All images courtesy of the very lovely Annie Spratt, unless otherwise stated.

I can't quite believe it's taken me over three weeks to formulate the words to tell you about the very first Creative Countryside Winter Gathering. What began as a late night musing on Instagram led to 18 of us holed up in the Peak District for the first weekend of the new year. It was rejuvenating, inspiring, incredibly hard work(!), and taught me so much about how I want to build this community from now on.

My sister, Jess, came along as my indispensable co-host, and we arrived mid-afternoon on the Friday at Dalehead Bunkhouse, near Edale, to set up. Darkness steadily rolled in as we decorated with greenery and prepared for the first attendees to arrive. I'd chosen a location nearby a train station (I don't know about you, but arriving by train always feels a bit more stress-free), and after a couple of pick-ups we were settled for the night. 

We began with cider bellini cocktails (which turned out to be a bit more lethal than we'd imagined...) and coupled with a roaring fire, they helped encourage the group of strangers to bond and connect. Before dinner, Mugdha from Kindred & Kind led a herbal tea talk and tasting, and as someone who absolutely hates licquorice, the blend that included it was surprisingly delicious! Jess and I then got on with food preparations, before leading everyone through to feast on creamy mushroom and herb pasta followed by mulled winter fruits and spiced gingerbread.

Conversation flowed in the candlelight and slowly people moved up to bed, or closer to the fire for late night reading. Sleep eluded me that night, but we were up early to make the most of the day.

Just as the sun was rising, Elizabeth led an inspiring meditation with around half the group. I've always struggled with the concept, but her advice that you're supposed to get distracted, that it's coming back to focus that's of most importance, really rang true. The flames of the fire crackled and popped as we were still with our thoughts and Elizabeth's guidance. The second half of the group had left early to explore the hills, and returned just in time for buckwheat pancakes for breakfast.

I managed to escape for half an hour or so to explore with my camera, and it was wonderful to see so many others doing the same, despite the early hour. Creative Countryside's online editor Chelsea then led us over the hills and through the valley on a mindfulness walk. The brief rainstorm lent even more meaning to her words, as were guided to take note of the feel of the mossy wall, acknowledge our senses, and connect with our emotions. A potential stumbling block - a deep boggy pit right next to a stile - was avoided thanks to the characterful farmer who let us walk down his track, albeit with the caveat, "Don't make a habit of it!"

We returned with handfuls of foraged greenery, a few berries, and skeletons of winter grasses, ready to begin our foliage crown workshop, led by Jess. Event bags were handed out, and included craft aprons from Pursuit England, a luxurious green bath potion from Magic Organic Apothecary, lavender firelighters from Rebecca Fletcher, The Almanac by Lia Leendertz, and smudge sticks to cleanse the air from Kindred & Wild.

Image: Jess Townsend

Image: Jess Townsend

Image: Jess Townsend

Image: Eleanor Cheetham

Lunch was a warm cumin roasted carrot and lentil salad, with a cashew nut cheese that I'd never made before, which turned out to be incredibly popular! It was followed by two workshops: pouring our own beeswax candles, and learning all about the process from Francey at Tea and Wildflowers, and a very relaxed mini wreath-making session. It was wonderful to watch as some became engrossed in the creative act of wreath design, and our candles took on so much more meaning once we'd added our words to the glass jars - all taken from Shakespeare's Twelfth Night. 

Image: Jess Townsend

Image: Jess Townsend

Before our Twelfth Night feast, we ventured out into the half-darkness to wassail. After wishing each other wassail (or 'good health') and taking a sip of mulled organic Wyld Wood cider from the antique cider mug, we poured cider onto the roots of an apple tree I'd brought from our orchard at home, adding a cider-soaked piece of toast into its boughs, hoping for a prosperous apple harvest for the year ahead. The ceremony then moved on to a raucous session of banging pots and pans to rid the air of evil (insect) spirits, and we closed by eating an apple from my orchard at home, and I encouraged everyone to plant the core and start their own apple-growing.

Image: Jess Townsend

The temperature had dropped and we returned indoors. Our handmade beeswax candles decorated the table, and we feasted on spiced celeriac soup with za'atar, honey-roasted vegetables with quinoa and pesto, and mini apple crumbles. We lingered at the dinner table before venturing outside again to do a spot of stargazing. Shooting stars flashed across the sky as we picked out constellations and attempted to take photographs. 

