From time to time in these busy days of social media, I find myself looking back at the handwritten letter as though it is a lost art form. It is so rare to receive paper stories these days in favour of a more technical approach. Even a telephone conversation is often replaced with a quick text. Don’t get me wrong, I love myself a little Instagram time as many of you know. On a busy day I wonder how I got by before I could send a WhatsApp to remind the family of something they shouldn’t forget. It’s just that sometimes I find myself wondering whether texting and instant messaging have replaced a carefully crafted handwritten letter and a good old natter over a pot of tea. And it was during one of these more nostalgic moments, I created this weeks post which has a different feel from any I have done before. Shall we?…
This weeks post begins with a huge thank you to all those who suggested names for my beautiful Shepherds Hut, both through the blog and during countless conversations with me. You’ve all been very kind and patient even though I must have bored you all going on and on.
I am pleased to announce that my Shepherds Hut has aptly been named Belle. Not only is the name festive, the dictionary suggests Belle to be ‘beautiful’ and since she is, that will be her name. Now when the family need to find me, they will find me over at Belle’s.
I’ve been very excited about bringing you this post for quite sometime. Since Christmas to be exact. It’s about another present, and yes it’s from Mr M again. I know, I know, he’s a good guy; I guess I just got lucky.
So, today’s story goes like this. We’d been in our new home for five days before I came up for air and away from way too many packing boxes. We’d moved from a smaller rental, so on removal day boxes came from storage, the rental and just about everywhere else it seemed. Unwrapping the storage boxes was fun actually and not unlike Christmas day itself, as I rediscovered family gems and precious photos wrapped in tissue paper for safe keeping.
I’ve long-held a dream of having my own orchard. Not one as grand as Monty’s but my own all the same. And in my dream chickens gather together in the hope of windfall and I harvest juicy apples in old wicker baskets and turn my hand to warm autumn crumbles and bright jewel like jams.