Joy out of the darkness

It is like those years happened in another lifetime. To another person. Yet, I distinctly remember when I was living through those years, thinking, will this never end? It'll be easier, I said to myself, when I was no longer in pain from the birth, when he sleeps through the night, when I stop breastfeeding, when he becomes a toddler. But each stage brought different challenges. Just when you thought you were getting on top of a particular stage, it all changed, all over again. And your world became a different sort of chaotic.

My world was very small during those early years. In fact, when I look back, I can see myself in our old lounge. Never the kitchen, the garden or my bedroom. Just in the lounge. My world was very tiny indeed.

I now see pictures of my friends online taking their baby into London or a farm, out and about, having adventures. I feel envy. Not an ugly envy but an admiring envy. The furthest I went with my baby was a walk into my local town. The first time I got back home from this short walk I was in terrific pain and in tears. I poured myself a glass of water in the kitchen, took some painkillers, changed the baby's nappy and walked back into the lounge. Into the darkness. And that's where I stayed for months.

It was on this same walk, many many months later, when it occurred to me that what I was feeling wasn't normal. Two words were whispered into my ear. I can still see exactly where I was stood with the Mamas & Papas pram. On the left hand side of the busy road, waiting for a break in the traffic to cross. I don't remember much at all from those months and year but I do remember this.

Postnatal depression.

Those were the two words. I don't know where they came from. I hadn't seen a programme about it, I hadn't read about it, hadn't really heard about it; except for a questionnaire the health visitor had read out to me in the baby weighing clinic months before (I lied in answer to all the questions; utterly terrified they would think me a bad mum if I replied negatively to any of them). It wasn't talked about. It certainly wasn't in any baby book I'd read, or in any baby magazine.

I continued my walk into town. Feeling a little lighter. Despite not knowing whether this was what I had, or what the symptoms were, I thought there might be an explanation for how I was feeling. That I wasn't failing as a mother. That I wasn't a bad mother. I tried not to listen to another voice whispering in my ear that this was an easy excuse for being so rubbish at caring for my son.

Returning home I fired up the computer. I did a search on those two words. There was a checklist. Good, I liked checklists.

‘Do you choose to stay at home and avoid social situations?’ Er, yes.

'Do you fear health professionals in case you are criticised with how you are raising your baby?’ Doesn't everyone?

The questions continued. The majority of them I said yes to.

The relief I felt that I wasn't a bad mother outweighed any guilt I had about succumbing to depression. (Yes, that's right I did feel guilt for being depressed. This guilt didn't last.)

With help, with realisation, with the ability to talk about what I was going through, I extended my world. I took tentative steps out of the lounge, started to try new things like a baby swimming class, made new friends. Not every day was sunny. But the darkness was receding.

Tomorrow my son, my first born, turns thirteen. He's five foot ten to my five foot six. He's strong (oh my goodness the guilt I felt about giving up breastfeeding at three months) and broad. His feet are bigger than his dad's. He's polite, good company and a real joy to be around.

There was a time when I felt cheated. When my mind was better and I realised all that I'd missed out on. I don't feel that now. Because, since then, we've made a lifetime (for him) of more memories. Time does heal. And your baby grows up. But he's still my baby. My joy. And I'm so happy he came along.

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Bee-ing joyful

I blame the chickens for my obsession with attracting bees into the garden. After all, before they came along, I had no interest in the outdoors whatsoever. No interest in nature, in flowers, in trees. As for gardening. That was for old people, right? But, something weird happened when we moved to the countryside and started our chicken and duck-keeping adventures. I became aware of seasons, of the life cycle of trees, of bird song and insects. And I became aware of the plight of bees. The decline in bee numbers has been known about for some time, certainly longer than the four years we've lived in the countryside. I remember the Doctor Who episode, The Stolen Earth, when Donna tells the Doctor that the bees were disappearing. This was the first time I'd heard mention of it, in 2008, and to be completely honest I didn't give it any further thought until 2012 when our life change began.

After we'd cleared our land of thistles, nettles and docks, I wanted to put something back. These three plants may be weeds to us; ugly, unsightly and painful to touch, but they're vital for insects.

So I began planting trees. We stuck in about fifteen goat willow setts which produce flowers in early spring. An early source of pollen and nectar for bees. Then I added fruit trees. An orchard consisting of plum, damson, pear and apple trees. All showing off beautiful blossom in the spring for the bees.

bee on allium

The more time I spent outside planting trees and tending to my chickens, the more inspired I became. My imagination started to kick in. I voluntarily(!) watched gardening programmes, sent off for brochures and books and made more and more tree orders. With buzzards and red kites regularly flying into and around the garden, you can’t help but be more fascinated by nature.

