Some Grateful Thoughts on Friendship

I've never been one for big groups of friends. I am a definite introvert (well, webtrovert really but that's a different story) and crave my own company, so without really being aware of it, I've always been quite selective about who I choose to open up to and spend time with.

I've been thinking in the last few weeks about the types of friend I have in my life. One of the lovely, and absolutely unintentional things that happens when you're honest about struggling with something is how many people rally round to prop you up. I've been feeling so lucky to know so many people who may not have any idea what this feels like, but who somehow seem to know just what to say...

There are the friends who were once colleagues and who I miss everyday. The ones I cleaned up bodily fluids with, looked out for and kept safe, argued with over the best approach to a situation, and compared bruised shins with after one of 'those' days. To quote J.K Rowling 'there are somethings in life you can't share without ending up liking each other' and it turns out working in SEN is definitely one of them. When you've wiped someone else's spit off each others faces, laughed till you've cried about how ridiculous your job is, asked 'is my forehead bleeding?' and inadvertently shown them your boobs while trying to prevent a child pulling you over by your clothes, there really is no going back.

There are the friends who were once 'best' but who, as often happens when you go on separate adult journeys, I don't see very often anymore. Every few months, or maybe even longer, we meet up for a catch up and put the world to rights over eggs benedict and tea, and at the end of the conversation she simply says 'let me know if you need anything.'

There are the friends I call family, the ones I've known since we were both babies. The ones who I forget to reply to and catch up with via our parents letting me know what they've been up to but who still know exactly what I'm thinking. The ones who pop in to see me at work, and forgo all the 'stay positive, it'll happen, at least you have an answer' conversation and just go right in with 'this is shitty isn't it, and it's bloody unfair that it's happening to you'.

There are completely unexpected friendships. One of the people I most enjoy spending time with is 13, a big fan of sausages and Mr Tumble and technically my employer. I love hearing about his day, teaching him how to buy his shopping, watching him carefully make choices and most of all hearing his jokes. He is the epitome of doing what makes you happy without giving two ticks about what anyone else thinks; whether that's echolalia re-runs of countdown, jumping, flapping and clapping as fast as you can or telling me, with half a grin and twinkle in his eye 'giraffe, hippopotamus and elephant are too big for a pet.' He has no concept of the worries of adult life, as long as there is gravy, he's happy and that's so refreshing to be around.  

There's the friend affectionately known as 'work-mum', who would be the first person I'd call on if my  actual Mum was away. The one who I have the same shared experiences with as my other colleagues but with whom I also share a love of sewing, house plants, swapping books, drinking coffee and 'putting the world to rights in a safe space' (read: bitching) Always on hand to help me out with the above friend, and he loves her just as much as I do.  

There are the friends I talk to everyday and who I tell absolutely everything to. The ones I send pictures of my dinner to, who know when all my appointments are. The ones who's conversations start with 'what's a Prince Albert?' and who I messaged within 30 seconds of flushing my moon cup down the toilet. The friends who talk so often I wake up with 85 unread messages if I have an early night, and who I can message at midnight with 'who's awake' when I'm feeling like a horrible jealous person and someone will be there to say 'I get it.' These three girls get me through my days.

There are friends I haven't known for very long in comparison to some, but who I knew immediately would be in my life forever. Who I can be completely honest with, cry in front of and tell off for not eating any lunch! The type of friend who knows the minute they look at you that you're not ok, and who will rush over to give you a hug.

There's the friend I hadn't seen for five years, but who can still effortlessly teach me things just like when we were at uni together over a decade ago. Who I can talk with all day as if we've never been apart, and who I'm still convinced lived a parallel childhood to me.

There are the friends I've met online who I've never met in real life. The ones who message after I've shared a vulnerability to say, "me too, I know just how you feel.' The internet has many flaws, and I've fallen victim to lots of them, but one of the things I have always found, particularly on instagram is how supportive the community is, and I'm still always surprised by the number of people who pop up to say, "I'm with you. I've got your back."

There's my best and oldest friend who I sometimes don't see for months or speak to for days but it just doesn't matter. Long distance friendship is a tough thing to deal with sometimes. It's rubbish when all you want is a Chinese and a chat with the person who knows you the best of all, but when you both understand that life just gets in the way sometimes, when you've both got jobs and mortgages and no money left to buy fizzy sweets, never mind train tickets or petrol, you get by with making plans and reminding the other that you love them lots.