Image: Sarah Porteus

Image: Sarah Porteus

Our final morning began with a few heading up to Mam Tor to watch the sunrise. The rest of us grabbed a bowl of Nordic spiced porridge and packed up the last of our possessions. A few left early with a long drive ahead, but we stayed awhile in Edale, exploring the village and surrounding fields, and enjoying a hearty pub lunch before saying our goodbyes.

Image: Sarah Porteus

Image: Sarah Porteus

I'm not brilliant with texting people back or replying to emails immediately, and I definitely haven't done half the things I've wanted to with the online Creative Countryside community so far, but in a way these real life meet-ups are the antidote to all of that chaos. I met Chelsea for the first time, and Sarah, our folklore editor, too.  So many of the people that attended have been involved in the magazine. And some I'd never really chatted to before. It was a real mix of truly interesting creatives, and I'm so grateful to have had the chance to get to know them more.

At this time of year when the grey and moody language of winter sets the tone for the month of January, I find myself in need of a little nurturing for the soul.  Mornings covered in frost, the light glinting on the horizon through a sea of fog and the glow of Christmas past make me long for the tiniest glimmer that spring is on its way.  However, I’ve found that for me the best antidote to a bad case of January blues is to try to embrace what the season may hold and savour winter’s last hurrah.

Heading off into the woods for the weekend, our little family of four did just that.  Off the beaten track in the New Forest is Warborne Farm, a family-run 100 acre farm which boasts a selection of lovingly converted boutique barns.  Perfect for retreats, families, couples and those who need nothing but cosiness, long walks and a chance to while away the hours in the wilderness of the forest.

Arriving after dark, The Grain Loft, our home from home for the weekend was lit up with the glow of a roaring fire within the woodburner.  Warmth, cosiness and the rustic feel of natural materials intermingled with exposed piping and industrial chic set the tone for the décor.  Handmade to perfection - from the sheep fleeces on the beds from the farm’s own flock and light fitting made from the original pulley system used for hauling up hessian sacks of grain for storing, to shutters handmade by Kate’s mum Ann, bedside tables carved from blocks of Douglas Fir from the New Forest and sills once part of an old sunken barge found emerging from the mudflats.  Modern, rustic but luxurious to boot. 

Everything has been created with an ambience of slow living in mind, helping guests to switch off from the hustle and bustle and reclaim time for themselves.  Perhaps one of the most special and unexpected features of our stay in The Grain Loft was a viewing window in the floor of the sitting room, from which we could watch and marvel at our neighbours below – a family of Boer goats.  I cannot tell you how magical it was to being able to witness the sweet scene beneath our feet.  I’ve never felt more like Heidi. 

Dragging ourselves away from goats and mugs of bedtime hot chocolate, the girls’ bedroom proved to be the stuff of little girls’ dreams.  Former stalls in the loft have been converted into a stunning 4 berth dorm complete with beds furnished with hay mattresses made from ox-eye daisies, ladies bedstraw and other wild flowers from the farm’s meadows.  Our bedroom didn’t disappoint either.  Soft sheepskin and downy pillows ensured a night of dreaming we were snuggled up in a chalet deep in the snowy Alps.  It’s these beautiful little touches which make staying at Warborne so magical.  A cavernous copper bath and time spent reading and chatting by the fire with a large glass of wine ensured the perfect digital detox. 

Waking to a day of planned adventures, the surrounding heathland ensured that we had time to daydream whilst spotting wild ponies, collecting pine cones and getting muddy and rosy-cheeked with our dogs.  There’s also the seaside town of Lymington to explore if you wish to venture out for supplies and take a bracing walk along the sea walls.  However there’s heaps to draw you back to the farm.  Picking your own organic vegetables from the plentiful polytunnels, finding buckets by the front door with treats to feed the farm’s Kune Kune pigs and being able to collect your own eggs for breakfast from the hen house are all highly recommended.  We loved savouring the simple things and enjoying the beauty of midwinter at its best.  No need for screen time, although there are televisions and Wifi in each of the barns should you not be able to resist.  Our little ones spent hours just running about, visiting the farm’s many animals and bouncing off the top of the bales in the hay barn. 

There’s a touch of old fashioned farm living about Warborne Farm.  Our weekend stay gave us much needed time, space and freedom to enjoy a little midwinter magic.  I think that perhaps the most important thing I shall take away with me is just finding a space to be able to let myself switch off and enjoy my wintry surroundings.  It’s those moments I shall savour rather than try to rush the time away until we welcome spring again with open arms.  As Johanna Spyri, the author of Heidi wrote, “Let's enjoy the beautiful things we can see, my dear, and not think about those we cannot.”

