Marbling the Village Hall

Yesterday afternoon the tiny village hall was almost filled to bursting (slight exaggeration) as a dozen ladies of the parish attended our monthly TED's meeting.



They didn't come along for the local history, and I am fairly sure the refreshments were not what got them across the threshold.  My bet is that the chairman of our local Parish Council 'whipped' them in, for she was hosting the meeting and had arranged for someone to come and demonstrate the ancient art of marbling.


Whatever the answer, it was good to see the hall buzzing with conversation and activity.

The newcomers were introduced and some people found that they had been living almost next door to one another for over three years and yet had never met...and this is in a very small village - the total number of parish residents is 185, and a good number of them don't live in the village.

Then the demonstration got under way.    Our instructor explained the process, then showed us how to marble on fabric, paper, stones, wood, tiles - almost anything which is porous and can be submerged.    It was fascinating and magical.

Lots of different techniques, no two are ever the same.

This is a tiny mounted canvas - a few twirls with a cocktail stick, to swirl and curl the paint, a quick dip, and this pattern is what appeared.


A very jolly couple of hours passed, eventually we left clutching our own pieces of marbled fabric.

The lovely Miss Read was there, of course.  She enjoys anything to do with crafting and was one of the first ones to get stuck in and have a play.

She was also absolutely thrilled to bits when she spotted the enormous woollen tablecloth( click for story) which used to belong to the village WI.     My husband and I had been into the hall to hang it from a metal curtain pole, for all the village to see - on those rare occasions when they attend a function in the hall.


Unfortunately I forgot to take a photograph, I was slightly distracted by all the possibilities offered by the art of marbling - I am thinking about fabrics for fairies, end papers for books and journals, wrapping paper, greetings cards, etc.

Of course I had to come back down to earth - help to clear away the cups and saucers, then dash home to get tea ready for the grandchildren.

Still, it hasn't stopped my brain from ticking over, I like the potential of that craft.

Next month we are having a visit from an elderly woman who used to live in the next hamlet along, I believe she is a few years older than Miss Read, so we are looking forward to hearing her reminiscences of village life.     

It would be marvellous if we could have a similar turnout.

Little Bunting Village Show - Planning Meeting

The Little Bunting Village Hall Committee held their planning and job allocation meeting last night.

So much work allocated to so few, it is no wonder that those few become weary at wearing so many hats!

The show will go on and there should be little discernible difference for most people, though the organisers may all need two weeks in the sun afterwards.

Now we need the weather to cooperate, a fine and dry day would be wonderful, but we'll cope no matter what.   The Show will be fun and it will allow people to explore their secret, competitive side.  Much tea and cake will be consumed, there will be a lot of  merriment and good humour.

No doubt there will be the usual controversy over the cookery classes.   WI standards versus modern, cutting edge, cheffy stuff.   It all adds to the fun.

Little Bunting rarely has a 'Marrows at Dawn' episode, but in the past there have been some shocking moments in the baked goods department...

Sconegate was memorable, has gone down in village history and surely that can only be a good thing!

There are some fairly exciting new events being planned for the future, more of those as we get nearer the time.
x

Tea and Cakes in Little Bunting

Little Bunting is a tiny village, deep in the heart of Lincolnshire.

The village school, the blacksmith, grocery shop, butcher's shop and draper's have long since gone, as has the post office.

We have a friendly village pub and a tiny village hall, so there is still some sense of community.

On special occasions Little Bunting has even been known to 'get out the bunting' as everyone gathers on the village green to catch up with friends, eat, drink and play silly games, but these times are rare.

It is such a sleepy kind of place that when the nearby watermill peacocks go walkabout, a phone call results in their keeper coming along on his scooter to round them up - and they obediently stroll along the road and back to where they belong.

Tiny cottages and this beautiful dovecot are just two of the places which I see on my daily walks.

Butterbump Splash is where the lovely historic watermill may be found, and Dovecot Dell is home to this wonderful old dovecot.  

These three very small villages are separated by just a couple of meadows, so gatherings generally include people from all of them, and even then numbers are low.


A couple of weeks ago a piece of paper was placed in our mailbox, it read: Tea and Cakes, Village Hall, Monday 9th May  2pm.

That was it.

I had no idea who had sent it, who was baking the cakes, doing the organising, or whether anyone would attend.


This photograph pretty much shows the whole of our village hall - I did say it is tiny - this was one of our village shows.  Of course the bunting came out then too.

No bunting today, though.
But as I approached the village hall I could hear the murmur of several voices, which was encouraging.     I went inside to find a dozen people, including a couple of men, sipping tea, munching on delicious cakes.

Village elder, Joan, had made them, a wonderful fruit loaf, a chocolate cake and a fabulous Victoria Sponge Sandwich.     It was a shame that the utilitarian cups and saucers had been selected, it would have been so much nicer to drink from the best ones and the cake certainly merited such company.

Still, given that I ended up doing the washing-up perhaps it was just as well!

It was good to catch up with old friends and to meet some of the new people.

So Little Bunting's Village Hall is back in business again, for now.

