Teapots
In a bid to research the beauty and use of our British teapot I recently broke my two front teeth. The book I required British teapots and tea drinking by Robin Emmerson -was folio sized and on a top shelf. I am 5’2’’ and it was almost beyond my reach. Although I was in a hurry I managed to retrieve the item but deciding that information on 18th and 19th century pots was not what I was looking for at that moment, I replaced the book.
As a dutiful library assistant I began to rearrange the shelf of books tidily. However, reaching from a vulnerable position, I dislodged a metal bookend that had not be carefully placed –it fell on my face and broke my teeth. I, distraught and spitting bits of teeth reported the mishap to a colleague on the information desk, who kindly suggested a cup of tea might be good for a shock, I declined.
Unfortunately, this was a Friday afternoon and the weekend was almost upon us so I wasn’t able to get my teeth fixed until the Monday morning … but I did and all was well.
Whilst these British pots are very beautiful they seemed rather functional; you put in the required amount of tea leaves into a warmed pot add the boiling water allow it to brew for a few minutes then pour the contents into awaiting cups add milk and sugar and drink. Or so it seemed at the time.
My opinion of British teapots and their place in the tea culture has since changed.
When I had fully covered I retrieved the book more carefully once more – I discovered the book contained images pots dating back to early 18th to middle 19th century from the Twining Tea-pot Gallery and the Ceramic Study room at Norwich Castle museum. The collection tells the story of tea –drinking in Britain that coincided with the founding of the tea blenders Twining. So on reflection rather than dull and functional the British pot has a story that is rich and diverse.
For instance, beside the report of Oliver Cornwell’s death in the Gazette (1658) was the earliest known British advertisement for tea ‘That excellent, and by all Physitians approved, China Drink, called by the Chineans, Tcha, by other nations Tay, alias Tee, is sold at the Sultaness-head, a coffee -house, in Sweetings rents by the Royal Exchange, London’
Tea drinking was considered in 1700 as a mark of good standing in society so families would chose to be shown drinking tea together in their portraits.
From teapots & tea drinking by Robin Emmerson
I am hoping when I get round to looking at other teapots, the reference books I hope will be placed on lower shelves.
Silent Sunday
Buttons until payday!
The little table
It was my father’s dream to sail our boat Trooper to France and one day the opportunity came, sadly it did not turn out as planned. This true story shows ‘big is not always best’
The little drop-leaf dining table hand-crafted by my dad stood in the middle of the cabin between the bunks. It was referred to by those who knew about such things as a chart table and it was indeed used for reading maps, but it was also used as a writing desk, drawing board and a tea or coffee table. For my baby brother, known affectionately as ‘the boy’ it was a race track for dinky toys. But t it was not its usefulness, its grace or finely turned legs makes me remember it. It was its strength; made with matured mahogany and teak and strong brass hinges with engineered precision, along with a redundant Genoa which is a large jib or foresail it saved our lives that night.
The spare sail was stowed away in a cupboard with the ropes at the end of the cockpit until my Dad could trim and refit it for Trooper. But that night it was put to better use!
One August weekend we set sail for France; Trooper sailed due west from Yarmouth on the Isle of Wight towards the Needles, then south-easterly across the English Channel towards Cherbourg, it was a good clear night. Us girls and the boy were tucked up in bed and I remember nothing until I felt the boat toss and turn more than usual and my mother woke us, tied us into our lifejackets and put us back to bed. I remember sleepily the sound and the light of the flare as it shot across the sky. Peering from my bunk I can see my father standing on the aft deck with the tiller between his legs. My mother took the helm, standing in the cockpit as my father crawled along the deck as I heard the lifeboat approach and attempt to remove us children. The wind was hurricane force and the waves over 30ft high , well over our mast and too strong for lifeboat to come close enough to lift us children to safety ; fearing that the boats would break up. So we had to hold the boat still as possible until the winds and waves died down.
So my father lashed a rope to the table and threw it over the side. As it plunged into the water the leaves opened and it acted as sea anchor holding the boat against the force of the sea. Then the sail was lashed on its four corners and chucked over board as it fell it opened up like parachute, that, with the tables might was able to hold Trooper firmly against the angry seas only a few miles from Cherbourg for several hours until dawn broke and the wind and tide became little kinder.
I will never know why we didn’t continue into Cherbourg harbour that morning instead we sailed to Portsmouth but not before salvaging the sail and the table. The former was hung up to dry and then stowed in place until required again the latter soon back in place her dignity restored and set for breakfast.
Pu’erh Tea
Nothing gets any easier … for instance there is, and there never was any such thing as a quick cup of tea. I can remember my father fetching drinking water by launch- a round trip of about an hour – and me having to walk a mile or two to buy a packet of tea. Tea production and its making is still pretty time consuming. Take my favourite pu’erh tea, for example which can be bought in a little cake or a brick
Pu’erh tea grown in the mountains of Yunnam Province, China. The leaves undergo a special fermentation; aging, steaming and compression. This gives it a unique earthy taste which might not be everyone’s ‘cup of tea.’ However the Chinese are convinced of its healthy attributes and high prices are paid for quality vintages.
