New Year, New Website

www.helenahalme.com

I've decided to start the New Year with a bang! I am now the proud owner of a new (proper) website.

From now on I will be blogging at www.helenahalme.com, so click here to go straight to the blog. I'm going to start a very exciting project there soon, but I can't say much about that yet. All will be revealed in the next few weeks...

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If you want to check out my latest novel The Navy Wife, go here.

Five things you should know about a Finnish sauna

Image: Visit Finland

I was three days (yes days!) old when my parents took me into a sauna. It was early spring, and we were visiting our summer cottage near Kangasala in the Häme province of Finland. By all accounts I loved the heat and gurgled away on my mother’s lap.

I’ve been an avid sauna-goer ever since, and I've even managed to covert the Englishman, and the Daughter-in-law into the practise. Before the Big Move, when we lived in the sticks, one of our priced possessions was a sauna, but alas in London we have to do without.

It's different in Finland, where most new flats come with saunas. If you are lucky to own a summer cottage (many Finns do), there'll be a sauna there by a lake, or deep in a forest. There are reputedly some 3.3 million saunas in the country; that’s more than one sauna per two inhabitants.

Historically the sauna first came into being as part of the main dwelling quarter; later it was where you cleaned yourself, where women gave birth, and the dead were washed before burial.  

Even today, the sauna is an integral part of the Finnish psyche. There’s a Finnish proverb, “Jos ei viina, terva ja sauna auta, niin tauti on kuolemaksi.” If alcohol, tar and sauna don’t make you better, you are facing death. (Tar was used as a disinfectant in the olden days)

When I lived in Finland, sauna was where business was conducted; where the long-standing Cold War President Kekkonen had his most secret and important meetings with visiting Soviet leaders. Oh, how I would have loved to be a fly on the wall in one of those powwows! (Of course flies could not survive in a hot sauna, but you know what I mean.) 

As a result of this sauna culture, nakedness in Finland is more natural. However, contrary to popular misconception, it isn’t normal for women and men to mix in a sauna (unless they’re immediate family). It’s also now far more likely that business meetings take place on a golf course. Talking of which, some of the better public saunas I’ve visited in Finland have been in golf club changing rooms. In fact most hotels, sports halls and public facilities in Finland have a sauna. The Helsinki parliament building has a sauna, as do all the Finnish embassies and consulates around the world.

There are three main types of sauna today: electric, wood-fired and smoke sauna. I really love the wood-fired one, but whatever the type, to me, there are five crucial points you should know about a Finnish sauna:

Image: Visit Finland

1. A sauna has to be hot
2. There has to be a bucket of water available to throw over the stones to create steam, or löyly
3. If there’s no lake or sea to dip yourself in after a sauna, there has to be an area for quiet contemplation afterwards
4. You have to be naked in a sauna, but the sauna has nothing to do with sex (try doing it in a sauna...)
5. Having a sauna is a tranquil process; it’s not an activity to be hurried. 

So, if a Finn asks you to have a sauna with him – fear not. He’s not trying to embarrass you. All he wants is to share something holy with you – so say yes. You might be surprised and become a convert like the Englishman!

A version of this article will appear in the CoScan magazine later this year.

Sauna hats

Last time when I was having my hair done at the wonderful Rossano Ferretti hair spa, it was  a day before my holiday in Finland. Towards the end, when my hairdresser Clare was putting the straightening treatment on, she reminded me that I should leave my hair unwashed for 3 or 4 days to make sure the treatment works properly.

I looked at her in horror, 'But I'm going to have a sauna tomorrow, and the day after!' I gasped.

'You can't, it'll go frizzy, and then all of this is in vain.' Clare said, in a matter-of-fact tone.

Now this may seem like a very trivial thing to most of you, BUT.

For one thing, the treatment (which is also called a Brazilian blow dry) isn't cheap. Although I don't have the whole procedure, but just a conditioning product which is cheaper and has less of an effect, it's still more money to pay for a hair cut. Secondly, the stuff always makes my eyes water, so I have to sit there with a towel in my eyes (looking like a plonker) and to be honest, the 10 minutes or so Clare takes to spray the stuff on my hair is agony.

Clare looked at me through the mirror, the straightening irons suspended midair.

'I have to have a sauna when I'm in Finland,' I said.

