I left my sock in Bruges

When it came to deciding on a honeymoon location, N and I were in swift agreement: Bruges. It had to be Bruges.

We’re both fans of the darkly, bitterly funny film, In Bruges with Brendan Gleeson and Colin Farrell, which also contains one of the finest comedy gangster performances you’re ever likely to see Ralph Fiennes deliver.

So we set ourselves in the direction of the “fahkin’ fairytale” medieval cobbled city at the end of October. I’d booked a medieval (there is a theme in Bruges) cottage right next to the canal and then booked the Eurostar so we could feel all green and smug. A feeling that quickly evaporated when we realised we were seated facing backwards and my sea sickness (so much worse now that the perimenopause has kicked in) took a fierce grip.

But we made it. 7 hours of travelling, 4 trains. Green with sickness and smuggery, one of us at least, we staggered from the final station with one wheelie suitcase and one partly wheelie (it lost a wheel en route) case that had to be carried, and straight into a town more well preserved than David Dimbleby. As we passed along the streets, the lights became dimmer. The walls of the houses were punctuated with niches in which sat Mary and Jesus in various states of decoration and decay, looking down as we cringed at the sound of our own approach. Mullioned windows blinked the subdued streetlights at us as we and a handful of other brave souls headed for our respective staying places.

 
The sound of a dozen wheelie suitcases making their way over the Bruges medieval (that word is going to get a lot of use in this post) cobbles is like nothing you’ve ever heard. Not even the thunder of hooves at the Cheltenham Gold Cup comes close.

 

The house was beautiful (although there was a noticeable lack of tea bags and milk on our arrival – this is the very last time I use Air BNB) and only a few minutes’ walk from the very centre of things: the Markt, the tower, the museums, the churches. There are a lot of churches – this is a deeply Catholic country. Our longest walk was on the 1^st day when we went to see the Jeruzalemkerk* to the north(ish) of the city. This was one of the film spots, but also, just somewhere I wanted to visit because I have a passion for old churches and N is kind enough to tolerate that. Or at least lean against a wall outside looking up nearby battlesites while I go knock myself out.

 
The cobbles did an absolute number on my poor arthritic feet and I watched with jaw dropped in awe at the oh-so-chic women swinging along in heels and camel-coloured coats, apparently unaware that the ground beneath them was chronically unstable. They would sweep past, all dark glasses and shiny hair, speaking rapid Flemish into their phones, casting glances of disdain at the giggling couples** and pouting singles taking selfies along the canal wall.

Houses in Bruges can go for over 1 million euro, the chap leading the canal boat tour (yes, we did). Leading you to wonder where the real people are when they are not selling us postcards, taking us on carriage rides (no, we didn’t) or serving us terrible beer (much head, little liquid, for god’s sake don’t complain or ask them to top the glass up…they really don’t like that, keep quiet, order your moules et frites and make a mental note to only drink wine for the rest of the trip).
 
The coffee was delicious. Short little cups, drained in 3 gulps, but rich and aromatic, served with cream not thin and unsatisfying milk. Hot and revivifying in a way I had forgotten coffee could be. Everywhere it is served with a little speculoos biscuit – that lovely caramel, slightly spicy biscuit – apart from one memorable occasion where it came with a little dish of nougat and marzipan made on the premises. A marzipan made with real almonds, not a whiff of essence in tastebud reach, it was a completely different beast to the sort we cover our claggy fruit cakes with. I brought quite a lot of it to take home.
 
We saw extraordinary art – Bosch and van Eyck and Memling. At the Groeninge, halfway through, there is an extraordinary painting in the chiascuro style, of a young woman and her lover, the candlelight giving her a luminosity that made me cry. I brought a print to bring home where now, in the lamplight, it glows again. At the St-Janshospitaal, there was a splendid exhibition on the assumption of Mary as depicted in art through the ages. There I found a wonderful olive wood carving and Books of Hours that were rich with colour and devotion. The Gruuthuse Museum was full, packed to the gills with interesting things, some of which dated back to the Iron Age. At last! Something older than medieval! There is a surprising lack of natural history in Bruges. It’s like nothing happened here until God moved in.

