How's the serenity....
It’s been a week of stupendous beauty, starting on Thursday of last week. Graham, Steve’s dad, was stuck in London because of ash, so came to stay with us for a few days and decided he wanted to go to Bristol. We spent a lovely day wandering around the city centre and along the waterfront and observing all the identikit Conservatives having their conference nearby. It was great to have a couple of days with Graham, and just drive somewhere new and hang out and look around. On the way back to the car, I found the most spectacular haul of vintage I’ve seen in England yet, in a little retro-themed bowling alley called The Lanes. Not wanting to tax Steve and Graham overmuch, I managed to try on about eight dresses in 15 minutes, and came home with two of them. One of them, a pink silk, I love with such a passion of tenderness, such an excess of regard, that while we were travelling this week I carried it everywhere in my handbag in case ruffians should burst into our accommodation and, transported with ecstasy at its beauty, ignore our phones and Euros and passports and carry it off to parts unknown. (Photo later in the entry).
The next day, Zoe, Ben, a friends of theirs and Steve and I went on a massive ramble around Oxford on the most glorious day I’ve seen yet. We walked from Summertown to the Victoria Arms, had a refreshing tipple, then carried on down the Cherwell, over the Rainbow Bridge into South Parks and wended our way to the propitiously-timed French Market. Armed with baguettes, cheese, olives, fresh chorizo, orange juice and about £15-worth of Italian biscuits, we had the most superb lunch in Christ Church meadow. The sky was blazing blue, and we sat in the shade of the avenue of trees then lay about on the warm grass, overstuffed and drowsy.
After that we went down to the Isis and found a carpet of daffies, which we girls insisted on disporting ourselves among.
Thence to Magdalen, where we introduced Zoe and Ben and Sarah to the delights of Addison’s Walk. As I looked out over the water meadow, I could see a faint purple haze over the ground.
“Weeds or something,” I thought dismissively.
I only clicked when I heard Zoe saying to Sarah, “I don’t know, poppies or something?”
Then I suddenly realised that we had stumbled onto one of the glories of Oxfordshire, that I’ve wanted to see ever since we got here and missed last year; the blooming of the rare and elusive Snakeshead Fritillary. (Called by the others, variously, Fritter Lilies, Frito-Lays and Flutter, Owlies.) I was SO EXCITED. They grow wild in very few places now, and Addison’s Walk is one of the few places they can reliably be seen. It was the most extraordinary sight - these diamond-patterned flowers bending heavy heads on their slender stalks, hundreds of thousands of them there must have been.
Then on Saturday we happily set off for the second half of our holiday, going straight to Athens then onto Santorini, which was just as ridiculously beautiful as all the calendars make it out to be.
Orgy of gorgeous pictures.... The Acropolis:
Santorini, the entrance to our hotel:
Oia, the settlement about 6 miles from where we were in Fira, the origin of all the Santorini calendars you've ever seen.
Oia is famed for its sunset views, and we sat freezing in a gale for two solid hours to see one. In the end the sun sort of fizzled into the sea and we gave up and ran for the bus. There was beautiful play of light over the sea though, as the sun struggled out now and then.
The next night, back on Santorini. Here's the view from our balcony, and from our bedroom window.
On the bottom left is the entrance to our hotel:
Steve looking for dinner (don't get me started on the food, it was heaven):
The lights of Santorini as we rolled back to the hotel after dinner.
Last but not least, pretty dress! All the sewing is hand-done, I suspect even the seams have been hand-stitched, as the stitches are ever so slightly irregular, if you look hard. It’s a masterful piece of work, whatever it looks like. But SO PRETTY! It’s so light that the skirt kept flying up - billowing with every warm breeze. There’s a gold thread in it that shines when the fabric moves, and I just put on a petticoat and let it blow. Best of all, it was probably a quarter the price it would have been in London, and even in Oxford it would have been a good £100. This is what vintage is all about - clothes that make you feel beautiful and special and have the added dimension of 60 years-worth of history.
So we're back in Oxford now, with no houseguests, and we're vaguely starting to think about packing up. Yes there are three months to go, but it'll be a big job. Before that though, May Day is tomorrow, so I'll be up at 4:30am to join the hordes of drunk students and be-Thermosed dons to welcome in the May. More tomorrow!
The next day, Zoe, Ben, a friends of theirs and Steve and I went on a massive ramble around Oxford on the most glorious day I’ve seen yet. We walked from Summertown to the Victoria Arms, had a refreshing tipple, then carried on down the Cherwell, over the Rainbow Bridge into South Parks and wended our way to the propitiously-timed French Market. Armed with baguettes, cheese, olives, fresh chorizo, orange juice and about £15-worth of Italian biscuits, we had the most superb lunch in Christ Church meadow. The sky was blazing blue, and we sat in the shade of the avenue of trees then lay about on the warm grass, overstuffed and drowsy.
After that we went down to the Isis and found a carpet of daffies, which we girls insisted on disporting ourselves among.
Thence to Magdalen, where we introduced Zoe and Ben and Sarah to the delights of Addison’s Walk. As I looked out over the water meadow, I could see a faint purple haze over the ground.
“Weeds or something,” I thought dismissively.
I only clicked when I heard Zoe saying to Sarah, “I don’t know, poppies or something?”
Then I suddenly realised that we had stumbled onto one of the glories of Oxfordshire, that I’ve wanted to see ever since we got here and missed last year; the blooming of the rare and elusive Snakeshead Fritillary. (Called by the others, variously, Fritter Lilies, Frito-Lays and Flutter, Owlies.) I was SO EXCITED. They grow wild in very few places now, and Addison’s Walk is one of the few places they can reliably be seen. It was the most extraordinary sight - these diamond-patterned flowers bending heavy heads on their slender stalks, hundreds of thousands of them there must have been.
Then on Saturday we happily set off for the second half of our holiday, going straight to Athens then onto Santorini, which was just as ridiculously beautiful as all the calendars make it out to be.
Orgy of gorgeous pictures.... The Acropolis:
Santorini, the entrance to our hotel:
Oia, the settlement about 6 miles from where we were in Fira, the origin of all the Santorini calendars you've ever seen.
Oia is famed for its sunset views, and we sat freezing in a gale for two solid hours to see one. In the end the sun sort of fizzled into the sea and we gave up and ran for the bus. There was beautiful play of light over the sea though, as the sun struggled out now and then.
The next night, back on Santorini. Here's the view from our balcony, and from our bedroom window.
On the bottom left is the entrance to our hotel:
Steve looking for dinner (don't get me started on the food, it was heaven):
The lights of Santorini as we rolled back to the hotel after dinner.
Last but not least, pretty dress! All the sewing is hand-done, I suspect even the seams have been hand-stitched, as the stitches are ever so slightly irregular, if you look hard. It’s a masterful piece of work, whatever it looks like. But SO PRETTY! It’s so light that the skirt kept flying up - billowing with every warm breeze. There’s a gold thread in it that shines when the fabric moves, and I just put on a petticoat and let it blow. Best of all, it was probably a quarter the price it would have been in London, and even in Oxford it would have been a good £100. This is what vintage is all about - clothes that make you feel beautiful and special and have the added dimension of 60 years-worth of history.
So we're back in Oxford now, with no houseguests, and we're vaguely starting to think about packing up. Yes there are three months to go, but it'll be a big job. Before that though, May Day is tomorrow, so I'll be up at 4:30am to join the hordes of drunk students and be-Thermosed dons to welcome in the May. More tomorrow!