So in went a windbreak of trees and a hedgerow with hawthorn, wild rose, blackthorn and crab apple. Good for insects and good for birds. I'm well aware that we're fortunate to have a lovely piece of land and I wanted to make sure it was working hard for nature.

But I hadn't finished. I wanted to create a wildflower meadow, too. And a bank of snowdrops and bluebells. There were highs and lows. I've learnt that, in gardening, there are some you win and some you lose.

Then it was time to tackle the garden closer to the house. Wheelbarrows of clay were extracted. Wheelbarrows of topsoil and manure were imported. Gradually we started to add plants. Colour, scent, vibrancy. And this year has been our best year yet. Helped by my inability to resist buying plants that state 'bee friendly' on the label.

I'm delighted that brands are now getting on board and highlighting the plight of bees. After all, there'd be no apple crumble, damson jam or cups of tea without the bee's hard work. And that would be a very bland world to live in indeed. Taylors of Harrogate have teamed up with Kew Gardens to create a bee hotel. Why? Because they firmly believe that bees need to be protected and are therefore encouraging people like you and me to make our gardens more bee friendly.

I know that not everyone has the space to plant an orchard or hedgerow. But there are things you can do in the smallest of gardens. I've put a small bee house up near the clematis, alliums and verbena (you can see it on the mini-film I've made below). You can either buy one of these houses for a few pounds or make one yourself. You could scatter wildflower seed and, even on a small balcony, can have a planter with some bee attracting flowers (my summer alliums are covered in bees at the moment).

This year, for the first time, I allowed part of our lawn to grow (a bee friendly alternative that actually saves you work!) I was utterly delighted when, amongst the grasses, buttercups, selfheal and clover, a number of bee orchids appeared. An unexpected delight.

My daughter is becoming as obsessed as I am. She volunteered to dress up in her bee costume for my mini-film and has made two posters for her bedroom wall to save the bees and the butterflies. We both keep looking at the bee house to see if anyone has decided to make it their home.

If you are inspired to help the bees do have a look at Taylors of Harrogate's gorgeous bee website (you could win a trip to Kew Gardens), as well as Kew Garden's Grow Wild website and the Bumblebee Conservation Trust.

bee on verbena

Taylors of Harrogate and Save the Bees

This blog post is part of the Taylors of Harrogate bee campaign but the words, as always, are completely my own. (And my favourite flavour, if you haven't already guessed, is the rose lemonade.)

No Place Like Home

Lying on the beach, costume wet from jumping the waves, digging my feet into the softest of sands, grains clinging everywhere; which I know is going to mildly irritate later when I walk back to the hotel, I finally relax. This is utter bliss. The temperature is a warm thirty degrees, a wind coming off the sea cooling my skin. Later, mild discomfort from the sand aside, we'll be back at the hotel, maybe having a coffee by the pool, listening to music on my iPad (thanks to the brilliance of Spotify and decent wifi) then walking down to the local town during the evening for a pizza, a glass of cava and a raspberry ice cream from the parlour.

I'm sighing as I write that. Oh to have one week out of fifty two that doesn't involve the school run, cleaning out chicken houses, clearing up after mucky ducks, cutting the grass, deadlines, the ongoing and never-ending admin...It's, well, weird. Relaxing, joyful, wonderful. But weird. It takes a few days to fully relax and by the time I am fully relaxed it's time to pack the suitcases to head back home.

But you know what? I'm ready to go home. Those eight days were amazing. But I missed home.

Yes, I missed the animals. Their noisy morning clucks when they've laid an egg, the way the ducks try and charge me when my back is turned, my dog's wet nose nuzzling my hand, and the cat coming to sit on my bed during the evening (she's here purring away on the edge of the bed as I type). I missed the green. The bird song. The distant fields changing colour.

Going away on holiday is fantastic. Returning home, seeing everything we've worked hard on through fresh eyes, is joyful.

A very British Summer

I feel sorry for the British Summer. There's so much pressure on it to be blue-skied with unlimited hot sun. Day after day. Or at least at the weekends. Then, when it offers something different: perhaps rain, or sunshine and showers, or just cloud, one question echoes loudly across the land. Where is summer?

Yes there is something restorative about feeling the sun's warm rays on your face. On your shoulders whilst you walk around outside. Having the sun merrily encourage you to get together with friends: to eat barbecue, to drink prosecco. I get that.

But I also think summer can be found elsewhere whether it is boiling hot at the weekend or not.

