Ceramic Beads To Make
A sunny day here in the fens and today I play with clay, no throwing on wheel or coil pot making for me, it's ceramic bead ideas that have pestered my mind these last few days, round, disc, curved and much more, how busy my hands will be.
With the light rain falling here in the east and clay in my hands I think of that little blonde haired boy sitting mixing mud in the garden of that thatched family home, with sticks and twig he mixed his mud to form those small bricks that would sit and dry in summer sun, castles and walls would be built with moats that drained in minutes and plastic soldier placed inside, how long ago it seems.
No fire dragon for me to feed today just warm kitchen in which to work with large pine table to roll my beads, the barn will rest this January day, no lights to glow and flame to flicker and still corners will stay dark while glass rods will feel safe once more.
Clay will work in my hands until placed to dry on wooden tray, tools to carve and engrave will be busy and holes will form in every piece. Rolling and twisting will be done while thoughts of spring will run in my head and cups of tea will help to make this day another of interest and fun.
What will people like, designs of old or something new and crazy say, maybe narrow and long they will be or chunky rustic country nugget with no side the same, I'm sure I'll try them all and some will be found that will sell.
Thursday, 31 January 2013
Wednesday, 30 January 2013
Dark Morning
Rushing Dark Skies
A dark winter morning welcomes us this Wednesday, as light opens up our world the sight of those rain filled wild clouds rushing over the fens heading off to the coast is all we see, no bright blue skies to start this day, just deep dark banks of storm armies rolling east, in haste they march watched by a thousand fenland eyes.
The light drizzle of night has left tiny crystal clear drops on every window and cobbled path holds still pools for early winds to dry, clumps of snowdrop leaf sit nestled under cherry tree with coats of dew and Magpie rattle is cutting the silence, a different land winter is leaving behind.
No ice is left and ponds now dance in fenland breeze to celebrate their freedom from that bitter cold winter sleep, now life can start again in water cold, a life so strange for us but to them a world so full and busy, weed will grow and reed will stand until the spring they will produce this show we watch, a show that will amaze again like every year.
A day of glass I face, warm and content I will work my flame while I watch the molten magic tricks that will entertain and orange glow from box of fire will keep them safe until tomorrow. Rods will watch as I pick my next and dust filled corners will hide eyes that see all, builders of web will laugh at my simple craft as they produce such stunning work and to them I bow in respect.
How lucky this bead hermit is to share this world of flame and glass, to explain his reason to fight for it to the last is not needed and one that all can see.
A dark winter morning welcomes us this Wednesday, as light opens up our world the sight of those rain filled wild clouds rushing over the fens heading off to the coast is all we see, no bright blue skies to start this day, just deep dark banks of storm armies rolling east, in haste they march watched by a thousand fenland eyes.
The light drizzle of night has left tiny crystal clear drops on every window and cobbled path holds still pools for early winds to dry, clumps of snowdrop leaf sit nestled under cherry tree with coats of dew and Magpie rattle is cutting the silence, a different land winter is leaving behind.
No ice is left and ponds now dance in fenland breeze to celebrate their freedom from that bitter cold winter sleep, now life can start again in water cold, a life so strange for us but to them a world so full and busy, weed will grow and reed will stand until the spring they will produce this show we watch, a show that will amaze again like every year.
A day of glass I face, warm and content I will work my flame while I watch the molten magic tricks that will entertain and orange glow from box of fire will keep them safe until tomorrow. Rods will watch as I pick my next and dust filled corners will hide eyes that see all, builders of web will laugh at my simple craft as they produce such stunning work and to them I bow in respect.
How lucky this bead hermit is to share this world of flame and glass, to explain his reason to fight for it to the last is not needed and one that all can see.
Sunday, 27 January 2013
Rains To wash, Winds To Dry
The Thaw
Temperatures lift here in the flat lands and with the rains of last night most of the snow has been wash deep into the fenland soil, now we watch the winds rushing across the dark garden of East Anglia with reeds and rushes riding every blustery breath nature sends while forgotten lavender shivers every silver seed head.
No dark skies to greet us this morning, no sky of grey so full of winters carpet, only blue fresh sky with those long slender sun lit white clouds that ride high in the wind, a sign of sunshine maybe on this day of rest, a day to dry our sodden land and wipe clear the mess winter left behind after frozen parties that bright clear stars did attend well into each night.
For this bead hermit it will be a long warm day at my torch watching my birds feed at their swinging feeders and listen I will to the old conifer trees talking above my barn, groaning to each other like old folk of the fen putting world to right, the fire I'll feed and bead ideas will play around in my head as if riding some wonderful carousel, off and on they will jump while I try to catch them, no easy Sunday for this bead maker.