The Old Schoolmistress Tells Tales

Little Bunting school was closed a few years ago.    

image borrowed from internet.

Mrs Read, who was the village schoolmistress,  lives directly opposite the old school yard gate.     She is well into her 80's now and still has the power to make grown men quake with just one look!

When we first moved to the village, almost a decade ago,  I noticed that, apart from a couple of  her contemporaries, people tended to give her a wide berth at village pub parties.    Of course, at the time I knew nothing at all about who she was, she was simply an elderly woman, sitting at a table nursing a port and lemon.

image borrowed from internet

I can't bear to see people in isolation, while a party is happening all around them, so I went over and began chatting with her.     Over the years we have gradually moved onto first name terms and have discovered that we both enjoy painting (she is far more skilled than I shall ever be) and various crafts.

She is also a mine of information when it comes to local history, particularly that of Dovecote Dell, a tiny hamlet across the fields from Little Bunting.    Her childhood home was a large manor house, now demolished, although the moat, dovecote and 16th century hall still remain and are located in the middle of a farmyard.

My daily walks talk me through the farmyard and I love to ponder on the history of the place.

Mrs Read and I were chatting the other day when she happened to mention that back in 1953 her wedding reception was held in the hall which is protected and listed, but now used as a barn.   I know it looks rather a messy patchwork, but those walls speak of so much history and change, I really like them.

For her wedding reception the hall was decorated,  straw bales were installed for seating, and a jolly time was had by all.

borrowed from the natural wedding co.

I'm hoping that Mrs Read may be able to find up a photograph or two, in which case (if she will permit) I'll share them with you.

Her mother used to tell people that clearing up afterwards took minimal work because they simply let the hens in to eat the leftovers.



Old age is relative and I'm sure that I appear even older than Mrs Read did to me, but at village parties I am extremely fortunate, for the two best-looking and interesting young men (who live in Dovecote Dell) are kind enough to come and chat to me.   I'm not complaining!   ;-)

I am Leading a Double Life and it comes so easily!

It is slightly worrying that this new persona of mine,

Felicity Parsons,

seems to be a cloak which I feel so comfortable in wearing.

Does this mean that I am a natural-born liar, a cheat, a fraudster?

Crumbs!  I hope not.

Dishonest, false and shallow people are a pet hate of mine.

I prefer people to be real, warts and all,

I cannot abide the superficial and the glib

the polished and 'perfect'.

So, why am I hiding behind Felicity

and pretending to live in a tiny village called Little Bunting

when my real name is ******

and I live in the tiny village of ******?

It all comes down to the reasons why I write a blog,

I do it because I enjoy it, a form of online diary

notes of things which are happening in my life.

I have family living far away,

who like to see the photographs

and catch up on events back home.

Ditto, friends.

All my previous blogs (and I have had a few) have been on the same lines

foolishly, I used my real name, etc.

Several years down the line,

blog scrapers came along and copied hundreds of my posts

and 

re-posted them on their own fake blogs,

for whatever purpose.

I went through a protracted process of getting many of them taken down,

but Blogger seems less than enthusiastic about helping.

Eventually,

I abandoned my old blogs, put all my posts back into draft form,

so that I can still look back on them

after all,

 they still read back to me like a diary

of my life.

I was furious with the blog scrapers, vowed never to blog again...

Time passed and I found I missed the process.

I came up with the idea of using a different name,

for everyone and everything

and that is how it goes,

it makes me feel a little protected (an illusion, of course!).

So, what happens as I get even older

and, perhaps, begin to get confused...?

Will there come a point in my life where I call my husband 'Max' instead of ******?

The grandchildren by their new names of Hector and Merry?

Even the cats, the dog, the horse have fake names...

though I did draw the line at re-naming the six hens!

People could think I am going slightly mad, whereas I would simply be using their 

bloggy monikers - is that the same thing?

Oh dear, the complications!

Right, I'm heading off to feed ******   I mean Benedict...

fliss&max/******/******

xxx

Time Travelling with Oscar

Image borrowed from bucksfreedompress.blogspot

Our very elderly neighbour, Oscar was on the village hall committee

and, locked away in his writing bureau, is a dull and tatty-looking blue notebook.

Did I say dull?    Absolutely not!  It is a priceless gem, packed full of village history.

Oscar read aloud from the notebook,  the minutes of the Little Bunting Village Hall Committee meetings  from long ago.

Back then it was a lively and well supported village hall which hosted bingo nights, scrabble games, jumble sales, dances, plays and pantomimes, trips were taken on coaches,  harvest suppers, quizzes, film nights, cricket was played on the village green* and there was the annual Gala, at which a Gala Queen would be chosen.

Oscar read out that the fireworks for the annual display cost the princely sum of £5.00 and we both had a laugh about that, I don't buy fireworks, but I doubt you would get much more than a packet or two of sparklers for that amount, these days.

His notes give the name of the woman who made toffee, another who provided hot dogs and the woman who made soup for everyone.   I can't remember all the details of the costings, but I know the soup-maker charged 99p for the 70 servings.