It's in the fields as the crops turn from muted green to gold; wheat rustling as you walk past, barley rising and swaying, like a yellow ocean. The earth cracking underneath your feet. Bees buzzing on the flowers that are popping up everywhere. Pink and yellow grasses catching the sun; glinting in the evening light.

The British Summer is changeable. Unreliable. You can have three or four types of weather in one day.

But I feel, that's what makes it so special. And I'm going to try and find the joy in every day.

And yes, I did get soaked on a dog walk the day after I took this video. It was fine and sunny when I set out...

To just be

Scroll, scroll, scroll. That's me, on my phone, checking twitter. Checking instagram. Tweeting, hashtaging, uploading, replying, re-tweeting. And on and on it goes. I started tweeting more at the beginning of this year. Trying to build my audience, connecting with like-minded individuals. Sharing information, photos, blog posts. And it's been great.

But, see, I'm a bit all or nothing.

And soon I was doing it aimlessly. I stopped reading books (God, I feel awful typing that), days would pass me by, and my creativity that I should be reserving for my books, my writing, was being leached into one hundred and forty characters or less.

Scroll, scroll, scroll. Refresh, refresh, refresh.

Over the past couple of weeks, as I wrote in this post, I've taken a step back from twitter. And I deleted facebook from my phone.

But, on Saturday, I decided I needed to take a complete break from it.

There is a lot of worry, a lot of anxiety online. And I'm like a sponge. I soak it all up. There comes a point where you have to just stop.

And that's my cue to take a deep breath. To take a look around. See the beauty. Watch the chickens, see how the chicks have grown, how they squabble, how the ducks love their pool, the flowers swaying in the breeze, the moths and butterflies settling on the wildflowers.

I talk about embracing a slower life, but, just for a minute there, I was too caught up tweeting about a slow life, rather than experiencing it. I forget that tweeting is still part of my work. It's me not switching off. And switching off, taking a break is so important.

Since I came off twitter on Saturday, I've already found myself with an urge to write more. To get outside. To watch a film and read a book.

Funny that.

I won't be gone permanently from twitter and facebook. And I might still blog. After all, the words are tumbling out now.

Too many emotions

"There's going to be a nuclear war," my friend looked at me, his eyes wide and sincere. "This will escalate, honest. We need to be prepared." I looked at my friend in horror. A friend I admired and respected. My stomach lurched and a knot of apprehension started to swell and grow. A seed of worry, planted there by the media, becoming fertilised and nourished by that one sentence.

I felt a dark cloud settle on me that day. It was the 1990s. A few months before I'd come out of a long-term relationship, been involved in a car crash, and taken my finals at university. All at the same time. It's fair to say I was a little vulnerable.

And now this. I think it was the break up of Yugoslavia. Or it could have been the Gulf War. It might have been neither.

Thank God then there was no such thing as social media.

Fast forward to 2016. When a tragedy occurs, or a major event that shocks the entire country happens, those who use social media turn to it for solace. They express their shock, their anger, their grief. It all comes spilling out. A stream of consciousness, a fast river of emotions.

To see them, amplified, by seemingly millions of voices, millions of thoughts exiting urgently out of my phone into my (limited) head space, it's too much. Especially when I'm still in recovery mode.

I have to back off. I have to tear myself away and, temporarily, I delete facebook from my phone. I mute (temporarily) voices on my twitter feed.

Their thoughts and emotions make me anxious. It is affecting my own thoughts and emotions. It is overtaking my own thoughts and emotions.

I am taking in millions of people's thoughts and emotions.

Can't. Breathe.

Whispers of a dark cloud start to form in my head.

So I turn, instead, to writing. I turn to real-life friendships, dog walks and baking. I would turn to gardening, too, but the rain is thwarting that.

I love social media. It is responsible for a lot of good that has happened to me in the last decade. But I make no apologies for backing off from it when it becomes too much.

And incidentally this is not, in any way, a complaint about people tweeting about their emotions. People have every right to do that.

However. My own mental health requires me to step back.

When it stops raining, do come and join me in the garden. I'll provide the cake.

Embracing a Slower Life

I've just been re-writing my about page to try and reflect what I'm writing and what I want from life. I cast my mind back to my early career and how, as a late nineties graduate, it was assumed women could do anything, be anything. There were no barriers. Well, there certainly weren't in my mind. And no-one ever put any in my way. (Other than being asked at a job interview whether I'd be having children in the near future. I mean, what?!)

I was excited about my career in business and marketing. It didn't occur to me that I might not like it. That I might not be fulfilled by this fast-paced world. I just assumed I'd be a career woman. Nothing was going to stop me.

Except, I stopped myself.