Finns amongst you will understand this statement. To live without a sauna is bad enough; not to have one as soon as you are able, is quite another. (Sauna is like a religion in Finland. There are over 5 million saunas; that's one per head - including infants)

Clare just shook her head so I tried to another explanation, 'If I don't have a sauna my father will be offended.' I didn't say this to Clare, but to me, the lack of a sauna is the most difficult aspect of our new life here in London. In the sticks we were lucky enough to have a sauna cottage with a seating area outside, where, after a sauna, we could gaze over the paddock into the hills in the distance. It wasn't quite like sitting by a lake in Finland, but it came pretty close.

Clare and I came to a solution that I should cover my head with a towel or similar when in the sauna. I immediately knew what this would be, a piece of handy gear which Daughter convinced me to get from Marks and Spencer a few months ago.

It's a piece of towelling which wraps around your wet locks and helps to dry the hair. Both Daughter and I have very thick hair, so it can sometimes take a full 12 hours to dry (just talk to Clare - she'll tell you what a pain my hair is to blow-dry). This turban makes the process much quicker. (They are now unfortunately out of stock - let's hope more will be coming into the shop soon)


But, guess what, I bloody well forgot to take it with me, so I ended up wearing something called a sauna hat…the things I do for beauty….

With my big sister causing some hilarity with our families...

The weird thing was, that this 'sauna hat' really worked! On reflection, this model below, called Pohjan Akka (loosely translated as 'The Northern Hag') might have suited us better.

Pohjan Akka sauna hat by Saunalahja

The sauna hats, or Saunahattu are available from here or here, should you ever be in need of one. I may just surprise the sauna-loving Englishman with this combo of hat and slippers. What do you think?

Picture by Saunahattu Leeni 

Home-made Elderflower Cordial

When we lived in the country, one of my early summer routines was to make a batch of elderflower cordial. We had elders growing everywhere on the paddock, so on a sunny June (or late May) day, I'd take a large canvas bag with me and go and harvest the young flower heads. 

Since we've moved to London, I haven't really been around during the short 1-2 week window when the flowers are at their best, but this year when I walked the terrier I kept spotting perfect elderflowers all around Shepherd's Cot and Queen's Wood.

Last weekend I decided to make some, and thought you'd like to have my recipe. I use a little less sugar and more lemon, which makes the cordial a little sharper in taste. I also use a little brown sugar for a more interesting colour and taste.

1.5 litres of water
1.5 kg white sugar (castor or granulated)
0.5 kg brown sugar
20 (or so) elderflower heads (choose ones which have just come into bloom)
3 unwaxed lemons
85 g citric acid

This makes about 5 litres of finished cordial.

Put the sugar and water into a large pan and heat up slowly until the sugar dissolves. Then boil the mixture up really quickly and turn off the heat.

Pare the rind off the lemons, and using a sharp knife remove as much of the white skin as possible. Slice the lemons and put the slices and the rind (not the white part of the skin) into the syrup, together with the citric acid.

Wash the elder flowers to remove any insects and add them to the syrup too. Give the mixture a gentle stir and leave for 24 hours.

\

The next day, using funnel and a muslin cloth, distil the syrup into clean bottles. I put the bottles through the dishwasher and use them when they are hot out of the machine.

I serve the cordial with slices of lemon and ice, or mixed sparkling water. You can also drizzle some over strawberries, or over a fruit salad. The elderflower cordial is also delicious with champagne or white wine, or to make any cocktail where you need a sugar syrup. Plus it makes the perfect non-alcoholic beverage at any party.


The cordial should keep for a few months, but to be safe, I keep mine in the fridge. Although in our house, the stuff disappears within weeks of it being made.

Life Touch Massage in Crouch End and my old life in the country.

Eleonora at Life Touch Massage

I've been suffering from a painful shoulder since last December. But it wasn't until May this year, when the pain became acute, that I decided I needed to go and see somebody. I found a web page for Eleonora at Life Touch Massage, read the testimonials, and decided I couldn't go wrong.

Eleonora asked me to arrive 10 minutes early for the first appointment to talk about my health history. She was so friendly and caring, I immediately felt at ease. After that first massage, which was wonderfully relaxing, Eleonora said I was suffering from a Frozen shoulder. 'I can fix it, but it can take a little time,' she said.

