"I dream my painting and I paint my dream" Van Gogh clearly inspired by his own work. I can assure all blog readers that my dreams and painting are as mixed together as well as oil and water! Last winter was tough - late snow then heavy rain and a spring that almost forgot to turn up. This winter...only in nightmares does it appear. Still and all, I'm not going to go bleating on about it. Fact is, we're all a little bored of the constant flooding news and our little Smallholding is standing up ok-ish to the ark test. We are not so bad as some fellow rural dwellers nor are we so dependent on our lands produce to live.
However, living in the fresh air is, most city girls rever. The dream of Dubarrys in place of Dune and Barbour's worn with the pride of actually being wet. That romanticised notion of crisp winter walks with obedient dogs, hand in hand in the peace of the countryside with all the time to stop and wonder at natures miracle as a snowdrop doffs it's cap to satisfy ones gaze. The sleepy ewes carrying springs new lives baa-ing whilst a buzzard mews overhead, demanding you pay spectacle to the aerial displays of our largest bird of prey. Well, stuff all that. The fact is, walking the dogs before work, in the dark, with winds so strong that your mascara runs all before 7:30am is not peaceful. Hosing muddy dogs down 3 times a day is hardly romantic nor is being mugged by starving, sodden ewes desperate for a few sheep nuts as sustenance anywhere like romantic. My Joules pheasant wellies are so ingrained in mud the decor has faded and my Barbour has no wax left on it! I now walk in permanent mans waterproof trousers and DHs old football manager type coat that has a broken zip and snags my nail each time I put it on. My wrists are knackered too by the daily fight with the chicken house such is the concoction of tarpaulin and rope around it to prevent it from taking off. And are the chickens grateful? Absolutely not, few eggs, messy houses and a potential egg eater which, once identified will have to become Sunday lunch. So, no reader, rest assured I am anything but complaining...Marianne Dashwood once identified that 'a woman of seven and twenty can never hope to feel or inspire affection again.' Well. I'm closer to seven and thirty these days and she is absolutely right. What use is a curly blow and gellished end nails? What purpose serves the 5:2 for me when at dawn and dusk mud battles ensue for all us country dwellers and their countryside dreams...
Weather: ha! Wet or windy or both! Barn flooded out twice so far and lamb field sporting a lake.