Image borrowed from telegraph.co.uk

I particularly loved the accounts of cricket on the village green, with a beautiful tea of cucumber, ham or salmon sandwiches with scones and cakes provided for tea.    .   

Wonderful stuff!    Is there anything more evocative of rural England than cricket on the village green?   Chaps in cricket whites and women in pretty frocks serving tea, the heat of a summer afternoon, the smell of grass, friends and rivals come together...

These days our large village green is occasionally mowed and rarely used.   There has been debate and argument on how the ground could be used by the community.   Some wanted it to be a playground for the village children but this was fiercely opposed by some people who thought it would be too noisy for them.  Others wanted the ground to be turned into allotments...

To the best of my knowledge, nothing has been done about it so far.

*If you click on this link it will take you to a map which I drew of Little Bunting.     It shows the location of the village green, hidden away, difficult to find.


So, Oscar and I whiled away an hour or two going down memory lane for him.   I think he enjoyed it almost as much as I did.     Armchair time-travel in wonderful company.


There was a reason that I spent so this time with Oscar, this morning he became a little upset over some work which has to be done to make some outbuildings, which back onto the public road, safe.  He was overwhelmed by the builder/demolition man's chat and didn't understand what was to happen.

So he rang Max.

Unfortunately, Max had a meeting which he couldn't avoid, so I said I would go along and talk to the builder and try to sort things out.     There wasn't really a problem, it was more a case of the builder not fully understanding just how difficult it can be for older people to deal with things like this.

It was quickly sorted and I managed to get Oscar to sit down, have a cup of tea and relax, which is how he got reminiscing, much to my joy.

I know that some of you have been concerned about Oscar, so let me reassure you that Max and I have had a good chat with his family, who are fully committed to doing their best for him.    They totally understand our concerns and we have jointly formulated a plan to help Oscar.

A Tale of Two Grandpas.

This morning I received a surprise delivery - a large pile of books which had been loaned to the aforementioned someone, several years ago.   Amongst them was one book which I have searched the house high and low for.   I am thrilled to have it back, I knew it was good, but it is even better than I remember.  

It is a simple soft cover A4 size book on local history, which was put together by the village hall committee for the millenium, then distributed to every household in the parish.   It gives details of the history of Little Bunting and the villages which surround it and is full of old photographs, names and faces.  Some people I know, some I don't,  and others who are now alive in memory only.


So, the tale of the two Grandpa's...

I don't think it is being too unkind to say that the people we purchased the house from were party people.   They even had a party here the night before they left and we moved in.    It was obviously a really good party, for they were not nearly ready to move out, despite the waiting vans and removals men.

We had to wait outside in our cars and with our own laden removals vans,  as they packed, and prepared to leave for their new life in France.   They were slow, hampered by hangovers.    The grandfather of the family (he'd lived in the granny flat) was very apologetic.    My last sight of them was as they drove quickly down the road, giving us a merry 'toot' as they passed.

I'm sure you can imagine the chaos which awaited us within the house and outbuildings, so I'll stick to the story.

In their haste to leave they hadn't had time to begin clearing through the cart shed and garage - packed to the gunnels with suitcases, trunks, boxes, piles of this and heaps of that.

We gradually got it cleared out, all except for a small, strong cardboard box which had clearly been sent through the post at some time.   The top lid had been opened, but that was all.   Rather than just throw it into the skip, we investigated...

...it was an urn full of ashes - their other Grandpa!

They had forgotten all about him and he'd been in the garage for years, judging by the date stamped on the box.     Poor old Grandpa.

I tried to contact the family to see what they wanted done with him, but to no avail.    In the end I decided to take the urn down to their solicitor's office and left him with the receptionist and hope they sent him on to his family.


The local history book had been left behind in the Granny flat, propped up on the mantle piece, where we would be sure to see it.  

A little farewell gift from the Grandpa they did remember to take with them.

Combine Harvester and Motorbikes in Little Bunting

The loud rumble of heavy farm machinery in 'our' barley field heralds the start of some fun.

Farmer T drives the combine harvester and is followed by his mother, Mrs T Snr, driving her red tractor and wagon.

They grow 'em tough in Little Bunting, for Mrs T is in her early 70's and still puts in a full day of farm work.   She works as many hours as her son, driving the tractor and wagon back and forth.   I like her, I wish I had her stamina.

They toil late into the evening, trying to beat the wet weather which is forecast.

Things change when the barley has gone, before ploughing begins.

First of all, we can begin to use this little gate.   It leads directly into the huge barley field, which means that silly-billy Dobson will have a couple of weeks of stress-free walks, no need to walk along the lane before turning into the field.

photograph stolen from my brother, Mr Whiskerburn.

It also means that these bad boys will come visiting, as the annual Enduro motorbike race will probably go ahead in the village.   There will be a weekend of noise, dust, and activity in our little village.  Some people hate it, I find that I quite enjoy it.

Sorry, Mr Whiskerburn, yours again.x

They only race around the harvested barley fields for a couple of hours at a time and it raises a hefty chunk of much needed money for the Little Bunting village fund.

Thanks, Mr W.

Let the fun begin!