I'm pretty lucky, don't you think, and I'm grateful for that every day.

Remembrance Sunday: Grandad's Evacuation Story

My Grandad is in his eighties now, and is beginning to struggle more and more with his day to day memory. A subject that still prompts his memories to flood back to him, even more than seventy years later, is remembering his childhood. He was evacuated from his home in Lowestoft in 1940, sent up to Derbyshire on the train to escape the dangers of the second world war, with a little packed lunch and a label round his neck.

I thought that today, on Remembrance Sunday, I would share a little of his story with you. Over to you, Grandad....

"Being a young boy when World War II was declared, it was quite new to see workmen lifting sacks with sand off the north beach and filling lorries with those sacks, then watching them lay bags around the town hall and other buildings, but all seemed quiet and no changes apart from an aircraft now and then, I know that school was carrying on as usual.

This was until I ran home with a form for my parents to sign, I did not read it but other lads said it was an outing by train. As in those days we never travelled, or had even been on a train, I thought it would be good. My brother Alan arrived home with his form for our parents, and he was told it was to live with other people. My parents told us we would not be going as they did not want to lose us, but a few days later I think they had been talked to about dangers, and they said we could travel but only if we were together and lived together. 

It seemed to me the day of evacuation soon arrived, I had just reached my birthday of 8 years and 1 month. I was to report to class with my small bag containing water, a stick of barley sugar, a sandwich, and a comic. Most of the class were present, mostly with parents. My mother had another child by this time, now six months, but another mother tied my label round my neck and told me to hold her daughters hand, “look after her” she said. I did not have much of an education dealing with girls, but I held her hand while we moved from the classroom down to the railway lines. Outside the station I was still holding her hand and trying to find my brother, as the teachers said we would be together. 

On the other side of the road, mothers and some fathers were waving to us and some of the ladies were crying. Then we were told to move into the station in a line, we all moved in pairs onto the platform and then onto the train. I still held hands with the girl and we sat next to each other, no teacher or anyone told us how long we will be on the train, whether it be an hour or whenever, so I did not work out when to eat the sandwich I had in my bag, or even the barley sugar.

We were told to sit. I recall our carriage was very quiet, occasionally some child pointed out types of animals in the fields, then everything went quiet again. I do remember that on one occasion the train stopped at a station for ladies to come and pass us drinks between, but I cannot remember if it was water, milk, or lemonade, but the train was soon on the move again. 

We arrived in Derbyshire, I think about 2pm, I cannot name the station but we had to board a coach for a few miles to a school in Scarcliffe where we had to sit on the grass and were given sandwiches and a drink. This is where my little companion and I were separated for some reason. There were several small coaches outside the school and, with lists in their hands, teachers pointed out to us which coach to board, then after a short distance we were told to leave the bus. After this we had to line up in fours with the children from another coach. We were then told we were going to ‘parade’ and march to the school in the village, Bramley Vale, Derbyshire. It was only 300 yards away, and we must show people how smart we were. 

At the front of my column two boys from Wilde School carried our banner ‘John Wilde School, Lowestoft’. The two streets to the Bramley Vale School I noticed were covered in adults from the villages, some applauding, and some ladies crying which I admit on the day I could not understand. We were shown into classrooms and told to sit at the desks, I sat wondering why my brother was not with me.

After a short while, ladies from nearby were taking children when they were called out, after a short time I was almost alone, and I admit I was on the verge of tears being alone. I know I have read many letters similar to the above, and the writer nearly always quotes he was the last getting a home. In my case, looking around, I saw one lady waiting in the classroom. I later learned she was one of the first to arrive, to pick up two boys, preferably brothers, and that the organiser said “You had better take him, he is the last.” The lady had come over to the desk and said “You come with me my duck.”

There have been many thoughts over the organisation. One idea is that Alan should have travelled with John Wilde School, or that the lady in next door had asked for one boy to play with her son, but had got two brothers instead. I assure you that I got the best of the mix up. 