The tea brick I buy is high quality fine leaf Keemun grown in Anhwei. It has been produced in China for over 2000 years and subjected to 60 tonnes of pressure to form very decorative flat bricks
As boiling water is poured over the cake it breaks into decomposed black leaves and a very dark liquor is produced which is smooth and sweet. The tea – without milk or sugar – is enjoyed after dinner or before going to bed. It has great digestive qualities and is thought to prevent hangovers. And it is dubbed a slimming secret by Victoria Beckham.
Pu’erh tea is a work of art – a fine master, best placed on a mantel piece to be admired and touched like a sculpture.
They are however, not so convenient to use: the brick is rather like a clay tile and even more robust. It has to be reduced to a fine powder before it can be brewed. A sledge hammer and a chisel – are helpful and then it must be grated with a cheese grater. The powder is then put into a tea filter and brewed as usual and the result is a really smooth rich cup of tea which is well worth the effort.
The Tea Brick has to be chipped, hacked away and scalded –sipped and enjoyed. And then sipped again, her richness can be repeated – the leaves retain their calming attributes for many servings. Unlike her very poor relation the packet of PG tips stored in the back of the cupboard with no love or respect and then brewed, sweeten and smoothed with milk and sugar – She is a cheap alternative with no style or lasting qualities bar the caffeine fix.
It is no wonder that the tea brick in China is considered a form of currency and the tea ceremony is still practiced regularly in some parts
The pu’erh tea is one of the best teas to have at bed time as it brings restful sleep … more likely we sleep from exhaustion this tea making and drinking Is hard work.
Glancing back to the beginning and other blogs and without wishing to be sentimental – nothing is easy or quick if it were where is the pleasure?
Both the types of Pu’erh teas I have mentioned are easily available but the suppliers I use are reliable, friendly – and their tea – is fairly priced.
For the cakes http://www.attictea.com/
And the brick http://www.algcoffee.co.uk/scripts/default.asp
Sailing to France
Trooper moored
That holiday in France had been planned for months, years maybe. Passports and sunglasses no less! The excitement as we left Yarmouth (IOW) was electric. Cruising, out of the harbour we pass the Isle of Wight ferry with her engines throbbing and lights blazing, the heaving monster discharging diesel fumes and noise. ‘Only going to Lymington, a mere stone’s throw, don’t you know? We are on our way to France.’ Our gracious lady and her precious load were bound for France. As we entered the Solent we cut the engine and set the sails, clutching the coast line, reluctant to take that mighty step beyond the Needles. There was little more than a gentle breeze. Now comfortable that we no longer needed the glow of the lighthouse at the Needles her winks continue to warn other interlopers of her treacherous white cliffs.
As we turned into the English Channel, children tucked up, Mother and Father, settled into their respective roles and private thoughts; Trooper caught the now fair wind and cut the running tide. There is something strange and ghostly about sailing at night; the sound of the wind in the stays and the flap of the sails, the creak of the mast as it begins to feel the might of the increasing wind and the feel of the rudder as it takes the strain of the swell.
The lights marking the coast of France are not yet visible, but the moon is high and we are making good time. Then we hit a head wind and the waves began to increase so we changed tack towards the beckoning lights of Cherbourg, however, the current and the wind were not so welcoming they threw us back into the turmoil of the winds and the waves. Trooper didn’t deserve this. This was not as we planned. The tiller was lashed into a forward position while my mother comforted us and my father shot out a flare to summon the lifeboat. Was lighting up the sky, an act of defiance or to placate that jealous night? His children were now at risk. He crawled along the decks to drop the sails and prepare the sea anchors.
The darkness came back with a vengeance, the moon now obliterated by the storm laden clouds. The lights of Cherbourg joining the tirade that taunted us as we mounted yet another voracious wave only to be regurgitated down the other side.
They were a formidable team my ma, pa and Trooper
I feel a list coming on …
I find a list focuses my mind for the big events like holidays, Christmas or New Year with its resolutions, parties and visitors. They can be a focus of joy but can become an out-of-control monster.
My home has been draped with the things, my bags bulge and I cannot leave the house without them.
When I find an oasis in my life – I have become an expert at this, particularly when the washing up needs to be done, ironing board is poised or the vacuum cleaner beckons – I find myself browsing the dreaded list – prioritising, underlying, inserting new lists and sub-clauses.
They can take many forms: electronic or normal note pads, leather bound journals, scraps of paper or Post Its, nothing is too large or small – I can work wonders with Magic Tape and a stapler.
I prefer fine paper and pen but I can be desperate to write a list so any thing will do!
I have a cull from time to time, as some lists have an outcome so far away that I have forgotten what it is, or it has become unacheivable .