 
Speaking of which, there were many, many churches, of course. I do wonder myself at my complete irreligious self so liking churches. At the Helig Bloed Basiliek, there is a phial of (allegedly) Christ’s blood that (supposedly) liquefies every now and then. There is no entry fee, but you are invited to pay due REVERENCE by way of a donations box right in front of the phial, guarded by a stern woman who looks like she probably ignores safe words. It felt…cheap. Lacking in taste. I mean, charge me an entry fee, sell me a postcard and some holy socks but don’t put the donation box right in front of the bloody exhibit.
 
In another church (by this time, even I’ve forgotten the names), there was a decidedly graphic reliquary with a bit of a saint’s arm bone in there. I wondered if that waved every now and then.
 
In between, I would make N pause for more coffee and a break from the cobbles, and he would fill me in on the tour we were taking in the middle of the week, which battlefields, which war memorials, which cemetery for the war dead with their rows and rows of graves that saturate you with sadness. 9am to 6pm that tour. It is safe to say he made me pay him back for the churches.

 
Our final night, we ate at the little tavern 2 doors down from us where we had made friends with the pub dog and the food was cheap. Drank a final glass of wine (on Belgian soil anyway), chatted to the owner and tried not to think of the 7 hour, 4 train return journey.
 
And the sock? A casualty of packing light so I could bring back ALL the chocolate. I’d had to do a wash halfway through the week, draping the wet socks on the radiator to dry. 4 hours later, I knocked it down the impenetrable back of the radiator. I like to think of it slowly becoming at one with the house. Or hooked out by the puzzled owner with a long arm, an even longer piece of wire and a growing collection of odd, foreign socks.

*I’m currently posting this with no WiFi due to complicated BT-engineer-based reasons, so I’ll add links another day
**We took precisely 1 selfie because otherwise, how would we prove we’d been there? But there was absolutely no giggling. Serious selfies befitting of our Great Age (personal age, I mean. There is nothing great about this political age).

Winner of this year's "Nicest Pub Dog with 

Silkiest Ears" award

It's All In The Name

The problem with writing something so very personal and revealing in a blog - like the previous post (and thank you all for the kindess) - is where on earth do you go from there? I'm not up for building a blog based on rants or politics (ugh) or anger in general. My general demeanour is quite cheery and positive, especially in the mornings, which I've been informed is irritating for those who find mornings a trial, and I'd always rather find a bright side. If it contains a dose of silliness, then so much the better. 

We're usually encouraged to take life very seriously. All that admin! Being on hold for an hour, forced to listen to corporate music! Behold a new state of affairs that you can influence in No Way but need to be very angry about! Lo, a new instance of man's inhumanity!

But life is inherently ridiculous, human life in particular. 

For example, during a Zoom meeting this week, Tiny Wee Mabel came and shouted very loudly that she was hungry/bored/tired, before hopping on the bed behind me (I work in the spare bedroom, aka The Retreat). For a moment, I breathed a sigh of relief as she looked settled to sleep. Then, as I attempted to sound professional while explaining mentoring and grant programmes, she stuck her back leg up in the air and proceed to...well...groom herself. Right there, in that spot. In full view of the meeting. 

I am here to tell you that it's impossible to sound professional while your cat is cleaning her arse behind you and your new colleagues are falling aout laughing.

In another example (2 in one week! My cup runneth over), on Thursday, I found time to walk down to the library to return some very overdue library books. I took my new route, down what I've named Urine Alley, past the back of the uni buildings and along the railway arches. On the way back, I spotted a street sign in the alley that I hadn't noticed before: Cheshire Cheese Entry. 

Really? 

It was completely in isolation. There was no Lancashire Cheese Close, Edam Avenue or StiltonTerrace nearby. There was never a dairy here (I checked because I'm that kind of nerd). For no good reason, someone somewhere decided that this narrow passageway, barely wide enough for one person and frequented (judging by the smell) by the Open Weeing Society (there is no such society, I checked that too), was worthy of the grand title of Cheddar Cheese Lane. 

Town planners let loose on road names is one of my favourite ridiculous things. A cluster of Romantic poets despite being miles away from any poetic location. A commemoration of sea battles despite being firmly inland. Trees! Trees are a favoured street naming device, especially on new estates where once woods or orchards stood. Do they not see irony?

I sometimes wonder what sort of conversations go on in their offices. 

Town Planner 1: it's no good, sir. We've run out of poets, trees, flowers, royal residences and local landmarks for the new road names. 