Temperatures lift here in the flat lands and with the rains of last night most of the snow has been wash deep into the fenland soil, now we watch the winds rushing across the dark garden of East Anglia with reeds and rushes riding every blustery breath nature sends while forgotten lavender shivers every silver seed head.
No dark skies to greet us this morning, no sky of grey so full of winters carpet, only blue fresh sky with those long slender sun lit white clouds that ride high in the wind, a sign of sunshine maybe on this day of rest, a day to dry our sodden land and wipe clear the mess winter left behind after frozen parties that bright clear stars did attend well into each night.
For this bead hermit it will be a long warm day at my torch watching my birds feed at their swinging feeders and listen I will to the old conifer trees talking above my barn, groaning to each other like old folk of the fen putting world to right, the fire I'll feed and bead ideas will play around in my head as if riding some wonderful carousel, off and on they will jump while I try to catch them, no easy Sunday for this bead maker.
Sunday, 20 January 2013
Winter Remembered
Childhood Winter
As I sit here on this cold winter Sunday looking out upon the snow covered fens the memories of winters past come flooding back to me, great weeks of snow when being a child was the greatest thing ever and hours of fun were had in the small streets and lanes of Ashwell until hands were so cold you had to go warm them up in mum's kitchen.
Those snowball fights in the school meadow and riding a mini bonnet down Kingsland Terrace with both fear and excitement. Those long walks along village lane where curtains of ice from great willow trees hung and waters as cold as mountain snow flows from chalk spring.
On three sides the snow covered hills protect my Ashwell, the fourth lay flat and cold with just narrow lane cutting a path, a path walked by both rich and poor for a thousand years, where tramp and merchant alike have trod and snows drift to a mans waist.
I remember those great iron lamps that lit the streets in winter snow, every flake passed through the light like angel wings falling to the ground, I would sit watching at my window well into the night hoping the snow would settle.
Those ice covered pavements that ran along busy high street, solid crusty ice that bore a hundred frozen foot prints with clay red salt resting to each curb and figures walking slowly through wet sludge in the road, some bent over wearing coat and hat and others enjoying every step.
The odd car would pass or coal lorry loaded with those grey heavy sacks, food for fires all over the village and every door step would have small round finger prints from milk bottles now in larders or on kitchen table. The shops would still trade as before with pavements swept clear of snow, an invitation to their door, butchers, bakers, post office and village store, all open and still serving with that smile that only village folk used.
Kitchens everywhere would smell of soups and stews and that winter pot of boiling potato peelings that every hen keeper would cook, great black iron kettles stood on ranges full of boiled water for that needed cuppa, no hot water taps to run then. The larder would home winter stores and cheese, butter and meats would sit wrapped in paper, pickles would stand in jars like soldiers of different regiments all waiting their turn, reds, greens, yellows, like stained glass in a church of food.
Dad's and grandad's would be sawing and splitting logs by wash house door and the outside water taps would wear their winter coats of sacking and string. The cobbled yard would be cleared by salt and bird tables would be adorned with strings of peanut shells and homemade lard balls, oh how this world changes, am I the only one who wishes he could return, maybe.
As I sit here on this cold winter Sunday looking out upon the snow covered fens the memories of winters past come flooding back to me, great weeks of snow when being a child was the greatest thing ever and hours of fun were had in the small streets and lanes of Ashwell until hands were so cold you had to go warm them up in mum's kitchen.
Those snowball fights in the school meadow and riding a mini bonnet down Kingsland Terrace with both fear and excitement. Those long walks along village lane where curtains of ice from great willow trees hung and waters as cold as mountain snow flows from chalk spring.
On three sides the snow covered hills protect my Ashwell, the fourth lay flat and cold with just narrow lane cutting a path, a path walked by both rich and poor for a thousand years, where tramp and merchant alike have trod and snows drift to a mans waist.
I remember those great iron lamps that lit the streets in winter snow, every flake passed through the light like angel wings falling to the ground, I would sit watching at my window well into the night hoping the snow would settle.
Those ice covered pavements that ran along busy high street, solid crusty ice that bore a hundred frozen foot prints with clay red salt resting to each curb and figures walking slowly through wet sludge in the road, some bent over wearing coat and hat and others enjoying every step.
The odd car would pass or coal lorry loaded with those grey heavy sacks, food for fires all over the village and every door step would have small round finger prints from milk bottles now in larders or on kitchen table. The shops would still trade as before with pavements swept clear of snow, an invitation to their door, butchers, bakers, post office and village store, all open and still serving with that smile that only village folk used.
Kitchens everywhere would smell of soups and stews and that winter pot of boiling potato peelings that every hen keeper would cook, great black iron kettles stood on ranges full of boiled water for that needed cuppa, no hot water taps to run then. The larder would home winter stores and cheese, butter and meats would sit wrapped in paper, pickles would stand in jars like soldiers of different regiments all waiting their turn, reds, greens, yellows, like stained glass in a church of food.