Frozen shoulder is something that affects mainly women, and there's very little research into why it happens. It's not an affliction which stops daily life - it's just painful and it prevents me from doing certain things, like swimming and going to the gym.

When my GP said the condition can last from six months to six years, I very nearly fainted. I'm not going to be in pain for six years, I decided and asked for a Cortisone injection, which sometimes helps for a few weeks, allowing more movement in the joints.

But after my summer holiday in Finland, the shoulder got even worse. It ached constantly and stopped me from sleeping. Exhausted and close to tears, I crawled back to Eleonora and her magical hands. 'You will get better,' she assured me and began working on my sore body.

After a few twice weekly sessions with Eleonora, I was right as rain. My shoulder is still a little painful and occasionally I will lose a night's sleep, but generally I feel myself again.

When I asked Eleonora why people get a Frozen Shoulder - was it my slacking gym attendance, or that fact that since we left Wiltshire I hadn't really taken regular Pilates classes? 'Well,' she said, 'Some people think it's associated with mourning.'

When I walked home after that session, I tried to think what an earth I would be mourning for. True, my life had changed dramatically in the last two years. The move from the country to London was perhaps a little drastic (from a cottage with 3 acres of land & gardens in the middle of nowhere, to a flat in busy North London with only a few potted herbs on a balcony), but I didn't think missing the orchard, or the bumper crop of swiss chard, or our lovely Labrador could be called mourning.

Our chocolate Lab doing his rounds around the garden.

But the more I thought about it, and looked at the many pictures I took of the house and grounds before we left, I realised perhaps I was kidding myself. Perhaps I just hadn't allowed myself to miss my previous life? Even though I knew I wouldn't want to go back and knew that the idyllic pictures belie the endless grass cutting, digging and weeding the garden demanded. Or the farm smells that I never got used to, or the mud and the flies which seemed to be a constant feature of our life in the country (I swear I lived in my wellington boots for the 15 years we were in the cottage). Still, I can honestly say I do (sometimes) miss the old life.

There.

Now better (nearly - my back is another story!), I go and see Eleonora about every two weeks. She literally fixes both my mind and body, and so she's become part of my regular health routine.

Eleonora at Life Touch Massage can be contacted here.

Crouch End Festival 4 - 13 May 2012

Visit the festival site here for more info. 

At the end of last year, when I told my London friends we'd finally found a flat to buy, and were moving to Crouch End, several of them said, 'You'll love it there - it's a very creative place'. At first I was flattered because this meant they thought I was creative too (several years working as accountant hadn't corrupted me after all), but then I worried that this term 'creative place' was English code for 'run down' or 'not as expensive as NW3' (which is where we were living at the time). Over the years I've got to know that the English very rarely say what they mean...

I also pondered over this statement because I couldn't quite understand how exactly a place shows itself as 'being creative'.

But after last night I know all these friends were right, because I attended a hugely energetic and creative meeting of The Crouch End Festival organisers.

This first ever Crouch End Festival is a brainchild of several people in a group called Crouch End Creatives, and it will take place all around Crouch End, N8, on 4 to 13 May 2012. There will be near to 100 acts, ranging from belly dancing to poetry readings and they will be performing in local coffee shops, galleries and schools. There will be burlesque shows, concerts in parks, knitting workshops, children's theatre performances, arts and crafts workshops and fine art exhibitions. The whole programme will be announced around mid-April, and I will do a post about my favourite creative events and recommendations nearer the time. One thing is for sure - after meeting many of the creative people involved last night, I can safely say there will be something for everyone at The Crouch End Festival.

I leave you with a wonderful clip of one of the acts, Rosy Summerbell. She'll be performing during the festival and I cannot wait to see her in action.

On the move - again!

I have started the sorting out - honestly...

We've finally found a place to call our own here in North London and are moving this weekend. I feel quite calm about it all, mainly because this move just cannot be as horrendous as the previous one (read all about it here), and also because this time we are not moving such a distance.

Last time the down-sizing was such a nightmare; this time we only need to be a little more sensible in what we take and what we throw away (or give away). Of course there are the usual frustrations: a lack of internet connection (Sky, true to form, are making us wait for a month - a month!), worries about the removal men actually turning up on the day, and concerns whether our furniture will get through the doors and hallways (last time we took a bit o the wall off with one of the sofas). But all of this is pretty run-of-the-mill stuff to us now.