Town Planner 2: I see, Jenkins [they are my characters and if I want them to sound like they've come out of the 1950s, I will]. This is no good at all.

TP1: I know, sir. The crew are terribly worried. 

TP2: well, just throw some battle names out there, Trafalgar and so on, that'll sort it. Or generals, Wellington, y'know. 

TP1: Can't do that, sir. Residents are raising questions about colonialism. 

TP2: blasted snowflakes! Can't a man name a road after a known xenophobe anymore?

TP1: It seems not, sir. Not without scathing articles in the Guardian

TP2: Damn their eyes! Then it's no good, we'll have to use the Emergency Plan. Gather the team's lunches.

TP1: what?

TP2: you heard me, Jenkins! Emergency Plan! Lunches! Hop to it. 

TP1: Well sir, we have sandwiches - ham, tuna mayonnaise, egg and cress, cheshire cheese - and a tub of couscous. Can I just say that I don't understand the reason...

TP2: Of course you don't! Never had to use the Emergency Plan in your time, Jenkins. This is an historic day. Those unnamed streets will now be: Cheshire Cheese Entry, Ham Alley, Mayo Close and Cress Terrace. But forget the couscous, we don't want people thinking we've gone completely barmy. 

At least there was no cat in this imagined town planning office. God only knows what the street would have been called if there had been. 

What’s your ridiculous thing this week? 

November, in all the senses

As November waves us goodbye, I'm sitting by the radiator, the Great Boo next to me. Earlier in the morning, I could see the frost glinting the edges of the shed and the Degoba System, so I'm going to stay in here with my coffee for a little longer. The rest of the house is asleep while I've been up for a little while pondering the question "to marquee or not to marquee, that is the expense." My heart (and bank) say no, my head (and experience of English weather) say yes. 

This burning issue (oddly, the same one my Mum and I nearly fell out over for my previous wedding, and why the hell is a bit of tarpaulin and some rope so bleeding expensive? It's not like I get to live in it afterwards) aside, here is how I've experienced November. 

Taste - marsala fries (new addiction), soups both spicy and warming, gluten free lasagne that took 5 hours to make, trifle at my nephew's birthday, pizza gobbled late after evening pilates

Smell - leaf mould and damp soil, muddy canal water, fireworks and smoke, an espresso scented candle that made me sneeze, onions caramelizing for French Onion Soup.

Sight - snow caught on nearby hilltops before it could reach us, warm glows from uncurtained windows, The Great Boo and Tiny Wee Mabel off their tiny rockers on catnip, destruction at the plot following Storm Arwen. 

Sound - the local fox shouting at the moon, robins telling each other off in the trees, the Beatles, parcels flopping onto the hall mat, the repaired boiler springing back into life, my nephew's voice cracking on maturity

Touch - blankets on top of duvets on top of a pyjama-ed me as we shivered through a boiler malfunction, the itch of winter jumpers, frozen raspberries on the plot, the rough wood of the lock system as I helped a barge owner open it, the shape of N's head as I cut his hair. 

December lands with a great clang today and there are Lists to be made. What to get, what food to prepare. A tree to buy and tattered decorations to shake out of their boxes. Train tickets to book and cards to write. I’ll get round to it all, as soon as this wretched cold let’s go. 

My Week in No-Taste

Bed linen. Beer. 

It seems rather ironic that the title of one of this week's most read posts (according to the inscrutable Blogger Stats) is My Week in Taste. Ironic because 2 days after developing Covid, I lost my sense of taste and smell. 

Sweet peas. Smoke from a bonfire.

My nose is not blocked, I am breathing freely, but an olfactory sense of what's going on around me is totally and utterly gone. Several times a day I bury my nose into what I know should smell good and then sigh when nothing registers. 

Mabel's fur. Mandarins and oranges.

I can get a sense of salt or sweet foods. The mackerel pate I whizzed up - a welcome salt tang somewhere among my taste buds but the deep delicious umami of the fish is missing. Likewise, the mango. I know it should taste sweet and my eyes know it but my nose and my brain refuse to work together. 

Nail varnish. N's neck.

The temptation is to keep breathing deeply, at the risk of hyperventilating, but I am trying not to, aiming instead for that wonderful moment when I walk past something, breathing in as normal and think "oh, there you are!"