I have been told many times in my life that I am a lucky person and everything must go my way. I cannot agree with everything they quote but in my evacuation to this lady, I must have been one of the luckiest school boys who left lowestoft in June 1940. The lady who took me home was Mrs May Holmes, and she lived only 7 houses from the school. Her husband was Mr Reg Holmes and he was home having finished his day down the coal mine. I clearly remember them asking my name, to which I replied “Terry Smith Miss”. They had laid me on the sofa, and I fell asleep right away, I think I slept around two hours. They then told me their names, but straight away I called them Aunty and Uncle. ‘Aunty’ lasted all the 4 years, 3 months I was evacuated, but ‘Uncle’ soon changed to ‘Nunk’. Aunty always said ‘Terry’ but Nunk always called me ‘Bloz. 

Aunty and Nunk loved children, but I later learned they could not have their own. When I awoke on that day on the sofa Nunk said “How about a walk, I have to see someone?” Aunty suggested I was tired but I said I wanted to go with ‘Uncle’, and from that day I knew, at my small age, that I had been lucky"

***

From the stories he tells, my Grandad certainly was lucky. From new clothes and trips out, to being given his own little allotment and taught to grow vegetables, he tells stories of a really wonderful four years in Derbyshire. He stayed in touch with Aunty and Nunk for the rest of their lives, and I know he will be forever grateful for the safe home-from-home they gave him. While he was away, his family home was indeed bombed; the bedroom his shared with his brother was destroyed and his own grandparents were killed. Thank goodness that, despite their initial misgivings, my great grandparents decided to send their children away - I can't quite get my head around the idea that if they hadn't, my life wouldn't have existed at all. 

And that's the whole point of this day - to acknowledge and honour the hundreds of thousands of people who have made our country, and our families the way they are today: those who fought, who defended, who did things they never imagined possible and certainly didn't sign up for, and who had to live forever with the horror of the things they saw. Those who operated radios and broke codes and flew planes, who filled the roles of the men and boys sent to war, who welcomed children into their homes to keep them safe, who gave their lives for the sake of future generations, and of course for all those men and women who continue to do so...

"At the going down of the sun, and in the morning, we will remember them." 

Raku Firing Experience: The Good Life Experience

Last September I was invited to spend the weekend in Wales at the Good Life Experience, and it truly changed my life! I wrote a post about it here, but one of the most magical experiences I had over the whole weekend was raku firing, something that had been on my bucket list for years since learning about it at university. In light of The Great Pottery Throwdown being back on TV, I wanted to share my raku experience (prepare yourself for some over the top grinning!) 

The workshop was run by a group of local potters, and there were several hand thrown pots to choose from. I chose to work on a little pot with a foot and some gouged markings. Raku is a somewhat unpredictable method of glazing and firing, so the emphasis was on working instinctively, not overthinking the process and letting the glazes act naturally - just the way I love to work with materials, letting their qualities and characteristics determine the outcome of the end product. 

I began by dipping the pot diagonally into the white glaze, then filled it and poured it back out to coat the inside with glaze. 

Then it was onto dripping the glaze and copper oxides. The pale blue becomes a rich turquoise with hints of copper depending on the firing, and the brown becomes a bright green. I wanted a vaguely painterly finish that followed the gouged marks in the pot, but I struggled with the definitely right-handed ladle and ended up embracing a much more haphazard finish.

Once we were happy with the glazing, the bottoms of the pots were cleaned so any glaze that may have got onto them didn't stick to the kiln and cause the pots to crack. They were them placed into the raku kiln and heated to a completely terrifying 1000 degrees centigrade which took about 20 minutes.  The workshop I took part in happened in the early evening, but they continued well into the night and we went back to watch the firing process happening in the dark which was quite incredible!   

Once heated to the magic 1000 degrees, the pots were very carefully removed and immediately placed into troughs of sawdust which ignite as soon as they come into contact with the scorching pot. More sawdust was thrown on top, and the troughs quickly sealed. It's this process which causes the glazes to crackle and the unglazed parts of the pot to become black thanks to the carbon residue from the burning sawdust. 

When the pots come out, they were quickly plunged into cold water to cool them before we set about cleaning off the carbon left behind on the glazed parts, revealing the finished pot and seeing how coppery the oxides had become! 

I was pleased to see some of the turquoise areas of mine had become a pleasingly bright copper around the edges. I decided to leave a little of the black residue on mine as I quite liked the contrast it gave.  