Writing this, four years ago to the day we moved to the countryside, I hadn't realised I yearned for a slower pace of life. I hadn't realised I hankered for a life similar to the ones both my grandmas had. Country living, fresh air, early mornings, chickens, baking, gardening.

And, for a while, I felt guilty. Guilty about being able to take a slower pace of life. Of being able to sit at my desk and write, then pop out to feed the chickens their afternoon tea, of baking cakes before collecting the children from school.

It all sounds a bit homely, like the working women of the past few generations have struggled for nothing. For me to give the career a go then just to undo all their hard work.

But, then I realised, thanks to their pioneering efforts, I have that choice. I can make a career that suits me. And, thanks to the wonders of modern technology and social media and my compulsion to write and write, I have the joy of making a living from these slower daily actions.

And now I feel I want to get up early. Not to catch the train but to open the back door and breathe. Foggy and frosty mornings are best for this, but sunny mornings are also good. Even the smell of rain is powerful.  It's all about taking in the moments.

Watching the year pass through the seasons: being aware when the blossom bursts, when the leaves come; when they go, of that first frost, those hot, sticky mornings, the distant sound of a chicken laying an egg, the fresh aroma of newly mown grass, the harvest, the apples and pears; currently the size of currants, beginning to grow on the fruit trees.

#embracingaslowerlife

I find Instagram brilliant for taking in those moments. Since I first downloaded the app I've been more aware of what is happening around me. So I've created a hashtag for the times in the day when you consciously realise what is happening outdoors. It could be that first blossom of the year, the first rose and its glorious smell, the fields changing colour, moody, thundery summer skies, a leaf falling signifying the beginning of autumn.

An appreciation for the simple. Those moments we take for granted, but are incredibly special.

Do join in.

Why I Love the Outdoors

It could be the early morning mist. The dew hanging onto a cobweb which is stretched over a gate. The pink bud on the pear tree that bursts; its white flower quivering in the wind. The dawn chorus. Competing to be heard over each other. The roughness of the pheasant contrasting with the laughter of the woodpecker.

Holding the hand of my little girl as we walk around the field. Observing the colours that are appearing. Dots of pale blue, purple, a red tulip we'd never seen there before. Exploring behind the trees for a secret clump of bluebells. Trying to convince my daughter they are bluebells, even though we also have some white ones.

Watching the chickens as they scratch and squabble. The peacefulness that comes over you when you see a hen with its wing outstretched, sunbathing in the weak sunshine.

Watching the ducks splash. Chasing each other out of the water. Water droplets flying everywhere.

Coming in, out of the cold wind, settling in front of the log fire.

This is what I love about the outdoors.

Why I Love the Outdoors from Helen || a bookish baker on Vimeo.

Music: One Fine Day by Jason Shaw

The Morning Routine

I wrote about my morning routine with the chickens and ducks back in February. Well, now, as part of my film-making course, I've tried to capture the peacefulness of the morning through film.

Morning routine from Helen || a bookish baker on Vimeo.

There are so many things to learn with making films but I'm no longer anxious as I wrote about on this post. I thoroughly enjoy walking around the garden, crouching down, getting mucky, putting my knee accidentally in chicken poo, all for the sake of that perfect shot.

Of course, the subjects of my mini-films: the chickens, ducks, and the dog, completely ignore my directions. The dog often running in the wrong direction or even full force into me when I'm trying to capture her movement across the camera. Most of the time I miss framing her completely.

But it's all good fun. I'm a fan of the detail outside anyway; of looking up, looking down, of seeing light differently through various angles, but this makes me appreciate even more what's out there. Right on my door step.

Thanks to the music from "She Moved Through the Fair" by Sláinte.

New Skill Anxiety

I'm rather taken with creating films. Obviously I've only just begun my online course with Xanthe Berkeley but it is something I've longed to be able to do for some time. It's also something I've been putting off for some time. Because I'd told myself I wouldn't be able to do it. But remember my post about Being Brave? Well, this is me putting my words in action. New technology often overwhelms me. But, once I have finally decided to do something, instead of taking the easy option I push myself and I have to stop everything and do it RIGHT NOW. Otherwise it'll be niggling at me. Taunting me.

On Tuesday when the first filming lesson pinged into my email box I became increasingly anxious. Don't get me wrong, Xanthe's instructions and video clips where she demonstrates how to do things were amazingly clear. It was me. I kept thinking, what if I can't manage this? What if I don't understand or something goes wrong?

The answer was just to get on and do it. Make my first film. Show myself I can undertake something new. And it worked. I feel so much calmer. So much so, I've created a second film. Just to show myself it wasn't a fluke the first time around.