*This will be my last microadventure style post to celebrate my completion of walking 1000 miles in 2017.

It seemed such a perfect few days to have snow up in the welsh hills. Timely in fact for December although, it was our second covering of the year, only this time much thicker. 

It reminded me of when I was a small child, my cousins and I would use bin bags as sledges
and use the banks of the woodlands to whoosh down, only to be taken out by a root, or a tree! 

On the first morning, I woke early, there's was an intense glow above my curtains. There had been no tractor sounds or from passing cars.   Something was different.  The anticipation of peaking behind the curtains was a little too much for me, and instead, I dragged them back to expose a shocking white mass of the ol' white stuff.

 "It's snowing!" The household was awake then... 

My pup was out of the door before me.  Over the next 4 days, we enjoyed sledging,  hill walks, and snowman building.   Oh, and there was a case of a lost and never to be found glove of mine, from a late-night,  escapaedeinto the village to collect supplies (mince pies).

The roads were constantly blanketed, and although the tractors and gritters did their
best to clear it away each night more fell from the sky.

There's something quietly deafening about snow.  You can hear a pin drop. There are no echoes in the valley,  and each crunchy footstep I took got louder and louder and I found myself tiptoeing, hoping not to disturb the jittery Robbins or resting sheep!

Oh how the local communities came together.  And despite what you hear nowadays about the world becoming a frightening place, I know that it's not true.  Offers of food pickups and dropoffs from the 4x4 owners for the elderly don't seem to sell many newspapers... 

 The roads in the small villages were filled with people rather than cars, all snowball fighting, chatting, laughing, and enjoying what nature had to offer us in abundance.One morning, we woke to the most azure blue sky one, could ever ask for - my home looked exactly like it does on those winter travel brochures!   

Now in January, the hills are back to their earthy green palette except in the parts where the sun doesn't reach, remains fragments of that ol' white stuff I love so much.  The rivers are up high threatening to flood like they do each year, and the sludge was thick and not at all pleasing to the eyes. The trees no longer carry their icicle decorations and the snowflakes have turned into rain.  And the winds, how she howls....  

I feel utterly blessed  I got to finish off my 1000 mile challenge at home in the snow. My walking adventures have taken me to some amazing locations but there really is no place like home. 

On wintry nights when the sky is clear and the air still, Jack Frost creeps across the countryside.  His cold breath and icy finger-tips spread frozen tidings through the atmosphere and across the ground.  Feathery patterns trespass over window panes, forming fern-like arabesques on their cold, smooth surfaces.

While it is easy to imagine these as the unfurling of some winter’s magic by a mischievous figure of fun, the florid patterns that form on our car windows and glass-topped patio tables are caused by a chain reaction of slowly gelling water.  As the spreading frost crystals meet imperfections in the surface such as specks of dirt or scratches, they branch off in new directions forming intricate, wintery patterns that are a joy to discover.

In deepest winter, when the weather is at its most solemn and still, comes the thick, spiny coating of the hoar frost.  Trees are silvered; leaves and grasses powdered.  The countryside takes on a wintery whiteness that is crisper, more defined than the blanketing softness that comes with a fall of snow.

The name “hoar” derives from the old English word “hor” or “har” for white or grey, and describes the appearance given by the mass of tiny ice crystals which scatter light in all directions so that everything coated with them appears white.

For the crystals to form the conditions have to be just right.  If both the air temperature and the dew point (the temperature at which water vapour in air condenses into liquid water) are both below freezing, a process known as sublimation takes place.  The moisture in the atmosphere turns from vapour to a solid (ice) without first passing through a liquid stage.

This is all takes place as we sleep, warmly tucked up under our blankets and with our hot water bottles.  And when we wake on a wintery morning to the chill of the first frost – to find the windows etched with the tracery of window frost or to gaze at the frozen wonderland created by a hoar frost – we experience one of the season’s most defining moments.

Here, on the estuary’s forgotten shore,
away from the road’s tarmac gravity,
the dark begins to pool early against
high boulder banks and the dune’s downslope.

Another swarm of dreams is scattering south.
With a luthier’s ear for resonance
and absences, the river channels out
its own meandering echo chambers.

Snow stillness; snow silence. And yet no snow:
“Too cold for it”. Deep cold, more than enough
to snuff the stars into a charred blackness
and scorch this great dark bore hole to the moon.

Everything is drawn of its ghosts

and now the frost begins to populate
this void, creeping from every crack and crevice,
extrapolating brittle feathered forms
so exact
humerus to radius
so intricate
radius to ulna;

each shiny new angle geared for flight yet still grounded come first light of morning.