Cheese on toast. Coffee

It's also tempting to keep eating until my taste buds are galvanised back into action but as everything tastes like cardboard, that’s not a course of action that appeals.

Grass. Geranium. 

Today, I started receiving the faintest of tingles in my nose, preceding the shy arrival of smells. Scents that glanced at me as they passed by, as if flirting. 

Candles just puffed out. Canals on hot days. 

I’m taking in careful breaths. If fragrance were a muscial score, I am currently only picking up the bass notes.

Wet soil. Whisky.

Here's to all the smells in the world. The ones we want, the ones we tolerate and the ones we try to chase out of our homes. 

Tarmac. Tobacco.

My Week in ... Taste

Gosh this week is a bit frantic. I'm wrapping up last minute jobs at work, wrapping up presents in the evenings and managing to get virtual catch-ups with friends and family in the spare moments. Last night I woke at 3.30am with a jump: I'd been dreaming I'd forgotten about my op until 2 hours after the time it was scheduled. Not happy that my waking anxiety should invade my sleep!

Anyway, onto my week in seven flavours. Only a little more abstemious than I thought it might be, what with the New Regime and all. 

Cashew nuts! All part of the new food regime. Having been strictly an only-peanuts girl, I found them weird at first but now I even like them more than the former. Roasted and salted, of course. Whaddaya think I am, some kind of penitent?

Smoked salmon. I don't buy a lot of it before you go thinking I'm posh or summat. But this time of year is my own personal "salmon season" (me and everyone else in Britain) and I'm thoroughly enjoying the unbeatable taste of smoked salmon folded into gently scrambled free range eggs, the yolks so orange they look like little suns on my plate. 

Coffee. Real coffee. Working from home means I get to make myself a cafetiere of the stuff every morning, so I'm not missing out on the coffee shop right next to my workplace. It's not quite the same, but it's close enough. 

Coriander. Or cilantro if you're American. I love this herb but you have to go carefully with it unless you want a mouthful of something that tastes like antiseptic. This week, I've had it in soup, courgette fritters and in a giant cous-cous (the only cous-cous worth the water used in preparing it) salad. 

Damson gin. Self explanatory surely?

Damson Jelly. I've been adding spoonfuls of this to gravies for the past couple of weeks and it adds a blast of sour fruity goodness to cut through the fat and heavy saltiness of gravy. Amazing. Try it now if you haven't already. 

Rice cakes. Don't. I know. I've actually written the words "rice cakes" on my blog. I'm so ashamed. But not bloated, so there. When the need for a crunchy food that isn't toast (see previous post) or a nut (see above) overwhelms, I "butter" one up and add some humous or goats cheese. No, it is not at all as good as a piece of toast with cheese or jam on it. How could it be? This breaking of old (bad) habits is tough on the tastebuds sometimes, folks. 

Zombie peanuts! Ho ho ho 

My Week in...Sounds

Laura Marling on the car stereo. Oh, but she just keeps getting better! I've been listening to her albums in sequence and you can chart her growth and ability throughout the tracks. Just wonderful, thoughtful, unpretentious music. 

My parents laughing over a distanced dinner as we saw each other for the last time this year. 

The sound of my work key turning in the lock for the last time this year. 

The ding-dong of the doorbell as the blessed delivery man brought unto me my replacement phone. See also the happiest of noises the phone makes when I turn it on and end my unplanned digital detox. 

The pingpingping of said phone, reactivated with my sim, bringing up a host of notifications. WhatsApp, in particular, was on fire the week I was without, as our quiz group made arrangements for our festive Murder Mystery evening. 

The sound of the knife cutting through fresh stems of coriander as I make myself a soup for home-based lunches this week, accompanied by the release of that lovely fresh smell. 

The little "stamp" of Mabel's feet on the grass outside as she tries to catch something invisible amongst the blades. She rears up like an arctic fox and then STAMP go her tiny front paws. At least 5 times a night, without fail. And without fail it makes me laugh. 

My grumpy Matroyshka are reluctant to concede to the festive

spirit but they have allowed a string of tiny lights along their section

of the bookcase...

My week in ... Smell

December has landed with a squelch today with the rain falling steadily since the early hours and showing no sign of letting up. I made my final dash for some Christmas shopping during my lunchbreak and came back with an additional pile of books to see me through to January. Possibly even February, who knows.

