Poets, painters and puddings. These three things make the world as it ought to be.

The Time Machine. Apple and Jar pastel drawing by me

Or the bite of an apple, this morning I bit into a crispy, juicy not too sweet not too sour apple,, whoosh I went back in time, I was climbing over the old ivy covered stone wall at the back of the farm yards, my sister and friends urging me on, I was the youngest, I often had to do their dirty work, on this occasion it was to make sure no one was in the apple laden orchard. No one ever was, the people who owned the village and big house as we called it had had to cut down on gardeners, the orchard was one of our secret delights, filled with long luscious grass, and eager to sting nettles, sweetly pungent rotting apples, buzzing of bees and the giddiness of subliminal childhood moments, intoxicated in a heaven of dare devil naughtiness and natures overwhelming powers of enticement, beckoning us on to ever higher levels of wickedly exciting adventure, beating hearts scrambling legs, stung ankles and calves reaching out in hushed whispers towards the forbidden fruit.
Farmer Burgess was bound to discover us, James the gardner was bound to discover us, but worse still, Mrs Cotty Dotty was bound to disocver us and beat us with her walking stick and scream at as in her shrill agonising voice. No one ever did find us there, no one minded, but we would leave almost breathless with releif that our evil doing had gone unnoticed. So it was one bitof an apple that took me back to the orchard of my childhood, thank you apple.

I just have to say, an extraordinary thing has occured, a woodpecker at my kitchen window, tap tap tapping, I did not manage to take a photograph, but I will remember forever.

I have thought and thought about it.

And I have decided I cannot put up our private lives, mum's private life to be precise on a blog, it doesn't seem right. One day in a book perhaps, but not out on a blog. So just a few words in praise of our mother. Mum was a wonderful artist, and mother up to a certain point. She loved to garden and to make everything she saw beautiful, when we were small, she made a lot of our clothes, she could re-upholster and make covers for sofa's and chairs, she made all the curtains and bed spreads in the house, she could cook very well, she was a mother of four, basically on her own, our father was rarely home. She took us to school. Looked after the horses and the dogs, the guinee pigs, the cats, the hamster, us. She could saw and chop wood for the fire, which she taught us to do. she designed the sets and the costumes of our fathers plays, he had two theatre companies, one George Baker Plays, the other Candida Plays LTD. Our mum was a doer, and I think her doing was her undoing. I wonder if she was always trying to compensate for her lost career as a costume designer in movies, by the time she was 24 she was already successful, falling in love with. my father, and having children she had never thought she would have, I don't think she really wanted a family, at least she used to tell us that. We were moved to the country when my father made a career change from films to theatre and this is were we found ourselves to be quite alone with our mum and Carol mums helper, mum worked like a trojan woman, and I think by the time I was 12 had quite litteraly burnt herself out. I think with the victoriqn work ethic, and the shame of the loss of a career and then the loss of her marriage just ate into her guilt and shame and fear of being inadaquet, yet to my mind, my mother was a huge success, and a woman who tried to do too much, you cannot keep going that way without a fall. Mum fell and we all went along with her.

Thats all I am going to say.

Julia Squire: Costume Designer

My mum, Julia Squire. I am not sure how to begin this blog, so I am not even going to try. It is just one of those things, my mother has been dead for almost nineteen years now, and I am sure the pain of her leaving will never go, from time to time and of course less frequently than when she first died, I am plunged into an abyss of seemingly unsurmountable and uninfathomable greif.

We were staying at my cousin's appartement in Mottiers/ Meribel. He is a Squire, my Uncle Rag's son, my favourite uncle and my godfather, one of the dearest people I have ever know, and watching my cousin's smiling face and smiling eyes and watching his children's smiling faces and smiling eye's made me think of Uncle Rag and of course my mum. Lots of smilely mummsy eyes, laughing softly to themselves. Then the night before I came home, Alison and eye talked about our mothers, so hardly suprsising really, pouring rain on the windscreen helped pouring tears in my eyes and the flood gates opened, and the heart filled with pain, and I wailed down the autoroute,wailed up the stairs into the house wailed infront of photo's of my mum, wailed when I found her on Google, without a photo of her, so I shall find one and wailed down the phone to my sister Ellie, which bought me back to my senses and I felt very much better for a good cry.

Sadly to say there is not a lot I can tell you about my mum's early life, she did not like talking about her past much, I don't think here childhood was a particularly happy one. But I am going to tell you what I can about her, and in a way the little I know about her, everyday for a few days. I shall find pretty pictures and although somedays the story may not be so pretty, I think it will help my greif. so thank you for reading.

