And So...

Right, that's that then. It's quite hard to pick up a blog when it's been left for a while, as many of the blog writers I read point out from time to time. Is there a bloggers' protocol out there, whereby we just type in a codeword and everyone understands the futility of trying to make up for the un-blogged weeks or months. That would be handy.

Plus, of course, there was that December festive stuff that seems to have been building up since about October, so let's not mention any of that. We survived. Nuff said.

So what's new, apart from the year? Well, we trundled around and up and down the country throughout December for friends' big-birthday and getting-hitched celebrations, as well as the family visits at the end of the month for you-know-what. Now we're happy to be tucked up once more in our Worcestershire hideaway.

And I just posted some Sock Critters from my Etsy shop to someone in Niagara Falls! I know that's probably exactly the whole point of being part of the Etsy handmade hyper venue, but it's still blooming marvelous to think that I can sit here in our Airstream in little old Blighty, knitting and sewing daft bits of loveliness, and someone in Canada (and Australia recently too) stumbles across my stuff and decides it's just what they need or want. Brilliant! Now the Little Tin Hut shop is looking a bit depleted so I have another Critter on the go and a tea cosy, of course.

Here's a cosy which I should have shown off proudly some weeks ago. It was made for Carl and Gaynor's 1959 Tradewind, with some of Gaynor's wool left over from her crocheted blanket. Her sister-in-law started her off this summer and I don't think she's stopped since. Dare I say she's hooked? No, I'd better not.

I've also been inspired to pick up the crochet hook again. I recently bought this pattern from Wonky Zebra's shop of vintage crochet and knitting patterns, and I have started working on the array of granny squares. The colours will be different of course, because I'll be wading through my stash as much as I can without making it fit-inducing.

From Wonky Zebra on Etsy

Pass The Loofah

Things I can do (now that the cast is off):

Walk. Yay!!! Well, put one foot in front of the other and move steadily in a forward direction.

Get in and out of the Airstream on foot, instead of on bum.

Sit on the floor and make a fuss of the bunnies whilst bribing them with leafy greens.

Carry stuff, instead of moving stuff incrementally along horizontal surfaces.

Shower standing up. (replace the word 'shower' with 'clean teeth', 'get dressed', or any everyday, simple activity)

Make a cup of tea in under twenty minutes and then carry it to the table. Actually I can carry two full cups, so myerrr.

..... I'm on fire! I would like my own leg back now though. Mine has been replaced with a rigid, puffy, pink, flaky one. Eeoogh!

Stifled Profanity

Such is the strength of the rules of one's upbringing that in the throws of falling and fracturing a bone, you might be able to suppress the need to swear, even if you are a fan of the inherent oomph in a well savoured swear word like I am. When I slipped and fractured my tibia whilst out walking with my parents a month ago, I managed to simply suck air through my teeth, saying things like "Ow, ow, ow!" and, "It can't be all that serious, I didn't even say the 'F' word." Quite impressive really, since recently I had thought it would be amusing to try and train myself to say, "Oh dear. I didn't mean to do that." However, when it became clear I was going to have to walk two miles to get out of the woods I did find it helpful to utter a couple of mild profanities through gritted teeth. To be an effective release of shock and pain a swear word should contain at least one strong or sibilant consonant.

I am aware that some people choose to be offended by certain words, and I suppose we all have our limits or lines we decide not to cross. However, I think the intention behind a word or phrase can be far more offensive. I definitely don't want someone spitting the dreaded "C" word in my face, but the word itself carries no outrage for me. I'd rather be sworn at than patronised, or hear some narrow-minded views on race, gender or sexuality. And that's probably why on my ill-fated walk a couple of well timed "tits" and "twats" wafted harmlessly into the trees and at the same time helped me not to throw up. If my Dad hadn't been there keeping me distracted and comforted  I would definitely have let rip and turned the green forest air blue.

Back to the broken leg and, four weeks later even my bright purple cast fails to keep me buoyant. I wish I could claim to embody a Zen-like acceptance, instead I feel useless and clumsy. The awkwardness of getting around the trailer with one leg solid and unbending at the ankle means that each simple, everyday task takes at least three times as long and involves newly learned adjustments and physical manoeuvrings. I am getting the hang of it but early on I literally felt nauseous with the effort. And as I set up for the job of taking a shower, once I've put on my waterproof leg covering thingy, I find that I pause, breathe and motivate myself to continue.

From a starting place seated on the loo lid I stand up, rotate 180 degrees, take all my weight on the two crutches, hop backwards over the shower ledge, stand on one leg whilst balancing the crutches in a handy place to reach them later, find dry and firm surfaces to grip while I sit myself back onto the shower seat, reach out the bathroom door to pull the stool into the bathroom and close enough to rest my outstretched leg on. Then I can commence my ablutions and the soaking of the bathroom floor. Of course by now I mostly remember to put the stool in place, within arm's reach, before I ensconce myself in the bathroom. I also mostly remember to heat the water sufficiently beforehand, and switch from the external tank to the internal, or whichever one is full at the time. Mostly, I remember, because the occasions where I have had to repeat the aforementioned sequence in reverse just to go and hop about the trailer, damp and half naked to flip a switch and then back again have taught me to plan ahead. All this sounds as though I'm coping alone. Far from it, but of course Pete will be outside doing water fetching and waste tank disposal and other outdoorsy chores. Which is why I also need to remember to take my mobile phone with me, just in case.