Dad's and grandad's would be sawing and splitting logs by wash house door and the outside water taps would wear their winter coats of sacking and string. The cobbled yard would be cleared by salt and bird tables would be adorned with strings of peanut shells and homemade lard balls, oh how this world changes, am I the only one who wishes he could return, maybe.
Thursday, 17 January 2013
A Wild White World
The Tree Of Winter
The fens stand still, no winds on this day of January, freezing mist sits above the rich garden of the east like cloaks of silver haze waiting to fall upon the soil, everywhere so quiet as if I was stood watching a winter funeral but my eyes only fell upon one subject. There stood the most regal of ice tree, it stands looking out over the fen as if every noble branch was inspecting winter's work, pointing to even the smallest gap in the ice.
Can he feel me watching, does he know my thoughts, the strength I see in him and how I wish I was standing there in his place, a hundred years behind him and a hundred to come, seasons pass and wind blown fen earth protect his roots, how we dream of that safe long life.
The fens stand still, no winds on this day of January, freezing mist sits above the rich garden of the east like cloaks of silver haze waiting to fall upon the soil, everywhere so quiet as if I was stood watching a winter funeral but my eyes only fell upon one subject. There stood the most regal of ice tree, it stands looking out over the fen as if every noble branch was inspecting winter's work, pointing to even the smallest gap in the ice.
Wednesday, 16 January 2013
World Of Ice
Freezing Fens And Skies Of Ice
I woke to a world of ice this morning, a world so cold that my fingers and toes feel like they belong to another, hot tea for warming and woodburner to light were my first jobs of the day. Now the barn is warming with the little chimney puffing out gentle smoke columns that rise up into the ice sky above us passing through tree branches like skeletons of white frost a winter gift like no other.
A group of six partridge walk over the snow covered winter barley behind us, little round bodies with those orange feet stepping slowly through the thick cold carpet that covers the dark rich soil and great tits visit peanut feeder like small blue darts that flash through the low conifer branches. My robins sit on the feeding table like little feather balls their red chest bright in this winter world and the blackbirds scramble on the tall rose bushes picking hips of bright crimson.
Now with hands warm I'm heading off to saw wood, I need to keep that little fire dragon fed in the barn, crackling and spitting as it feeds on my collected woodland supplies, that old bead hermit now gets closer as I sit out there in the warm while winter laughs at us all, she loves playing her frosty tricks on us and I guess we would be lost without them.
I woke to a world of ice this morning, a world so cold that my fingers and toes feel like they belong to another, hot tea for warming and woodburner to light were my first jobs of the day. Now the barn is warming with the little chimney puffing out gentle smoke columns that rise up into the ice sky above us passing through tree branches like skeletons of white frost a winter gift like no other.
A group of six partridge walk over the snow covered winter barley behind us, little round bodies with those orange feet stepping slowly through the thick cold carpet that covers the dark rich soil and great tits visit peanut feeder like small blue darts that flash through the low conifer branches. My robins sit on the feeding table like little feather balls their red chest bright in this winter world and the blackbirds scramble on the tall rose bushes picking hips of bright crimson.
Now with hands warm I'm heading off to saw wood, I need to keep that little fire dragon fed in the barn, crackling and spitting as it feeds on my collected woodland supplies, that old bead hermit now gets closer as I sit out there in the warm while winter laughs at us all, she loves playing her frosty tricks on us and I guess we would be lost without them.
Monday, 14 January 2013
Snow Arrives
The Fens Are White
We woke to find the fens covered in that cold white winter coat that visits every year, conifer branches bend under the weight of snow and the ponds are quiet under ice. Fen tigers all over East Anglia pack up fires for the day and care for livestock, chimneys smoke away like village gents puffing on pipe and great coats are pulled from hooks of iron to keep backs warm, boy do I love this time of year.
The hardened fen folk would laugh loud to hear me call this snow, to them it's more of a thick frost and as for the cold winds, well just an early spring breeze, their weathered faces tell stories of winters hard, winters of ice and freezing gales that freeze drain and dyke alike, winters when rivers are walked upon for week after week like frozen lanes that snake through the flat lands towards the wash, where clusters of ice covered reeds line each bank like miniature winter forests beneath which roach and rudd hide, oh no I've not seen a real fen winter yet !
We woke to find the fens covered in that cold white winter coat that visits every year, conifer branches bend under the weight of snow and the ponds are quiet under ice. Fen tigers all over East Anglia pack up fires for the day and care for livestock, chimneys smoke away like village gents puffing on pipe and great coats are pulled from hooks of iron to keep backs warm, boy do I love this time of year.
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