For instance plans to move to semi-detached –leafy- lane with a drive, integral garage and an acre of land. Or preparing to retire and travel the world.
On occasion I reassess a list maybe not the world this time but master a foreign language instead. Sometimes the list becomes or obliterates the focus and the result is not as hoped.
My daughter going to live in Brazil for instance, The daughter – Em and her well being and safe journey was the focal point, as her mother , with a list I provided all she needed and all went well without too many hitches and tears.
Then I realised that I had not put ‘myself’ on the list – there were a few ideas but nothing on paper … so each day I grabbed and grappled with them – the ideas I mean – wept and laughed and wept again – and each day the seeds of ideas grew, blossomed and some withered and the next day another grew or died without ceremony or the use of a list. Now I have a garden (a life) and a convenient compost heap, not in a semi – detached- leafy-lane, and it will not meet with Gertrude Jekyll’s approval – but it is mine – a work in progress not a pinpoint on the horizon always beyond my reach – but here and now.
I still have the fragments of a list, New Year is not over yet but maybe it doesn’t have the same urgency and focus.
Silent Xmas Sunday
For Xmas I wish for World peace and a pair of socks …
Very warm cashmere socks
I am writing this while sitting on my meditation cushion. Making wishes for peace, love and prosperity for all beings – I sneak in a quick one for Me! ‘May I today have a pair of socks?’ It is Christmas morning, surely someone has read my list; they were almost at the top before the French perfume, the silk pyjamas and the expensive camera lens. The latter has already been crossed off because I bought that myself.
I have low blood pressure so much that the circulation in my lower legs can fail particularly at night as a result I always have cold feet.
There are ways to alleviate this discomfort; cayenne pepper taken in a tablet daily or sprinkled in my shoes can help, also dried ginger in a capsule or the root grated in hot water and sipped will revived a chilled foot or two.
I have a selection of socks to complement each outfit and as they become shabby I wear them in bed or to ‘lounge.’ However this is not always a pretty sight, so a pair of socks at Christmas is always well received to replenish stocks.
A pretty or practical pair – I care little- will do the trick, compared with ‘Poshy Poshy ‘ PJs or ‘Bristol Channelle’ they are relatively cheap.
I can see no reason why this little request cannot be fulfilled, from September the shops and department stores were decked with socks, checkouts and tills were draped with the cheering delights.
I am not ungrateful, I will receive some lovely and thoughtful presents, my mother’s generous cheque will buy several pairs of socks in the sales after Christmas.
But it is not the same is it?
The Isle of Wight
From around 1958 to 1961 sailed in our converted life-boat, Trooper to the Isle of Wight each weekend during the summer; we sailed around her occasionally on our way to somewhere else, France maybe? However, it was always done on a shoestring her conversion was a work in progress we never knew how it might turn out. It was dependant on money, resources and the weather, all at the same time often it didn’t happen but when it did it was perfect.
We could watch from afar, her iconic bulge domed beyond Calshot Spit, an ever changing backdrop to the vast array of crafts as they plotted a course from Southampton Water or the Hamble to the English Channel. We would venture closer and gaze at the imposing coast line sometimes she turned us away, the wind direction would change and making it difficult to land and moor so would tack along the coast and head towards Beaulieu River and give our girl a miss this time.
Most times however, we reached the island and made it ashore but not before navigating the Medina River through the racing yachts and gin palaces that moored closely to Royal Southern Yacht Club that breached the entrance at Cowes. Our beamy lady a striking contrast to the slinky girls as they jostled slightly on the swell at the mouth of the river.
As the river meandered port and starboard towards Newport, we watched for a beckoning jetty where we could moor and let off steam and bag crisps at the Folly Inn before supper. We went to bed as the sun went down, I used to listen carefully to Luxemburg; a Saturday night treat to learn the latest top- ten as the light faded – and the only other sounds were the lapping of the water and the whine of the rigging. Morning came with the sound of sea gulls and the beat of the motor of the harbour master’s vessel who would come and collect payment for a mooring. The Harbour-master was always amused by the ‘family afloat’ as he shared a cuppa; he ‘waived’ the payment feeling perhaps that my dad needed the half a crown more than Her Majesty’s Customs and Excise did!
After we had stocked up on water and fuel we would set sail for another delight depending on the wind and tide. The Solent had plenty to offer us on a Sunday morning with a few more hours to spend before the Hamble called us back home.
Sat still for a while
Other weekends we might tack along the mainland coast to Portsmouth harbour and moor against the quay at Camper and Nicholson and have fish and chip supper at the Port Hole in Gosport a gastronomic treat for us girls on a Saturday night!
Next morning across the Solent past the forbidding forts, relics of the war that once protected Portsmouth and Southampton from German U boats, towards Bembridge or Ryde where we might walk along the pier with an ice-cream to play at being proper holiday makers.
Silent Sunday
Coat Hanger Doll's House 