If you go down to the woods today...

Last week, I had a little jaunt up the dale to Hackfall Woods, near Ripon. With my muddy walking boots laced up and my basket of goodies for Grandma left at home, I thought it would be safe to explore alone without the fear of the Big Bad Wolf.

Hackfall Woods was owned by John Aislabie from 1731 onwards and he created a wonderland of follies and woodland gardens to entertain Victorian visitors. It fell into disrepair and during my childhood I would visit and play amongst the grotto's and fairytale landscape acting out stories of hobgoblins, pixies and elf kingdoms.

In 2007, together the Hackfall Trust and Woodland Trust began restoring the wilderness back to it's former glory. For a visitor like me, returning to where I once played amongst the overgrown ivy covered ruins and explored hidden gems, the sudden revival of the woods is also tinged with sadness of a time land forgot and then thrown back into the spotlight of modernity.

The Grotto, built of tufa stone and restored recently.

A little Turner landscape to whet your appetite, probably sketched on his Yorkshire Tour in 1816, this stunning watercolour captures the magic of Hackfall, with Mowbray Castle perched on the horizon and the River Ure drifting by in the foreground. Time has stood still for almost 200 years... here's the same view point caught on camera.

If you visit, don't forget to pack your wellies... and look out for the Big Bad Wolf... he's sure to be lurking!

Eboracum

Why is it, I try my hardest, okay that's a bit of a fib, I half heartedly attempt to fulfil the domestic goddess role model only to find that the thrill of Brasso, Vim and elbow grease do nothing for me except make me wonder why cleaning is such a high priority in people's lifes?

Life is for living, surely?

So, I abandoned Hetty the Hoover (she has beautiful pink curves though) donned my walking boots and headed off to the vibrant cultural City of York and walked the Bar Walls.

There was a small break in the rain and the sun shone whilst I trundled along the high medieval walls, taking a sneaky peak over the turrets into people's gardens and watching the City from my hidden vantage point. The grade 1 listed monument is a wonderful link to York's historic past and weaves through the streets and houses snaking between olde world buildings and modern architecture. Sometimes, you forget the sleeping history beneath your feet and take the landscape for granted as you pass-by heading off for important meetings and to earn your crust. However today, the polish took a back seat whilst Little Red Riding dusted away the cobwebs on her walking boots.



Note to self: Kodak Brownie picture memory box is for sharing moments of magic!

What's a girl to wear?

The French Armoire sinks into the carpet with the weight of Little Red's clothes. It's doors almost bursting open with the apparel of days in and nights out. The garments of life sag on the hangers wondering when their next appearance on the live stage will be.

Yesterday, was a very pretty chic day with a little white and blue lacy number, breaking away from the traditional red... however...

You can hide behind clothes, layering up adornments to impress; like a warrior going into battle. Clothing make a statement whether you intend to or not. Did I want to make a statement today?






Red Riding was the dressmakers dummy awaiting the tailor to alter the hemline and pull the corset ribbons tight. So having flicked back and forth through the costumes, a unity of completeness was brokered.

Embrace today's statement piece.

Perhaps a little too much black eyeliner but

"If I can't dance, I don't want to be part of your revolution".

Quote Emma Goldman.

[Living Dead Doll available somewhere to purchase on the net. But don't google her, delightfully engaging as she is, google Emma Goldman, the political activist instead]

Restoration of quill and ink

Call me an old fashioned girl... but having only recently got to grips with the absorbing world of internet media and traded the faithful John Bull printing set for a "Qwerty" keyboard... the super speed highway of communication data vapourising in the the cyber ether enabled me to reflect on the journey to the point where "words" are disposable.



In my past, I can remember the faithful Olivetti typewriter which stood on my desk and which was hammered daily, slowly producing memorandums and letters that were duly stamped in the basement post room and hand delivered by the Royal Mail. Every formation of word was meticulous in it's position on the document and every sentence was quietly considered prior to striking the keyboard. Entangled typebars creating panic in typing circles and black ink smudges carefully erased. The impact of strking a typebar and the ribbon ink caressing the parchment has been replaced by the inkjet lazer printer and reprographics is the catchphrase of industry.