It was the best fun, and I'll treasure this little pot forever! At the moment it's hidden away (out of reach of the cat) which is a bit of a shame, but I'm not really sure what I should use it for. I don't really want to plant something in it as the inside is so pretty, and it's not food safe. Maybe I'll have it out on display somewhere to remind me of that magical day in September! If you'd like to read more about our weekend at the festival you can find it here.

The Good Life Experience 2016

One month ago today we were on our way to the Hawarden Estate farm shop in Flintshire, the car full to bursting with tent, blankets, welly boots and marshmallows and positively fizzing with excitement about arriving at The Good Life Experience festival!

The lovely people at Pedlars invited me along, and I really couldn't be more grateful! The Good Life Experience was founded in 2014 by four friends who shared a vision for a festival unlike any other, one that reflected the need for a return to a simpler way of life, a life closer to that of our grandparents, where we shopped local, our food came from the ground, we supported makers and craftspeople, spent less money on 'stuff' and more time creating memories and relishing in experiences, particularly those that took us outdoors and got us using our hands. Pedlars founders Charlie Gladstone and his wife Caroline, musician Cerys Matthews and arts consultant Steve Abbott could not have got it more right!

When we arrived at the Hawarden Estate we were greeted with the most beautiful blue sky, the sound of music drifting through the trees, campfire smoke still lingering in the late summer air and the promise of an amazing weekend ahead. It felt totally different to any other festival, it was possibly the epitome of laid back, and every single element so carefully considered and soul nurturing. As we wandered around trying to take everything in, a vintage helter skelter loomed above us, there were hay bales, tents and pumpkins aplenty, and I'm not ashamed to admit that I cried with joy at how perfect it was. I felt like I'd come home, like some one had reached inside my heart a spread it out in front of me and every single person there totally felt it too!

I also felt rather overwhelmed because there was so much I wanted to do and see. We walked around the festival site for a while and booked ourselves some workshops for the afternoon then went to put the tent up. I love that even the campsite was relaxed, no pitches or rows but a simple instruction to find a gap and get comfy! It's situated under both the imposing Hawarden Castle and the Old Hawarden Castle ruins (which are just stunning) and after having a nose at some of the beautiful bell tents as we wandered through the site in search of a good spot, then putting up our rather flimsy Argos tent (coupled with me later telling D every five seconds not the touch the inside) we've started some research into buying a bell tent of our own. We actually had a couple of tent related mishaps, one snapped pole and the realisation that we'd brought the wrong air bed pump, but after borrowing a knife and a foot pump from some friendly neighbours, we replaced the pole, pumped up our bed for the night and rejoined the action.

I honestly can't explain how simultaneously excited and serene the whole place made me feel. We explored slowly, stopping to listen to music as we passed, and watching the various workshops taking place. In the Fun Fair field D found a coffee (as ever!) and after discovering that maybe I do like gin after all and getting a taste for something alcoholic I went for a dark and stormy. We watched as children learned tree climbing and an old man who looked like my Grandad rode the helter skelter! The Fun Fair Field also contained the first of two Makers Rows. There were floristry, screen printing and pumpkin carving workshops, leather work, a fascinating knot tier and spoon carving. The Bicycle Academy were building a bike from scratch over the course of the weekend, and the rocking sign atop the Black Cow Saloon welcomed people in for a drink around the camp fire.

We headed to Speakers Corner to listen to Tom Herbert (one half of The Fabulous Baker brothers) and I was again reduced to tears - I totally wasn't expecting his talk 'Which Side is Your Bread Buttered?" to be so inspiring. Over the hour or so he talked, the audience passed around a mixing bowl and whisk, and all together we slowly turned cream into butter. This for me was the essence of Tom's talk, and in a way the whole festival. It was slow. He talked about how the magic of bread happens in the rise, at the point where you've done all the hard work of mixing and kneading and you've looked after it, tucked it up somewhere warm and left it. In this pause, the yeast is given the time and space to grow, and that couldn't happen if you didn't let rest. This same principle could be applied to us as humans, and our attitudes towards self care. Sometimes we get so carried away with the notion of being busy, we forget to stop and give ourselves the time and space to grow. You know how sometimes you have no words for how deeply something resonates with you and you want to clench your fists and screw up your face and shout. That. I was so full of that feeling right there I could almost feel it bubbling up under my eyes!