Only one thing makes my head spin - we have to get rid of most of our books. I am not giving up my hardbacks and will sleep on top of them if need be, but the paperbacks will have to go. I have yet to make the trip to the local charity shop (why do you think I'm writing this blog post - blogging is always a good distraction), but later today I do have to sort out the books that I have to say goodbye to. It's like killing your babies....

My babies.

So wish me luck with giving up my books - and oh yes - with the move too!

PS. There may be a little break in blogging - all depending on the good people at Sky, of course.

Southsea, again

Back of the benches on the wall of Southsea Castle

The Englishman and I've just come back from Southsea. This time we were there due to a very sad occasion, a funeral of a close friend's father. Although his passing was sudden, the occasion was more of a celebration of a full life. As the pastor said during the service at Portsmouth Cathedral (which was attended by more then 400 people - a testament to the man), a sudden death is what most of us wish for, although it's harder for those left behind to come to terms with.

This morning, before heading back to London, the Englishman and I did our traditional walk along the seafront. As always, the weather was almost mockingly gorgeous. We looked at each other.

'We could still move here.' I said.

The Englishman laughed, 'How many times have we had this same conversation?'

The sun was high and there was a slight breeze, just enough for the handful of sailing boats to move dreamily across the Solent. Our host for the night had left us earlier in the morning to take a group of beginners on the water for the day. As we stood there on the walls of Southsea Castle, we both wished a walk here was a daily occurrence, rather than the occasional one.

Perhaps one day.

House rules

While going through some old files today I came across a note which, for years, was stuck to the fridge door in our old house. I think I posted The House Rules one day when coming home from work, tired, and finding the kitchen a mess, with several teenagers lounging in the TV room oblivious to my arrival. Or to anything, really.

You can tell I start the note being fairly calm and get more frustrated as I go on, thinking about all the things that need doing in the house.

Here's the transcript:

Everyone's Duties - House Rules

1. Keep decks clear (you can tell I was a naval wife once upon a time...)
2. Always make sure there is a plastic bag lining any dustbin.
3. Empty your laundry basket.
4. Use your laundry basket.
5. Put dishes into dishwasher.
6. Put dishwasher on if full.
7. Empty clean dishwasher  - somebody has to do it!
8. Keep kitchen tidy!
9. Don't collect dirty glasses & mugs & crockery in your room - it breeds bacteria.
10. Under the bed is not a large cupboard...

In our new flat there's no need for rules as it's mostly just the Englishman and me here. Now I almost miss those days of a house-full of floppy youngsters, always hungry, always tired, leaving a trail of crockery and dirty washing behind them...actually, come to think of it, I don't at all!

A cool city dog

Our little terrier as a puppy

I'm so impressed how our little border terrier has adapted to city life. When we moved up to London from the sticks a year ago, he'd been a country dog for all of his life. He was born only half a mile down the lane from where we lived; he'd hardly spent any time on the lead; he rarely met other dogs than those on the two neighbouring farms. He'd never been to a city before we brought him here to Hampstead. And he was not a young dog either - he was seven when we moved.

Now, only twelve months later, he walks nearly perfectly on the lead (as much as a border terrier ever will); he doesn't think every person and dog on the Heath is his friend; he comes when he's called - eventually. I've even managed to teach him how to stay with me off the lead when crossing the road, and to sit when I'm taking him on and off the lead. The power of doggie biscuits!

What's more the terrier who used to disappear across the fields chasing after a deer (we often wondered what he would do if he actually caught one) now doesn't even bother running after a stray pigeon.

At the Yuppy Puppy on Finchley Road

Plus our butch little terrier has even go used to the doggy parlour. Only once did I have to collect him early when he got rather amorous with a young lady poodle...

Hot, hot, hot

I know I shouldn't complain, but my goodness it's hot in London today.

You know that humid, it's-going-to-rain-any-moment-but-it-doesn't, kind of day with hazy sunshine and no breeze whatsoever.

On days like this, in spite of the proximity of Hampstead Heath, I do miss our old place in country. What I'd give to be able to serve tonight's supper of mushroom risotto in the shade of our pergola, which by now would be covered by large green vine leaves and the odd bunch of grapes....

Finding these photos took an inordinate amount of time. I really must sort out my photo archive one of these days. But not today - it's simply too hot.