It's funny how we can have confidence in many things but when it comes to something new and out of our comfort zone we are floored. It's just occurred to me that I was the same with the chickens. It'll be four years ago in August when I held a (live!) chicken for the first time (and yes, that photograph on the left shows the very moment). And my goodness I was so overwhelmed. How to look after them, yes. But also specifics: what house to get, what to feed them, when to feed them. What happens if they're sick?

So I scoured the internet looking for answers. And found a chicken-keeping course. (The answer, it seems, is always on a course). I took so many notes when I went on this course. The chicken farmer said he'd never known anyone take so many notes before. (Sara, my coach, who is helping me with social media and photography said something similar in our last session. I appear to be a note taker-er.)

Now, four years later, my flock has grown, as has my confidence. I've done a talk on chickens for nursery school children (I could have talked for hours, they loved it, as did I) and I've written about how they've given my life balance and given me a sense of calm. And I'd almost forgotten how anxious and nervous I was when I was first contemplating becoming a chicken-keeper.

It seems apt, therefore, that my second film, the first project in nearly four years that's given me similar anxiety, is solely focused on the chickens.

The Chicken Routine from Helen || a bookish baker on Vimeo.

Nature Baking Journal Instagram Project

Earlier this year I created a steller project about My Year in Cake. I wrote:

"The time of year always dictates what I bake. Unconsciously I use pastel icing colours in spring, with the trend continuing and brightening as we surge into summer. Autumn baking is more muted; often inspired by the apple or plum harvest. And winter baking, both the act of and eating of, is for pure comfort."

I've found with my baking pictures on Instagram that I'm inspired by what is happening outside my back door. Or, sometimes, what is not happening. When the ground is frozen, soaked and brown I look for comfort within the kitchen. Therefore chocolate and ginger feature heavily through the winter months.

But with the arrival of spring, I've noticed I'm being inspired by the colours I'm seeing as I step outside. The vivid pinks of the hyacinths, the emerging dark pink of the flowering currant buds; fading slightly as they burst into flowers. And little cones on one of the trees. A deciduous needle tree that I haven't worked out what it is, yet. Tiny and pink cones, they are. Stunning colour.

It is so cheering to see pink outside after all this time. The landscape is still a smudge of green and brown, the trees have yet to explode with the vivid green of young leaves. There is the striking yellow of daffodils, which I love to see, but the colour is too close to brown and green to create that passionate delight. Seeing these different hues of pink is a feast for the eyes.

And yes, it influences what I bake or how I style my bakes for photographing and, ultimately, Instagram.

With this is mind I've created a new hashtag for Instagram. I do love a hashtag. It's #naturebakingjournal. And I would love it if you'd join in.

You might use nature within your baking; a wild garlic and cheese scone for example is perfect for March. Or you might use nature to inspire your baking colours. Or you might find some thyme flowers, a hyacinth, or maybe some plum blossom is the perfect prop to enhance your pictures of your bakes.

However you interpret the hashtag I would LOVE to see your pictures.

Each month I'll feature my favourites on this blog.

Find me on Instagram as @abookishbaker.

My Love Affair with Cake

At some point during my childhood I developed a passion for baking cakes that has never left me. A passion that has taught me (much needed) patience and saved me from myself during difficult times.

I'm not talking about beautiful, delicate patisserie or magnificent sculptures out of sponge and icing, although I did flirt with the latter for a while. I'm talking about every day cakes, family cakes, cakes my grandmothers would make, as well as their grandmothers in some form or another.

This passion did leave me temporarily. I was distracted by my university years and early London-working years, but I rediscovered baking soon after having my first child. And it has never left me since.

I suppose having two grandmas who baked a lot, as well as a mum who baked, were, and still are, my influences. Which takes me back to this post about Recipe Book Inspiration. I read my mum's Be-Ro recipe book avidly over and over to choose what I could bake next. I see my daughter reading baking books in a similar way now.

Then I became tempted by the bright lights of the shaped birthday cakes. I researched sugar craft; even designing and making a Formula One car out of cake when I was about nineteen. But as I've got older I found I don't have the patience to continue in this vein. But I did learn how to flood ice biscuits a few years ago. Always an impressive skill. N.B my photography skills below of my early cakes were extremely hit and miss. Or rather, mainly miss.

The concentration of weighing, measuring, tasting, checking, melting helped me during difficult times. It took me out of my head-space for a while. Distracting myself from unhappy thoughts. Even now, if I feel low, I grab the scales, turn on the oven and bake something.

It isn't the eating of the cake. Although that is a rather tasty outcome. It's the process of baking which I love so much.