In the second Makers Row, I fulfilled two of my dreams, one I've held since childhood! Firstly, I got to sit in a real life coracle! A coracle is a type of boat, and I am maybe the only person who remembers this so vividly, but in an episode of Rosie and Jim, the pair snuck off the canal boat and into the workshop of a coracle maker to watch one being made, then went back to the canal boat to make one of their own out of tissue paper and glue. I was seriously obsessed with making a coracle and used to recreate the paper version over and over again so when I realised that the Coracle Society were going to be at the festival you can imagine my excitement! Unfortunately you couldn't have a go on the water, but a real life coracle was good enough for me!

I also signed up to the Raku Firing workshop, something I've been fascinated with since university when the ceramics technician introduced me to it. I'm going to write a post about it in more detail as I adored the whole experience, but in short, it's a glazing and firing process involving sawdust and fire and I am completely in love with the pot I produced. The glazes were applied in a really fluid way and because of the unpredictable nature of the firing there's no way of knowing what your pot will really look like until the very end. The people running the workshop were fantastic, so helpful and inspiring and it was while chatting to one of them that I introduced myself as a blogger with some real conviction for the first time! While we waited for our pots to fire, I chatted with a women from the WI about the importance of making things with our hands, about how fantastic is was that children were getting muddy and setting fires and staying up past their bedtime to eat marshmallows. How the impressionable little people walking round with feathers in the their hair, mud on their faces and carrying their handmade bows and arrows with pride had felt the spark that we both knew so well, the spark of joy that making something with your hands ignites.

The whole festival site felt different as the sun began to set. The lighting was atmospheric, the music a little louder, and the queues for the various food stalls and bars began to lengthen again. The festival was very family friendly (and all the workshops are aimed at adults and children alike) and it was lovely watching children playing outside, wrapped up in wellies and coats well into the evening, so excited that they were still rolling down hills and having hay throwing fights in the dark. And of course, Fairground rides take on a whole new magic when they're lit with fairy lights and the glowing red harvest moon!

We decided on crab rolls and chips from 'Claw' (excellent decision!) and shared a picnic table with some people we'd never met before, and their dog helped us out with our chips! We grabbed blankets from the tent and laid on the grass outside the main stage listening to Fanfare Ciorcarlia, and couldn't feel further away from the stresses of the world.

I felt so grounded and alive and full of magic. This was me. The inside of my head and my heart spread out in front of me under the stars. I tried to sum up that feeling, the one that doesn't have words and makes you've want to screw yourself up into a ball and scream. I just ended up whooping in a field of corn and laughing till I cried.

We awoke to calls of 'Morning' called out between strangers, brushing their teeth or dressing their children outside their dew covered tents. We went in search of breakfast and quickly happened upon porridge and bacon.

The Market Place was next, and it was full of some fascinating people, tea sellers, a lavender farm, vintage shops and indie makers. I met the lovely Amanda Banham who I'd seen previously at a Makers Market in Norwich (a small world indeed!) and added another Observer book to my collection.  Talking of books, Dylan's Mobile Bookstore were running a Blind Date Book club which is a genius idea, a wrapped book with only a hint of the story contained with in. A risk yes, but you might find something wonderful! 

We made our way over to the Campfire Cooking tent and again watched Tom Herbert, this time making sourdough bagels with his family's decades old sourdough starter which totally inspired us to start our own, and we actually went back to the market place to buy a book all about it.

D was booked into a coffee workshop with Allpress later on, and while he got geeky about grinders and weighing out beans I sat in the sun, taking in the atmosphere and wishing I didn't have to leave and Ben Fogle wandered past with his family looking totally at home!

In the afternoon, we went over to the lake to watch the Coracle Society Regatta, and needless to say I loved it! I look about 4 in this photo, wide eyed with excitement - real life coracles!

It was one of the best weekends of my life, and just the perfect way to see out summer. Such a sense of camaraderie and belonging, and I felt like I'd found my tribe. Everything the festival represented for me is everything I want The Salted Tail to become - slow, local, crafted and considered, enlightening and inspiring and dream realising. About moments and memories and only the most beautiful things.

I want people to leave full to the brim with joy and magic and solid understanding of who they are and what they believe in, just as I did as we packed the tent up with heavy hearts on Sunday evening.

Thank you to Pedlars for inviting us along, I could not be more grateful and we're already so excited to return next year. I think this weekend will become tradition for us and I just can't wait to watch the festival evolve even more.

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