It does mean that a corner of my bedroom now smells like an old bookshop, which frankly, if it was sold in a cologne, I'd buy.

And with that so-neat-you-nearly-didn't-see-it segue, here is my week of smells...

 A booze-laden Christmas cake, made by my Mum. Covered with a decent coating of marzipan and a layer of icing so thick, it makes your gums tingle. The smell of the fruit, the brandy and the almonds is almost too good to resist (in fact, it hasn't been resisted...)

Scented candles from my son's new start up. I'm burning Mocha in the bedroom, Toffee Apple in the bathroom and Roast Pumpkin in the living room. They smell amazing all the way down to the bottom. 

New pyjamas, freshly washed and folded away with bits of lavender between them. I go for surgery on the 22nd December and want decent, cosy pyjamas to while away my January from the bed as I recover. 

Mabel's fur after she'd been out on a cold and frosty morning. I am slightly obsessed. 

Leaf mould, moss and turned earth at the allotment. I'm in full on rush mode as I try to get everything done before I have to self-isolate. 

That wonderful fresh fruit and veg smell from a nearby farmshop. I love it there and this was probably my last visit before I have to self-isolate. It smells so much better than supermarkets with their pumped in "fresh" bread smell. 

Basil, chopped and scattered into the tomato sauce on my homemade pizza. A blast of summer to the nose. 

My Week in ... Touch

 Has a week gone by already? Since starting the My Week in... series, I find that the 7 days absolutely fly by and, if I'm not careful (and I'm often not), a couple of weeks will have disappeared behind me and I haven't posted anything. 

And yes, I do wonder why I post anything on here at all. I'm a sporadic diary keeper and a life-long writer of nonsense that rarely sees the light of day. This way, I get to write and keep track of my life, focusing on the tiny pleasures that punctuate the days but can so often be overlooked by bigger, more complicated stuff. 

Speaking of tiny pleasures, here are the past 7 days through the medium of touch.

Thorns scratching as the brambles on the plot desperately resisted my attempts to hack them out, or at least back under control. I won.

Satisfyingly tactile, soft but substantial stripy socks keeping my feet warm in wellies. 

The gentle roughness of bark as I bring some logs home for another bug house. 

The cold of the keys to the museum in my hand as I go back in for the first time since Lockdown #2 to check on the building. 

Mabel's little head butting mine as she establishes her rightful place in my morning. 

The shivery furriness of a leaf from one of the houseplants, brought back to life after I realised it wasn't thriving where it was and moved it. 

Slippery, almost silky fabric of the new-old skirt I've been wearing this week. 

The weight and flow of the fountain pen used to write a letter to a friend. 

Mabel. Familiar, hot water bottle, tiny tyrant. 

My Week in...Taste

Well, goodbye October and thank you for the extra full moon, the streets awash with the smell of pumpkin lattes, the subdued Halloween (not your fault) and the lovely crackle of leaves underfoot. However, I am less impressed with the sheer volume of rain you threw at us from the sky, so less of that next time, okay?

In fact, October was so weird this year, and so stressful, that I've decided to make November my favourite month for 2020 (usually it's my 6th favourite. Yes, I have an order of months). The new lockdown means increased working from home (hooray!) and subsequent lie-ins, whole weekends spent with N instead of partial ones (normally we only overlap on a Sunday), more allotment time, the chance to get the bike on the road and not worry about being hit by a time-crazed spatially-short-sighted driver, more time to cook stews and soups, more time to snuggle down and knit snoods, more TIME. 

But then I get to be so bloody Pollyanna about it because I have a very privileged life. A roof over my head that I don't live under in fear, a job I love and food in the cupboard. 

Ahh yes, food. 

Back to the matter in hand, my past 7 days in tastes...

1. Homemade and quickly cobbled together burgers as the Kid and his boyfriend surprised us by extending their "popping in" long enough to need feeding up. It was lovely and so good to spend time with them. 

2. The pastry on top of my Mum's meat and potato pie, served on Sunday after they came over to help at the allotment. Nothing like felling trees in the cold to build up an appetite. 

3. A lightly spiced fried egg on top of halloumi on top of gently wilted spinach on top of a sumac-flavoured flatbread. Lunch my boss treated me to. 

4. Chlorinated water at the swimming pool this morning as I forgot to keep my mouth shut as I went under the water. The most uncoordinated swimmer ever. 