London life: Sunday night is movie night

I've written before about how, when we moved up to London from the country, we promised ourselves that on every Sunday night we'd go to the cinema. In spite of an initial poor start to this plan, we've recently seen a few more films.

Last weekend it was Barney's Version, a film which wasn't exactly top of my 'must see' list, but when we eventually got around to booking tickets at the fantastic Everyman Cinema in Hampstead, this film was the only one with seats available for our favourite five pm showing.  

And even though this is not a film that you'd rave about, it's a pleasant way to spend two or so hours. The performances by Dustin Hoffman as Barney's uncouth ex-cop father, and Rosamund Pike, as the love of Barney's life, were particularly good. Paul Giamatti in the title role was also excelled. I loved him as John Adams in the TV series and at first had difficulty in imagining him as a raucous 20-something instead of an honourable American president, but I soon got over that hurdle - the first drunken scene made sure of it.

The story of Barney's Version basically centres around a TV producer, Barney, whose life is characterised by his impulsive nature. Sometimes this is a good thing (when he meets and woos Rosamund Pike) and sometimes it gets him into trouble (he gets married three times). What I was most impressed with was the make-up, however. I don't know anything about it, but to me it was incredible how natural the cast looked as their young, middle-aged and old selves. Usually when an actor is made to look old (or young) on screen, you can spot the silicone (or whatever it is they use) on their faces a mile away, but in this film the young looked young and the old were old very naturally. 

This week I'm not sure we'll manage a Sunday night cinema because I'm going to see three plays before that (including Children's Hour at the Comedy Theatre, which as a fan of Mad Men and Elisabeth Moss I'm very excited about) It means we're out both Friday and Saturday nights. But if we are up for it, I think I'd like to see Brighton Rock this coming Sunday.

Photograph: c.Everett Collection / Rex Features

Another film that's caught my eye is Archipelago. It's not going to be released until 4th of March, but having seen the trailer it looks very Bergmanesque. And this from a British female director! Joanna Hogg's latest film is set in the Scilly Isles and whether it is the bleakness of the cinematography, or the documentary style of her direction, but I really felt I could have been watching a film by the old Swedish master himself. I'm obviously yet to see the whole thing, so watch this space; I'll be reporting back when it's out.

Photo from www.bfi.org.uk

Doesn't this picture from the film look like a scene from, say Autumn Sonata by Bergman? 

Liv Ullmann and Ingrid Bergman in Autumn Sonata 1978

There's an interesting interview with Joanna Hogg (in which she looks gorgeous!) in this month's Vogue. I haven't seen her debut film, Unrelated, but I'll be looking out for it on the TV listings, or I might even buy the DVD if it's out.

All on my own

One of the reasons we decided to move from the country to the city was that I hated the times when Husband was away and I was left in the large house and grounds on my own. The feeling of being utterly cut off from the world just doesn't suit me - I was born in a largish town in central Finland and spent my life in various cities until we moved to the English countryside. In the sticks I'd shiver on hearing the owl on a moonlit night. I'd rather listen to a car alarm go off in the night than the eery silence of nothingness. In the city I like the sounds of human life around me. The echoes of high-heeled shoes hurrying home on the street below while I'm reading in bed comfort me. The distant sounds of a police siren don't frighten me; quite the opposite, they make me feel secure in the (possibly naive) belief that help is on its way to those in trouble.

All the same, I was not wholly looking forward to the first week on my own in London. I did what I used to do when faced with the same situation in the country: I filled my days and evenings with as much activity as possible; lunches with friends; nights out at the cinema and theatre; a visit by my mother (some of which I've written about below). On top of that I planned tasks for the few evenings I was going to be home alone; to write so many more words; finally organise the study; give my wardrobe a good sort out.   

But it's so much easier to increase the pace of your social life in London than it is in the country. As it turned out, the one night I stayed in was taken up by East Enders on iplayer. (I've become an addict). So, as you  may have guessed, I didn't get around to the extra-curricular tasks: instead, even if I was out, I came home and took my laptop to bed, going to sleep far too late and waking up far too early. At the end of the week when Husband came home, I was exhausted, and all I wanted to do was to sleep.  

I think I could call that a result and proof that the decision to move to London was the right one?

I'll leave you with a picture of the Afternoon Tea (with coffee for us Finns, obviously) my mother and I had at Liberty's. So superior - and less than half the price - to the one we had at The Ritz before Christmas.