Where is this conveyor belt of medium leading? Today, a lovely pillar box red envelope landed on my doormat; the address handwritten by colbalt blue fountain pen. The notelet inside was a personal greeting, which Red Riding mused upon but her attention was drawn to the detail of the handwriting; the care and precision of the signature. The expression and power of the little red envelope was all consuming and still the preferred method of projecting thoughts and feelings onto a page. Email, text and tweeting may be the new kid on the block but traditional communication still holds my attention and provokes memories of a time gone by where 'instant' was something arriving in a coffee cup.

Earth to Earth, Crust to Crust...

When I felt the slight shudder and heard the impending doom and rumble of a runaway freight train in January 2011 and realised I had jokingly *survived* my second earthquake, I never for one moment stopped to think about the horror of loss and absolute utter devastion from a quake zone.

As the death toll rises in Christchurch, New Zealand, news is released of the first identified Brit to fall victim to the anger and savagery of the disaster. Sadly, one of North Yorkshire's talented soldiers has fallen whilst on his own around the world adventure. Sleep tight Instinct, music lives forever.

Picture Courtesy of Courier Mail, Australia

Whacky Races

It was time to say farewell to my beloved shed on wheels. The ninky nonk has served me well and no doubt has many tales to tell of our journeys, mishaps and episodes. To this today, I remain silent about the magnetic forces of skips but the attraction and repel left it's mark. Our expeditions together and mystery tours into the unknown have not always gone to plan but the car has never failed me and sheltered me from many a storm. *sigh*

So after much agonising, searching, deliberating and penny pinching, I found myself behind the steering wheel of a Ford Motor Company automotive. Henry, would have been proud of me, as I ignored all the technical gadgetry and was merely concerned about the music options, the spare wheel and the colour. Would a black exterior match my red dress, cloak and lip gloss or would I look far too vampish for the leafy lanes of North Yorkshire... ?

The new car is hardly a Tin Lizzy, Thunderbird or Mustang, but it screams silently at me - "drive me, race me, take me". So there I was, besotted by it's shapely contours and sex appeal... and suddenly I am scribbling on the dotted line with my quill and ink and then handed the keys.

“Any customer can have a car painted any colour that he wants so long as it is black”. statement by Henry Ford, before my time!

So despite collaborating with a super power of a motor company and probably funding some espionage in Middle Earth... it's out there on the drive sending astral projections messages to me begging me to play out when it's bed time! How can one resist it's charms? :)

Off the beaten track

Well... after an adventure into the unknown without my flak jacket and teflon coating... I have returned... Are you sitting comfortably, then we shall begin.



Once upon a time, Red Riding Hood had one of those moments of lust, intrigue and the desire to go on a journey... what Red Riding Hood forgot to do was consult the stars and think about this with her head screwed on. So she packed up her troubles into the red spotty suitcase (hankies and sticks are just not big enough for a modern girls wardrobe) and caught the Chattanooga Choo Choo to the big smoke.


The big smoke was a huge vast city landscape and not paved with gold as the critics had suggested. Instead, it was a billboard for commercialism, greed and consumerism... something Little Miss Red was not prepared for, still it was an adventure and not all adventures are what they seem. After a while; the glitzy shimmer started to rust, [chapter deleted and memory banked] the promise was betrayed and it was time to head home to the Bubble of Tranquility.


The suitcase is returned to the cobwebby cupboard, the red cloak hung back on the peg at the back of the door, the little red dress patched up and pressed and the red spotty hankies tears wrung out to dry.

Moral to the Story: Expeditions are for adventurers only and not girls from the frozen North.

Tomorrow is a bright new day though... which I am so looking forward to! :)

Dusting off demons.

The cobwebs and dust from the previous year seem to have settled and it is time I returned to this miscellany of mundane musings.

The kaleidoscope of thoughts and emotions continue to spill onto the blotting paper of life and are often placed misguidingly onto the hopes and dreams of others.

So set against a backdrop of pending doom

(restructure, redundancy, redeployment and random choices)

the intention is to capture the moments of happiness, freedom, resilience and turning points.

Hold onto your seats, I think 2011 will be a bumpy ride...