5. An oats, brown sugar and butter (substitute) topping of a crumble. A sweetness that was cut through by the tart plums and apples underneath. 

6. Oozy jelly skull sweets purchased from Marks and Spencer on Halloween. 

7. A really good, robust but smooth, red wine that didn't stain my teeth, give me heartburn or a headache the next day. Drunk in the bath while reading Mapp and Lucia (more about them in another post). 

Oh look. It's Hayley Mills and the Mother in law from Bewitched. 

She was far more interesting than Samantha. 

And having just read about Agnes Moorehead, I have to conclude that the 

real woman is more interesting too.

My Week in...Sounds

 Do you know, I am quite enjoying doing these My Week In...posts. They require me to stop, think back, highlight things that have been nice about the previous 7 days. This week is no different. 

And it has been a bit of a week. Multiple reasons why but I have plenty to look forward to in the coming days, so I'm not going to focus on what's been. Instead, here are my top 7 sounds, pop pickers:

The Irish woman at the pub coming out into the garden and shouting "Ahh JAYZUS!" before running back in to fetch the pints we'd ordered 10 minutes previously. 

The question "would you like dauphinoise pototoes?" from the waiter. The answer is "always".

The merry ding of a WhatsApp message from a friend saying "let's meet up next week. You free?" Yes. 

The crunch of autumn leaves under my feet as I walk home. 

N saying "I like that dress" as I get in from work. 

Samin Nosrat's laugh on the latest episode of her podcast. Can you tell I'm slightly in love with this woman and want her to be my friend?

The comforting whirr of the central heating. Hey, wood fires may be nice but they don't have timers to make sure the bathroom is toasty in the morning. 

My Week in...Smells

 My annual leave came to an end yesterday and I'm feeling much rested, ready to get back to it and more determined to bring balance to my life. A rut of work, home, eating off lap, bed had developed and this is obviously no good for anyone. The challenge is how to get out of it. Slowly slowly, catchee...betterness?

I'm still a work in progress on this. Aren't we all?

In the meantime, here is last week in odours (oh, now there's an unpleasant word):

The slight rubber whiff of my yoga mat as I unrolled it for the first time in months and actually managed to complete 4 daily sessions. I have missed my yoga. I've especially missed the way it left me able to get up off the sofa without groaning and able to put my tights on, standing on one leg, without falling over. 

A roast dinner at my folks: pork, potatoes, veg and a rich rich gravy. 

The comforting aroma of slowly caramalizing onions and garlic for a pasta sauce. 

Paint. I painted parts of the house while I was off work, including a deep blue wall in the retreat, which I shall sprinkle with hand-painted constellations. I confess willingly to loving the smell of a freshly painted wall. 

Woodsmoke. Bonfires are allowed once more on the allotment site. I haven't had one myself but I am enjoying smelling other's when I go up there. 

Leaf mould. Leaves are falling and coupled with the rain last week, there is the faintest whiff of rotting leaves along the tow path. It's so very evocative of this time of year. 

Mango juice. I treated myself to a ripe mango and the smell was a short blast of summer for a while after I'd gobbled it all up.

 

Image by...I forget, sorry. Not me anyway, but perfectly encapsulating

how I felt when my umbrella blew inside out last week... 

My Week in...Touch

 What a strange and curious week it has been too. The museum is finally open to the public, so my days have been spent rushing around trying to get everything set up so no volunteers gets infected/passes anything on/ditto visitors/that all the changes around the building are clearly signposted/that all the new exhibits are labelled/that all the displays and cases are moved to their new positions/that everywhere is clean and tidy and all cobwebs are removed. Eesh.

There have been days where I've ordered the Boyfriend to meet me at the pub after work so I can press pause for an hour before heading home to deal with general life admin with a reviving pint inside me. 

But there are still touches that press pause on life and give a moment of reflection. Good touches. 

A ladybird crawling up my arm

The water of the swimming pool closing over my limbs

Clean sheets against smooth legs

The squidge of damsons in their draining bag

Mabel's spiky claw puncturing my thumb as I tease her with a grass stem and forget about her lightning reflexes (and in-built weaponry)

The feather-stroke of a newly planted fern

The brush of the heavy-duty cotton my new winter skirt is made from.

