Thou hast thy music too

The Thames at Iffley Lock

Yesterday I walked along the Thames towards Iffley Lock. The golden autumn light lit the trees and church tower and rowers gently slid past as I trundled along. I felt a world away from my life of a few months ago and then I suddenly realised that I live as close to the Thames now as I did in London. So, I haven’t moved away I have merely moved upriver!

Autumn always feels like a good time of year for being busy. Winter is still curled up, waiting to unfurl and swathe its darkness over the land. So, there is time to quickly busy ourselves and get things done before the long months of waiting for spring. As I write this, I can see a squirrel dashing about in our garden, no doubt planning where to hide his food before hibernation starts. In the last of the sun people come out and bask as they stroll along – the river yesterday was a hive of activity as families were making the most of the weakening rays. I stopped for a drink in the Isis Farmhouse and sat in their orchard watching the people around me. Families chattered, students were alight with finding out all the summer activities of their peers and apples plopped from the over-laden boughs. Autumn is full of smells and sounds – it has its music too.

The day brought the following poem by Keats into my mind. I love autumn and I also love Keats so the two combined is a perfect marriage.

To Autumn

John Keats (1820)

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,
Drows’d with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

On A Slope of Orchard

Another holiday snap – food stalls in Bologna

The food shops in Bologna are incredible. We gorged ourselves on bread, olives, pecorino cheese and the sausage Mortadella which is a speciality of the area. We were spoilt for choice as we went from one deli to the next, our eyes increasing to three times the size of our stomachs, and we bought bag fulls of food to eat on the train to the coast. I have never had such a feast on public transport before – as we looked out of the train windows we saw endless olive groves and vineyards speeding by so even though we were not quite on the slope of an orchard we had a picnic that I am sure Francis would have been proud of!

On A Slope Of Orchard

There on a slope of orchard, Francis laid
A damask napkin wrought with horse and hound,
brought out a dusky loaf that smelt of home,
And cut down, a pasty costly made,
Where quail and pigeon, lark and leveret, lay
Like fossils of the rock, with golden yolks
Imbedded and in jellied.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson

The Italian Riviera

Riomaggiore

To say that I have come crashing back to earth with a bump is an understatement. Mr Bell and I spent just under a week in Italy. First stop was Bologna where we indulged in pistachio ice cream from what is apparently Umberto Eco’s favourite ice cream shop. And it was heavenly.

We then caught a train, armed with enough food to feed the Roman Army, for a 4 hour journey to the Cinque Terre or five towns. We spent days walking the coastal path and having our breath taken away by the views.

We swam in the sea, found ancient churches up in the hills and spent our evenings watching the incredible sunsets.

We stayed in Riomaggiore and as you can see in the photo, bunting has been strung between buildings in the harbour. I am a huge fan of bunting so was thrilled to turn a corner and see it festooned over the boats.

We stumbled upon an old monastery above Monterosso that has a statue of St Francis at the entrance, to protect the bay. The evening light was incredible, as you can see from the photo, and we wandered around the cemetery accompanied by the sound of the waves far below us. An idyllic resting place.
We met this cat on a path up in the hills, in the middle of nowhere. I was very tempted to put him in my rucksack and bring him home. But, he scurried off into some nearby olive groves. After all, who would want to leave such a haven?

We spent hours watching the light play on the sea.
The view of Vernazza from the coastal path.
Bologna was lit by golden evening light which I always think of when I think of Italy.

On our last day in Italy I made Mr Bell accompany me on a 3 hour train journey to Florence as I just had to pop into my favourite paper shop for bookbinding supplies. I spent a vast sum of money on many sheets of hand marbled paper which I had to transport back on a rather packed Ryan Air flight. I managed to get them home without any creases and they are now waiting for me to turn them into notebooks.

In search of wine, olives and the Cinque Terre

Bologna

In a few short hours I will be leaving for Bologna and the Cinque Terre where I will be partaking in much wine, cheese, pizza, pasta and olive consumption! I have not yet packed, but when I do I will be prioritising books over thick jumpers (which may come in handy for the chilly evenings) as we are only taking one small rucksack each. I am going to take The Enchanted April by Elizabeth Von Arnim and either the biography of Nancy Mitford by Harold Acton or The Name of the Rose by Umberto Eco. Decisions, decisions.

Ilyrian Spring by Ann Bridge

Occasionally I finish one book and drift over to my bookshelves to contemplate which book to read next – and the next read turns out to be the most perfect book to suit my current mood. This does not happen often enough, but when it does, oh! The delight! I love being gripped from page one and being unable to think of anything else for days. The sheer joy of slipping in between the book covers and burrowing down into the plot so that the characters are a whisper’s breath away is incomparable to anything else.

Illyrian Spring is one of those reads that pulls you in so that you are the characters. Their experiences are as vivid as your own and they become so real that to finish the book is a wrench. The protagonist is Lady Kilmichael who is also the famous painter Grace Stanway. Grace decides to escape her family and leave her life behind to go on an unplanned trip drifting and painting her way through Italy, Croatia and the eastern coast of the Adriatic sea which used to be known as Dalmatia.

Whilst in Venice, Grace meets the young Nicholas Humphries who is around the same age as her twin sons. He is an aspiring painter whose parents have convinced him to pursue the sensible route of architecture and give up painting. Just as Grace is looking for freedom from the pressures of domestic life and the associated responsibility, so Nicholas is looking for freedom from his parents rule.

Grace and Nicholas go on a journey together. They paint and explore the landscape and their lives become further and further entwined as each embarks upon an intense journey of self-discovery.

What is so interesting about Ann Bridge’s writing is the insightful portrayal of characters who are in a state of flux and running away from their lives. There is no melodrama, only the deep intensity of two souls searching for answers and finding each other to aid them in their understanding.

The search for freedom on Grace’s part leads her to make some startling discoveries about herself. The freedom that she craves is not gained from running away from her life but from looking inside herself and examining the truth of her problems with her family. In this way, Bridge writes with psychological astuteness and her novel is timeless as a result. After all, how many of us avoid a difficult situation by leaving it?

This book is a simply lovely and wonderful read, made more wonderful by the description of the beautiful landscapes that Nicholas and Grace explore. It made me yearn to go travelling along the Adriatic coast with only a rucksack and a pair of tennis shoes. I would swap the paint and canvas for a notebook and pen though.

Illyrian Spring seems to be a difficult book to get your hands on, I was fortunate enough to be given it by my lovely friend Rachel. She loved it and raved about it and I know exactly why – it is an honest portrayal of a realistic adventure. In other words, the reader feels as if the experiences of Grace are obtainable, if we just left a note and hopped on a train. In that way, it is made even more magical as it delves into a part of us that we all keep hidden. The part that wants to run away. The novel makes it perfectly clear though, that at some point we have to make a decision about going back and Ann Bridge leads us gently by the hand to the right decision.

If you can find this book, buy it. Beg, borrow or steal it. Reading it is like slipping into a new skin and embarking upon a trip during which life presents some answers to a few troubling questions. All this in the midst of a delicate romance in a breathtaking location where the sea sparkles and time is an irrelevance. I think I may have to dive back in.