I am counting the days until the cast comes off (it's 11), and the recent late burst of warm weather did perk me up, as did a visit from Pete's parents. We had some lovely trips out to local historic and pastoral places. I would sit in the sunshine and exercise my brain with crosswords while the rest of the family exercised their tourist muscles looking at castles, churches and fortified houses (like Stokesay Castle picured above).

On a couple of balmy evenings we sat outside with Carl and Gaynor and the boys. We are still guests of their incredible hospitality in this beautiful piece of Shropshire. It is perfectly remote from any light pollution and we have been able to star gaze and spot satellites and shooting stars. As a happily relocated city girl I am always impressed by anyone who knows their constellations. Pete's Dad was telling me how they used to navigate when he was in the merchant navy. It's probably obvious but in this age of Sat Nav for all, it's extraordinary to think how recently one's position in relation to the stars was the way to navigate the vast seas.

How conducive to relaxed chatter is an evening under the stars, a glass of wine in hand and a blanket to snuggle under.

A Very Big Tent

Before the 38 Airstreams arrived for the UK Airstreamers' September Gathering, Rockhill Rendezvous, there was a bit of a build up.

Recently added to our list of favourite things: our marquee, reminiscent of an old fashioned beer tent, dressed with 200 metres of homemade bunting and 320 metres of fairy lights. (You can see us and the whole Huntbatch family raising the marquee on our other blog here). When Gaynor said it would be "worth it" to make our own bunting rather than buy some sub-standard stuff, she was right. We spent large chunks of the following two weeks passing a bag of fabric triangles and tape between the farmhouse and our Airstream. She must have been experiencing some spooky intuition when she ordered 200 metres instead of the agreed 200 feet of tape.

When I fractured my tibia a week before Rockhill Rendezvous, sewing up bunting was the most productive thing I could do. That and make endless 'To-Do' lists!

Ready to Rock and Rendezvous

I was getting my hair cut and coloured last week and was describing our Airstreaming life and where we are at the moment, at Rockhill Farm, and the imminent Rockhill Rendezvous, and my colourist and I got the giggles. She loved the sound of it all, and I'm sure she had never heard of anything like it. She kept saying how amazing it all sounds, and we just kept laughing.

Mostly, this way of life is amazing. We chose it, we made it up as we went along, it keeps evolving. And we've got to a point where it is self-perpetuating. What I mean by that is, we have met some great people, we hold these events, people invite us to stay with them, we meet more great people, we visit and meet up with them. And where we are right now is the epitome of that wonderful organic process.

We have been staying at Rockhill Farm and getting ready for Rockhill Rendezvous which is happening this weekend. Carl and Gaynor and their three boys came in their 1959 Tradewind to our very first UKAirstreamers Gathering, a very informal, try-it-and-see meet in the Spring of 2009. They weren't sure if it would be their scene, and neither were we to be honest. But all along we have tried to avoid the cringe-inducing, enforced group activities and formalities of a 'rally' and that mission seems to be attracting a mighty fine crowd of Airstreamers.

Carl and Gaynor have a farm in the beautiful Shropshire countryside and invited us to hold our September Gathering here last year. The trickiest part of holding a meet or gathering is finding a location where we can fit our plans in or around the rules of a campsite or land owner. A couple of examples; no noise after 10.30, no fires, and no flags!!!! Imagine. Why don't they just say, 'Don't have too much fun'!?! But here, we already see eye-to-eye on what you do or don't need for a good weekend of laid-back yet stylish camping. And so far we have never been told, 'you can't do that'. So we arrive nice and early, and bit by bit we all tick things off the 'to-do' list.

On top of that, we get to camp here in a lovely field, all to ourselves, only to have it 'spoiled' by a load of Airstreams turning up for a long weekend of catching up, laughing, drinking, sitting around a big camp fire, making as much noise as we like. As we say, sucks to be us!

Only three days to go. There might be bunting.

Soothing

Is there anything better than strolling along a sandy beach at the water's edge on a sweltering day? It soothes the soul, and allows the brain to have a word with itself. I indulged in that sensation when we stopped on the Belgian coast before heading back to dear old Blighty. We were so dedicated to tracing the British coastline during our first two years in the Airstream, so I'm flummoxed that we have rarely dipped or paddled since.

Highlight of our first trip across the pond with the Airstream? Making lovely new friends, by far. We were overwhelmed by the hospitality of Dutch Airstreamers, Axel and Annieta, who let us stay in their 'yard' for so long that I virtually lost track of time. In fact, we met a lot of really friendly people while we were away. And spending time in Drenthe was incredibly pleasant. I think the far away horizon has a profoundly settling effect on my state of mind.

Where are we now? Not telling; we're lying low and prepping for Rockhill Rendezvous, the next UKAirstreamers' Gathering which is only three weeks away! But we are 'back home', and it's raining.

Inspiring Travel Writing

I have done a fair bit of reading during the summer so far, but the most inspiring by far has been this little Penguin travel book, part of their Great Journeys series. Adventures in the Rocky Mountains by Isabella Bird is a collection of letters by the adventurous traveller to her sister. But this is letter writing which I am convinced is no longer practised. Her letters read like prose, and her descriptions are beautifully evocative.

In 1873 Isabella Bird travelled alone to Colorado, encountering rough and wild characters, grizzly bears and stunning, but often inhospitable landscapes.

She is told, "There's nothing Western folk admire so much as pluck in a woman..." and she is shown respect by the most lawless of settlers. Plus, she knitted! "- my usual resource under discouraging circumstances."