 

Mabel. Comepletely not sorry about the spiky incident. 

My Week In ... Taste

Autumn, autumn, autumn! Have I said how much I love this seasonal change? And it's not just the smells or the ceremonial bringing out of the tights or the welcome cooler temperature, it's the foods too. Out with faffy salads and in with marvellous potatoes! Out with ice cream that hurts the teeth and in with crumble that hugs your soul! Out with days too hot to cook and in with days that cry out for a roast to make it all better! 

I shall miss the summer fruits but for now there are plums and damsons to take their place, autumn raspberries and the promising gleam of the first apples. Toast in the morning never smells as good as when it's accompanied by that autumnal chill.

The pungent tang of vinegar and tumeric as I bottled runner bean chutney.

The gloriously sharp but nevertheless sweet burst of a ripe damson.

Peanut butter from my local no-plastic shop. They grind the peanuts with no added salt or oil and it's the most intense shot of peanutty deliciousness I've ever experienced. 

Caramelised onion, goats cheese and rocket pizza. Homemade with a crust that required serious jaw action. Perfect. 

Courgette soup repurposed as a pasta sauce because we were both feeling lazy after an intense week of work and gardening.

Late-night Bounty bar: I've gone from being a coconut hater to a coconut lover. And these are trashy but soooo good after a few beers and aforementioned pizza. 

Coffee from the deli next to work, My, that was a hit to the brain as well as the tastebuds. 

What have you been tasting this week?

My Week in...Sounds

Am currently working through my bank holiday induced hangover, drinking all the tea and wishing I was still in bed. Actually, I may haul this laptop upstairs shortly and work from that very location. God, I love working from home. 

For now, the last week in 7 sounds:

Mabel's (aka May-boo, the Squeaks, Obbly-bobbly and Get-Down-From-There) welcoming meow when I come home from work. Always accompanied by a little kitten skip of joy. 

Live music at a beautiful location.

The decorator at work singing as he goes (the museum reopens in 8 days - I'm just hoping his singing powers his painting arm). 

The new Fontaines D.C. album. Also, the Idles. Less enamoured of that, to be honest. 

My friend's laughter recounting her stay at a truly terrible B&B in Portishead..."and we have Al-pen" (you had to be there). 

The wind rustling the trees at the allotment. Also, the sound of very ripe damsons plopping on the ground. Followed by the sight of the storms rapidly moving in my direction. 

The sound of shovel cutting through earth as the Boyfriend digs in the frankly greedy number of plants we brought last week. 

My Week In...Smells

You see? I didn’t find a better word than smell after my first My Week In post, so I’ve decided to embrace it. Smells are marvellous after all: our smell memory is so much stronger than anything else, and the merest whiff of something can send us spinning down through the years to our grandmother’s house or back to last year and that holiday beach or even just to the beginning of this year. I love smells, so the word stays. 

Anyway, this was my week in 7 smells: 

Strawberries from the farm shop, so ripe that I could smell them from the boot of the car as I drove home  

The acidic tang of pickling vegetables: courgettes, cucumber, beetroot, runner beans. We have been pickling everything the allotment has to offer and it was this smell that sent me cascading down through the years to my Nan’s house. 

Clean bedding, fresh from the washing line in the brief gap between rain storms. 

Rain! That beautiful, earthy, fresh smell of petrichor that the ground releases when rain hits heat-burden grass, bricks and stones. 

The oat, honey and lavender bath milk I’ve created for myself in an effort to create a sustainable bathing product that doesn’t aggravate my eczema prone skin.

Fresh bread, toasted and topped with a very nice sheep’s cheese. 

That curve between my boyfriend’s shoulder and neck.  

My week in...Sights

Sights, quite literally, for sore eyes as I was struck down with an allergic reaction to hydrocortisone/hayfever (take your pick according to whether you are a) my doctor or b) me)). My eyes, for the first time ever, had swollen so much I could barely see. 

One hour and 4 slices of allotment cucumber later, they had reduced enough to allow me to work but then developed very dark circles. It took 3 days to completely calm down. A trip to the pub had to be cancelled so no one called the police thinking the boyfriend had hit me, or the zoo thinking I was an escaped panda. 