London Life

When we moved to London I didn't expect to have almost nightly sightings of a fox. The first time I saw this much written about urban animal was in our first week in the city. I was walking the terrier out at about ten o'clock. It was high summer and still hot and humid. First I thought it was another dog, but soon realised it was indeed a fox that was running along the pavement at the bottom of the little hill. My beast was on a lead, and I was glad he was restrained, because I knew if he was loose he'd be off after the fox straight away. Predictably, as soon as the terrier spotted the other animal, he started to pull on the lead. The fox, however, was totally non-plussed. It stood there, now a few metres away from us, victoriously watching my dog's struggle to get to him. Just when we were about nose to nose with the fox (or my dog was), he turned on his heels and disappeared over a low brick wall.

Since that first night, I've seen a fox (same one?) a few mores times. This is far many more times than I ever saw one in the sticks.

Earlier this week, when walking in Belsize to my book group at England's Lane Bookshop, there was another fox, jauntily crossing the road. I stopped to watch him swiftly climb a low wall and he turned to look back at me. There was only the empty road between us and as we stood there staring at each other I saw how healthy the animal looked: it must have rich pickings in NW3. Too late did I start reaching for my phone to take a picture - all I saw was his thick furry tail as he disappeared into a the garden of a posh modern villa.

It seems I miss swiss chard...

Last night at a party, quite by surprise, we bumped into the couple who used to live in our flat. I'd met the lady once before, on our second visit to view the place, when she was visibly stressed by having strangers in her home. He baby was crying and all she wanted to do was to get rid of us and feed her. She wasn't rude, but I could see that she'd not had any warning of our visit and like any busy mum could not put her mind to discussing the practicalities of living in the flat while her children needed her.

This time both she and her husband were more relaxed. Lubricated by wine and good food, we had an excited discussion about the weird and wonderful ways of the washing machine in the flat (the earth moves when it does a spin cycle), gossiped about the neighbours, and generally had one of those conversations which could have been awkward but wasn't. It was amazing how much in common we had - she was trying to pass on her native language to her children while trying not to force it down their throats. I remember that phase so well and tried to encourage her not to give up (like I did).

While we chatted she asked how I was finding life in the city. I gave the standard answer, 'I miss having a herb garden, but I don't miss the work involved, or being so isolated, or having so far to come for theatre, art museums and cinemas. I also don't miss having to drive everywhere - it's fantastic that we can walk to a pub like this!' She nodded and smiled but I could see I hadn't really convinced her at all.

A few moments later we were both introduced to another lady who had recently moved out of London to the country. Her tales of gardening, bread baking and jam making made me smile. The awful phrase, 'Been there, done that, got the T-shirt,' was about to escape from my lips when we started talking about what vegetables to grow. Before I knew what I was doing, the words, 'swiss chard,' were uttered. Suddenly I found myself giving these two unfortunate ladies all my tips on how to grow the vegetable from seed, what to use them for and how Daughter can't even look at a swiss chard now after years of being subjected to soups, pies, salads and even bread made out of this versatile vegetable. I started rambling on about how I also loved growing chillies, lettuce of all kind, especially Chinese varieties in the winter. I couldn't be stopped now, I was on a roll. I did have to pause occasionally to take a breath and during one of these brief silences my new friend said, 'You do miss the country, eh?'

I stared at her. I could only nod and agree. So here we go, I'll come out of the closet: I admit, I do really, really miss the old house.

But I also love our new life here. Though even in the city a garden would be nice, or just a small balcony where I could have a pot or two of herbs, one for swiss chard and one for chillies; perhaps a few tomato and cucumber plants.

Oh, will I ever, ever be happy where I am?

A view from a window

I was inspired by Tania Kindersley's blog post yesterday (you must read her words, they are always inspiring or/and thoughtful) to put up pictures I took over the years out of the window of our old house in the middle of nowhere in Southwest England.

It's taken me a little while to be able to look at these pictures without feeling sad and maudlin. The old house was such a perfect place to host a family Christmas in the bleak midwinter. Fires roaring, dogs snoozing, candles flickering....

Similarly, it was the place to be on a hot summer's day when we could just wander in the gardens, or open up all doors and windows and let the cool breeze drift through the house. This is of course a romantic view; many a time on a hot day there'd be a contractor working on the field opposite. The air would be filled with engine roar, diesel fumes and clouds of grain dust, or worse: muck spreading.

