Vesta

Vesta (or Hestia to the Greeks) is the classical goddess 

of hearth and home.

Although she was very rarely represented in figurative form, 

here she is carved into the arch over the main entrance 

at Eltham Palace

the lavish Art Deco house built by Stephen Courtauld 

on the site of the 14th century royal palace.

In ancient Greece the Hestian soul was put into the house 

in the most literal way.

When a young woman married and set up home

her mother would light a torch at her own household hearth 

and carry it before the bride and groom to their new house,

lighting their new fire with it.

A similar custom can be found in Russia, where the household

spirit of the hearth was known as a domovik.

If the family moved house, they would carry brands

from the old stove and light the stove in the new house from them.

She is a sociable goddess: she presided over the preparation of meals

and the first mouthful of the meal was always

consecrated to her. In Roman times, 'To Vesta' was a common grace.*

Eltham was self-consciously luxurious.

In winter the rooms were if anything regarded as too hot.

All the baths could be run at the same time if necessary

so that guests could dress for dinner in comfort.

Cecil Beaton wrote in Vogue in 1933:

'The clock strikes, and there is a cocktail to impregnate one

with energy enough to move from the depth of the sofa,

to climb the stairs, and then there is the

extravagance of soaking in a bath cloudy with salts.

Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother paid a private visit 

while still duchess of York on 12th July 1936.

She commented that she thought the modern part

a little overdone - but it was all very interesting,

and 'my goodness what a good feed we had!

And good champagne!'

It was a 1923 Veuve Cliquot and the menu

consisted of:

Consommé Estragan

Lobster Cocktail

Veau à la Mode

Petits Pois

Pommes Nouvelle

Bombe Mexicaine

Fondata 

 Madeira 

 Armagnac.

Even if you visited at teatime (4.30)

you could expect to be well warmed and fortified.

Mollie Butler (1907-2009) who married a Courtauld cousin

recalled arriving one Friday in the late 1930s to have,

'an enormous tea, with muffins and crumpets and everything.

And Ginie always had a tiny little bottle of brandy

on the tea table which she put in people's tea.'

The secret to a long and merry life perhaps.

* Spirit of the Home by Jane Alexander.

Is it autumn?

Or is it spring?

Chattels and shackles

What have I got to show for the past few days?

Well, there's been continued donating, chucking, selling and 

putting-out on-the gate post,

which is my cunning method of 

getting rid of miscellaneous items, not quite suited

to the charity shop, the dustbin or ebay.

Almost everything goes within minutes

and I never see it happen.

I have also had some sadly salutary lessons in 

what happens when you get very old
( two sets of 90 year old neighbours)

and haven't addressed your superfluity of possessions.

They swell like ocean waves, lap at your feet

 and threaten to drown you.

Then someone else has to come to the rescue

whether you like it or not because it is all so insanitary

and dangerous.

This is time-consuming and very depressing

for everyone.

I want somehow to ensure that I don't end up 

in a tiny body-shaped space in a house full of rubbish

which will engulf me if I attempt to leave my chair.

Now is not too soon to start because...

the end is finally in sight for part one of our

retire to the country plan,

but it has been such a long time coming,

and so riddled with inexplicable setbacks that

weariness, disillusionment and much perplexity

about the way that people behave

have made it impossible to blog about.

It's not that I want to be secretive or mysterious.

I just don't have the stomach for it. Yet.

No pretty pictures, no amusing anecdotes,

heck, even Mrs Miniver can't help me.

So I have littered this post with some of the stuff

 which I am struggling to part with.

This one is for Rachel.

Duck therapy 2

If running away to sea is not an option,

hiring a park pedallo,

 listening to the lazy gulping splosh of the paddle,

and breathing in the cool goosey green air,

is as good a way as any of distancing 

landlocked worries.

Gloomsville

The sun has not shone today.

For various reasons it has been

gloomy without and within.

Some days are like that.

A horrid letter from a solicitor didn't help.

The infirmities and indignities of old age (not mine)

have been a sad concern.

I have a painful swollen gland on one side only of my neck.

But on the bright side:

my friend's son got the A level grades he needed,
O and I have made two nice meals and had a walk in the woods,

and for the first time

I have succeeded in growing these

Heavenly Blue Ipomea.

Sunflowers

Self-sown sunflower.

Self- sewn cushion covers.

Self-satisfied me.

Country fair

I don't know what our visitors would have made of this,

but as they had popped out for a weekend in Paris

they missed it. 

There was a brass band of course.

A spinning display.

 Very good homemade icecream.

Plenty of bric a brac.

A raffle.

Tombola.

White elephant.

Throw the ball in a bucket.

(Just thinking about explaining any of this is giving me a headache.)

And best of all -  a dog show.

Here are the dogs checking each other out.

The judging was very earnest.

Rosettes were awarded, but

although I watched for quite a while

I never had the slightest notion

what the winner had done

to deserve it.

A consolation pat perhaps?

I sense a disappointment here.

In the Pink

From pretty far east to

Mise at Pretty Far West.

Thank you so much.

If you don't already know and love

her funny, clever, quirkily irreverent blog,

go there. You'll be glad you did.

P.S I would have waited until I'd slipped down the page

 a little further

but I was taught to write my thank you letters 

on the same day that I received the gift.