Despite this, I saw some things that gladdened my heart this week; here are 7 of them:

Cuban wildlife, thanks to a great BBC documentary, Wild Cuba: A Caribbean Journey. Cuba is one of those places I've always wanted to go. For now, I'll settle for watching jewel-bright humming birds and lizards on the screen. 

The planting of the honeysuckle in the new garden border. This is the boyfriend's project and I'd honestly expected the honeysuckle to live out it's entire life in the pot until last weekend. 

Beautiful sunsets over the rooftops, even if each one has preceded a day so hot the air feels like warm treacle, followed by lightening that flickered and flashed silently through the clouds. Eerie and spellbinding. 

A peacock butterfly. 

Little Mabel waiting for me to wake up with all the patience of a toddler, i.e. none. Nose tapping by paw occurred. 

The glorious illustrations in Samin Nosrat's Salt Fat Acid Heat. They're so lovely, I almost want to put them on the walls. Plus, the book is revolutionary, logical and funny. I want her for my friend. 

The new piece of linocut art that I invested in, hanging on the wall in our living room. 

My Week in ...

... touch. I'm a very tactile person and the way something feels is hugely important to me. It's one of the reasons I stopped wearing vintage clothing - I couldn't bear the feel of crimplene on my skin. See also, real wool. Itchy itchy itchy. 

However, these 7 touches gave me all the good feels:

Mabel fur. Yes, I am a little obsessed but she is warm and soft and fluffy, and won't be this way forever, so I'm indulging

The rough surface and slight prickle of the runner bean, courgette and cucumber plants on the allotment

Silken petals on the rose my parent's got me for my birthday

Early morning grass under my bare feet as I pad across to hang the washing out

The whisper-soft brush of the grasses that have seeded in our tiny garden and that dance next to me as I'm weeding

Making focaccia, I'm momentarily distracted by the pilllowy suppleness of the dough under my fingers, mesmerised by how it rises back from the kneading

The fuzz of my boyfriend's newly shaved head. 

My Week in...

Tastes. It was my birthday this week, so I’ve been utterly spoiled for flavours that danced and sang on my tongue. 

My breakfast egg with an umami sprinkling of mixed sesame and seaweed garnish picked up at my local Asian supermarket. 

A seafood linguine full of mussels, clams and crayfish in a sauce so delicious, I wanted to bathe in it. 

Pickled onion Monster Munch. Grabbing dinner on the go as we went to visit friends. 

A salad of strawberries, mango and nectarines at the so-ripe-we’re-nearly-done stage. 

Cherry and almond, raspberry and peanut butter brownies for the family gathering today, to celebrate said birthday. The RPJ ones are perfect: chewy, fudgey, rich. 

Roast chicken with thyme, rosemary, parsley, lemon zest and garlic stuffing. 

The intense berried zing of my favourite wine, Fleuris. Only purchased on special occasions. 

Our first beetroot from the allotment: pink on the outside, yellow in. Obviously the best tasting beetroot that has ever been grown. 

My Week in ... Sounds

The bells chiming out the hour from the rather handsome church round the corner from our house. I find myself feeling cheated when the number of chimes is less than 7. 

Our formerly indoor cat making his strange cackling meow at the massive pigeons on the fence, as though he knows he should make a noise but can’t decide what it should be. 

Birdsong at the allotment, with a bass line of bees.  

The chatter and clink of cups at the first coffee shop I’ve visited since February. 

My own voice on a recording made for work. Do I sound like that? I had no idea. I certainly sound posher than I really am. 

Bacon sizzling in the pan with onions and mushrooms. 

My chair at the café. It was you’llery comfortable. 

My week in ...

New series (possibly) of posts where I remind myself  of things experienced during the week via my senses. This week, smell. 

Smell is a rather unpleasant word, isn't it? But somehow fragrance, perfume, odour don't seem to fit, and I just don't like the word 'scent'. 

Never mind, I'll think on, in the meantime, here's my week in assorted smells (really going to think on that word): 

Sheets, freshly washed and in from drying outside, on the bed. 

Rain hitting hot pavements. 

Just-turned soil. 

Wild oregano on the allotment, full of flowers and bees. 

My cat's fur, warm from a day's sunbathing. 

A sandwich of fresh bread stuffed with rocket and halloumi. 

Beeswax polish on my favourite piece of furniture. 

gate image above from a recent neighbourhood explore. I love this so much; it speaks of safety and home and humour. Also, that green.