Where a wonderful hen used to wander

Well a bit of sadness for Christmas, I came home from New Jersey, only for terrible news. Have any of you made friends with hens, I mean real proper friends, it isn't that easy, not unless of course, the hen is a very special hen, one who knows who you are, comes to greet you when you arrive in the car, even tries to get into the car with you when you open the door, comes up the stairs and knocks on the kitchen door, tries to help hanging out the laundry, joins in with the dogs ball games, follows you everywhere and loves to be picked up, stroked and hugged and makes the most dreadful noise when she is hungry. We had one such Hen, more loving a hen could never be, Firelighter, she escaped death once, but very sadly not twice, she and Ruby were savaged by some hunting dogs the other day, whilst David was inside having lunch with friends, I have always felt sad when one of our hens have died, but this time I felt greif stricken, I miss here where ever I walk or go, I have never met such a splendid hen, and we don't think we will get anymore for a while.

Straight back home straight of to another job in the mountains, I will chat from there.

Just a word of warning, don't go falling for your hens.

Happy New Year

Storms in the Night

You might be reading the news and you might have read that storms are sweeping through America, and last night was no exception, it wasn't too bad here, but nasty enough to blow open the french window which I cannot seem to lock and to fill the room with ice. It's raining ice, not snow, just ice and the wind is whistling around the eaves of the house and the wind is howling through the trees and the dried brown leaves are swirling like domented dying birds, struggling for life, falling fallling falling, only to be lifted, briefly with new life, to be left scattered, torn and wasted on the bleak white landscape. Please don't look at me with your black beaded eyes. I cannot save you.

How strange it is, that the ice and snow of one day, with the sun shining through is magical, entrancing, life enhancing, mesmorising a momentary jewel filled illusion.

Stark white, steel grey, harsh wind, unkind day. Black ice, wheels spinning, each throw of the dice , makes you pay.

Slashing ice cuts your face, with grim determination you quicken your pace, you stumble and rip your knee, bright red warmth leaps out of the white, was life ever all right.

No control of the weather outside. You go in and sit by the fire an hide.

Part 2 of Mongolian Chanting and how proud I am of my neice

So quite a few years ago, I came to a major breaking point in my life, and I knew that certain things had to change particularly the way I was living life. I was left with a feeling of emptiness within, and set about trying to find a way of filling it up. I went in search of God of Religion, of Buddha, I went to Egypt several times, crept with a few people into the kings chamber of the pyramid at Giza at 4am, went to the Temple of Isis at about the same time in the morning, it seemed everything we did we got up at 3 am, it is quite extraordinary being on boat on the nile before sunrise to hear the muslims at morning prayer, magic and melancholy fill the air. I love Egypt the most amazing experience I had there was with Sekmet in Luxor, I could go on and on, but I am not going to.

I went to america and partook in American Indian vision quests, I trained to be a Feng Shui practioner oh my and more. In france I found a Shamanic friend called Jean Luc we went to the mountains with a group of people and Jean luc taught us Mongolian chanting, it is amazing, a question of how air goes through the pockets in your brain and mouth, creating a sound of an enchanted flute, the tongue has to be positioned correctly and the blow of air through the lips and teeth has to be precise, I found it very hard, but Jean Luc managed with ease to play a heavenly sound that emanated not from his mouth but from his skull.

Well I was standing in the church of Lorgues yesterday and everytime I stopped and prayed I heard the magic flute and the moment I moved it stopped, was it my imagination, or was it the angels singing to me. I think it was the latter.

And last but not least. My neice, who is from heaven herself, wrote the amazing poem on the picture, she wrote it for my 50th birthday, It is so beautiful. She has also been offered an unconditional place at two universties in England and is hoping to get into Oxford, I am so proud of her, as I am her sister. So thanks to my sister for being a wonderful mother.

I am off to the States for a week but I will wrtie when I am there.

Mongolian Chanting and Heavenly Choirs

I went to the market in Lorgues today, a bright sunshiney day, bustle no hustle. Oh exclaimed on trader quite loudly, "I pity his poor punters, when they get the stuff home it won't work, off a back of a lorry all that stuff" I am not sure what he was selling, but he was speaking very loudly through a microphone and had drawn quite a large crowd for a winter's morning, oh well, I wasn't going to buy anything from him, simply because I don't like noise makers, and he was certainly that. I felt quite happy as I wandered through, and I don't know why today of all days I decided to venture into our huge impressive and austere church. I have been once before and vowed never to go again. I found it dark and oppressive and felt that evil spirits wrinkled and warped in time wasped their way in and out of the stone walls and pillers to sting and to to poison the joy of any person who entered through those huge ancient doors.

