moment they are born to mean, ‘Women know nowt’,  “…thing is you’ve had your ear-phones in. You can’t expect the fan and the ear-phones to work together, love. ” Now, I know that my understanding of computer electronics is seriously under par; I wouldn’t know a heatsink or a Celeron if I tripped over it and my definition of  ‘Motherboard’ is when the lads are all out and I’m left at home with the ironing, but, somehow, I’d hoped for a more constructive outcome. Matter unresolved, I tuck my darling antique under my arm and exit shame-faced at my blatant misdemeanour in listening to the Archers whilst processing the household bills.

Sit in the sun to work out designs for my new quilt. A series of blocks representing some of my blogging friends. Half way through appliquéing a few French knots on a well-risen Yorkshire pudding when a couple saunter down the garden path with bowls under their arms and start picking blackberries. They see me, but ignore me and carry on. I watch, bemused. I never could abide brambles since I found out about the maggots, at the grand old age of two, so they are welcome to them. 

Somewhere along the line, I drift off and end up in a weird, psychedelic world where the embroidered Yorkshire Pudding and a bramble-picker are arguing on a Flamborough cliff top, but just at the point where someone is about to topple over the chalky edge, they resolve their differences, nod sagely at each other and mutter under their breath, “Ay, well, sithee, now. We’ll say ne moor aboot it.”

Drowsily coming round, I wander back into the house where the hall is submerged in six inches of water and the neon mice are doing backstroke. Our  rusting, 1910 original, double radiator with art nouveau curlicues, which dearly beloved reckons is a major selling point of our Edwardian abode, has sheared off the wall and created a crater in the, more of a major selling point, encaustic tiles, which now resemble the Brantingham mosaic. I paddle back to the kitchen to locate the stop-cock under the sink. Sitting there, soaking wet clothes sticking to me, I can’t shift the thing. It refuses to budge. Youngest, dressed for the occasion in wellies and oversized Barbour, saunters in and says, “Let me try.” I humour him. He swiftly turns the valve with his podgy, little hands and the water spurting from the ruptured pipe slows to a trickle and then stutters to a halt. Every towel in the house is commandeered in the mopping up operation.

 By the time, we are finished, I am near to tears and exhausted. A little boy in Batman pyjamas sits on the end of my bed.

“Never mind, mum, this’ll cheer you up.”

He squeezes the dirty, cold water from three neon mice onto the duvet and proceeds to juggle.

And his giggle as I mock-grimace and wriggle my toes away from the wet patch, makes every moment of this peculiar day worthwhile.