Anyway, the images below make me recall just the good times. I can't remember why I started taking a picture of the view out of our bedroom window - perhaps it was a particularly stunning sunset, or an unusually spectacular fox hunt, but I did it for years, almost every day. I've chosen a few to show you, in no particular order.

Viewing houses - again

This morning husband and I went to an open viewing of a flat, which the estate agents described as 'unmodernised'. A building site would be more appropriate description, though it's true that what we saw could be a lovely ground floor apartment with large rooms, a cellar and a garden in a nice tree-lined street. Just what we'd love; or would have loved perhaps ten years ago. Because as we watched the other prospective buyers milling around the damp-smelling rooms, knocking on walls, checking the rotten window frames and, just like us, generally pretending they're experts on housebuilding, I wondered whether we'd have the stomach for another project?

Husband made calculations in his head, covertly whispering figures to me, 'Ten grand for plumbing and heating, another ten on windows...then there's the damp proofing, kitchen at least fifty - no sixty....' I looked at his face, he smiled and I saw he was in his element.

As we were walking out of the property we charted out the money side, how much we'd need to borrow. 'But do we really want that again?'

'That is the question,' I thought. If only I knew.  

Happy New Year!

I can hardly believe another year has passed.

A lot happened to me personally in 2010; much of it just a vaguely laid out plan in December 2009. All Husband and I knew was that we probably wanted to move from the house we'd been living in for the past 15 years. We both wanted to change our working lives, and knew we couldn't do this where we were. The children had grown up, and were going to leave home. I certainly didn't want to stay put and start making jams and saucy calendars for the Women's Institute - I'd had enough of the country and would not be sad if I never set eyes on a cow or a tractor in my life again.

The whole process of the big move started with the renovation of the old house in the country in early January 2010. As soon as we moved into the sauna cottage in the garden to let the builders have a free run of the house, the weather turned. We had snow, freezing temperatures and chill winds. But even though working in the unheated house during the day was a bit of a challenge, the ground source heat pump kept the cottage warm. Emptying half of the house for the builders also forced us to start the process of de-cluttering and down-sizing.

The snowy landscape looked pretty but boy was it cold inside an unheated old house.

Whereas in our modern sleeping quarters for six months we were warm and cozy

By the summer the house was ready and in a matter of days sold. We felt very lucky but this meant suddenly we had to truly move out. Even with some of the packing already done, emptying two barns, one shed and two houses was still a task and a half after 15 years. (On a positive note we found an old kitchen table we'd forgotten we had, which now perfectly suits our new smaller residence.) We needed to find somewhere to move to - fast.

While the old house was being done up, we'd spent many evenings laying in bed in the cottage listening to a particularly fast-legged squirrel run up and down the roof outside and discussing where we should start our new life. (That squirrel is no longer with us courtesy of the naked gun). The ideas for what we were going to do and where we were going to go got wilder and wilder. We considered almost every corner of the globe and every profession. (OK, we kept mainly to Europe and brain surgery was out of the question). All we knew was that we wanted to be in a city, and eventually narrowed it down to Stockholm, Portsmouth and London. Looking back it was an exciting but very scary time.

As those of you who've been reading my blog this year know, we settled on North London after a somewhat unorthodox move, which left us homeless for ten days.

So we exchanged these views

For these

Parliament Hill on Hampstead Heath - sadly not a view out of our window

Many people thought us crazy. We still get the comment, 'But people usually move out of the city and into the country when they get older!' But we are very happy here in London and feel our move was timed just right.

But before we'd finally decided on London, fate had a hand in where I might want to be: when driving home from a party in North London in May 2010 I saw a sign for a new book shop in England's Lane, Belsize Park NW3. The shop was still being fitted out but as we slowed down to investigate it further, I saw there was a notice for part-time staff. Again I find it incredulous to think that I now work in that same shop, as well as run a monthly book group there.

The year has been eventful for Husband and Son too - both started new jobs. With Daughter too starting at uni in the autumn, 2010 could not have been more momentous for all of us.

Though I'm not looking forward to another (inevitable) move, I have no intention of slowing down in 2011. I have so many plans I want to put into action, one of them involving this blog, that I'm bursting at the seams.

So, from this short resume of the last year in my life over to you - how did 2010 treat you?