Today it was different, I felt a heavy sigh of sadness as I walked in the church walls bowing under the weight of the past and the future. I moved to walk down the center aisle a huge bolt of sunlight hit me directly through the round rose stained glass window in the tower, the tops of the chairs were bright with light and the rest was dark, I went to Jesus and I prayed to him. I went to light a candle with a prayer in my heart, not for the dead, I usually light a candle for the dead, but for the living, for what is now, so it did not come as a suprise to me that I found myself under the most joyful picture in the church,a bouncing baby Jesus with Mary and Joseph and several Angel gazing with affection and adoration at the baby boy. I lit my candle and starte to pray, pray for peace, for love that all may be fed, that we grow up and that we stop war, that all bombs and weapons of destruction are destroyed and that all the money saved from producing weapons of death and murder, be used for education and health and feeding the poor and starving, to create a New World. If only.

Now you may wonder where I am going with all of this and what it has to do with Mongolian chanting and Heavenly choirs, well here is the why and where of it all.......................Later on today will have to do...............

Paris,London, New York

Hey ho, I know it is ages ago that my blog was written, but what can I say about the delay, my time has been completely taken, with travel and weddings and walking the dogs and making sure there are enough logs to keep us warm over the winter.

Enough of that now. I don't have the photos our photo's of Paris, we went for the weekend on the TGV, splendid may I say, although, visiting a beautiful city in the pouring rain is not an entirely comfortable experience, we walkied around the eifel tower, which was enough to inspire an endless rhyme all the time we were there, I thought I should write it down, but I didn't. From the Eifel Tower down to the Seine, where lovers , we know meet again and again, through the ages and the archives of time, we walk by the river side hand in hand under the arches of bridges so grand, down stone steps to listen, to the river bidding us softly to love forever.

Paris is a City of romance and a city untouched by the savages of war, you can imagine yourselves what my friends say, as they explain to me how it has stayed that way. I know I reply what happened in the war, but I must not feel bitter what is done is no more. I just wanted to enjoy the beauty around me, the buildings the art, simply astound me.

The queue for the Louvre and the Musee D'Orsay, was far to long for a rainy day, we were already drenched, so we went to the Palais of contemporary art and for a while my heart was lifted as I played with the notoin that next year I too could havve my paintings hanging here. But dissolutionment is heavy in my heart when I think about my paintings about my art, I feel mediocre and quite unworthy and ready to toss the whole thing aside, it creates debt and worry, and I need to make money in a hurry.

So I have to go back and be a kitchen slave, that is a job I really don't crave, I have to be incredibly brave. Oh God, well I went to London and sold a painting and I am off to New york to do wome more creating, I get back on the 23rd and straight into cooking, boy I'd be grateful if I had an idea how to market myself and be successfull. I hope it comes true in 2008 while I am still young enough and it is not too late.

TARA

Mona Lisa, move over

A smile that beats all smiles. My neice Kim came to stay for just a few days, and what a wonderful way to pass the time, with an exceptionally bright, kind, considerate, humerous and all in all fabulous human being. We went to Tour Tour and enjoyed being tourists.  We photographed the buildings, the sky the landscape, each other, we took picures of the prettiest Post Office I have ever seen, we drank hot chocolate in the square on November 25th still warm in the sun. We ate the air and drank the veiws.

How seldom do I allow myself to go and enjoy what is all around me, not much anymore. Particulary when I am worried, particularly when I am worried about money and work. I scatter the energies in my mind and flay about like a fish gasping for breath, I see no reason, no logic, no clarity, I beat myself with anxiety and expect myself to move faster in all directions all at once, acheivement must be made.
Acheivement NOW in this instance, everything I have put on hold for the last five years, must come to fruition in a matter of days, I must miraculously be the marvelous cookery book writer, the water colour artisit, the artist, the rhyme writer, the card designer, the Great Big Bloody Success. Oh dear, when really all any one of us can do is to take our lives one moment at a time and one day at a time and have faith that it will all be alright, whatever it will be.

Whales and Rhino's

Just when I manage to digest the fact that the Japanese are out killing whales for alledged science research, I see an amazing pure bred wild boar, prehistoric handsome, and fleeing for his life through the vines as the shots crack loud with the killers intent, I read about the black rhino's in Africa being killed senselessly, they are on the verge of extinction, tears fill my eyes, and the same question that ploughs through my mind endlessly, is why oh why are we so wicked and so cruel and so wasteful, I lose sight of of hope and optimism, I feel helpless and inadaquet, a while ago I sent money to the world wildlife fund, I shall join, at least I will know that I am doing something however small to contribute to the welfare of innocents on this planet.                                                                     

The last of the leaves shining yellow on almost bare branches, they have been washed away by the rain. the trees are  happy though their brwon leaves have turned deep yellow and seem happy to be plumped up with rain before they fall into the sludge on the ground. I am not a rain lover, but I hope it rains for months now, water is scarce and the land is parched, and the wells need filling as do the lake.

I have my very clever neice with me and we are off to the market in Carcers today, I may even take photo's, so many stories for blog posts have been going through my mind, but I have as yet to write them. Soon maybe.

Tara