In a world that is in love with days that glow with the warmth of sunlight, the humble grey sky gets a pretty bad rep. What is there to love about the cool and the quiet of a cloudy, rainy day when the sun is hidden away and hibernating? There seems to be a universal consensus that the arrival of grey skies and rainy days ruin the best-laid adventure plans. Who wants to hike in the rain? Who wants to visit the coast when the sun isn’t shining? Well, to that I say, “never underestimate the power of an overcast day.” Some of the best adventures, some of the most memorable and inspiring days in the great outdoors start with a muddy puddle and drizzle dripping from the sky.

When a day is bright and the sky is blue, everything is presented exactly as it is: there is no mystery. On a rainy day, when the oppressive clouds come down from their kingdoms in the sky and perch on the tops of hills, the edges of the world begin to blur and the imagination is encouraged to run free. Instead of the crystal blue clarity of sunshine, a grey-skied day evokes a magical sense of wonder, in which anything and everything could be possible. Just look at the classic fairy-tale tropes: no story full of magic and mystery, myth and adventure begins on a day that is without the tell-tale rumble of thunder or the swirling mists that dance through the forests. A grey day is not simply preferable for a story to begin: it is necessary.

A blue sky presents the landscape as it is, but a grey sky presents a landscape with hidden factors, with layers of interpretation and meaning and reality. The landscape becomes our own and our imagination shapes it. Clouded mountains become sleeping dragons, rainy forests are suddenly home to all manner of mythical creatures, ghostly cloud-shapes haunt landscapes that otherwise would have been unremarkable. “Wuthering Heights” just would not have been the same if Cathy had wandered the moors, getting lost under a bright, shining sun. The grey, rainy weather was essential to creating the evocative, haunting moods captured in the novels by authors like the Brontë sisters and it still remains essential, all these years later.

Grey skies allow us to connect with our inner child. All we have to do is lose our heavy cloak of adulthood and look at the world with wonder, with curiosity, and with an unceasing optimism. Wander through a landscape that is damp with mist and mizzle and don't hide under the brim of umbrellas or hoods. Look ahead and find shapes in the shadows, dance with folklorish creatures, remember that this landscape is charged and energised by the dark, dreariness of the weather. Learn to associate grey with beauty, mystery, imagination, charm and unlearn the disappointed fear we all possess when a grey day rolls around. Grey-skied-days are a magical, in-between space between reality and fantasy. Embrace them.

Words & Images by Katy Who

- Wilson "Snowflake" Bentley

Homespun wisdom ready
to weave back into the edge
of some blossoming storm,
You waited on,
anticipating such spirit-harvests
springing from their own short seasons.
In imagination
or deep in long-held memory,
each tiny flake was already a window.
I see you, or maybe just think I do,
still looking through onto some dream meadow,
a trillion faceted blooms,
flickering in
a building breeze.

There’s a winter promise in the air. Taking the dog out for a final stroll late at night, all the signs are there - the sky is clear, the moon bright, and the temperature has dropped rather drastically. He’s on his way. And sure enough, in the morning, whilst still sleepy and warm under thick woolen blankets, I somehow can feel his presence. I’ll admit, it still takes me awhile to get out of bed, but I know that his intricate handiwork awaits admiration. 

Jack is quite the lad. 

As if by magic, the first hard frost of winter has changed the landscape as we know it. It’s an unfamiliar familiar. The lines of the hills look transformed. Overnight, he’s preserved the last glimpse of late summer in crystallised flashes of purple heather and turned spiders webs into new artworks. At this time of year, when nature seems to be coming to a close, Jack Frost forces us to see life from a different perspective. 

He’s an overture to the fourth movement - the finale before a new symphony begins in Spring.

Taking time to look at the little things can be breathtaking. Growing up as an inquisitive child in the countryside, I am grateful that it’s now second nature for me to seek out the small details that each season gifts us. And on that morning as dawn broke and the sunrise cast a warm glow across the valley, I was able to capture the fleeting beauty of Jack’s miniature creations as they disappeared before my eyes. 

As the first rays of the morning light broke through the trees and landed on Jack’s crystal carpet, it felt almost magic like. A glistening, shimmering wonderland. And while the droplets of water were frozen in place, I worked quickly to capture them in time.

I hope you will agree, it was something to get out of bed for. 

Words & Images by Country Meets Creative
 

The half-stripped trees
struck by a wind together, 
bending all, 
the leaves flutter drily
and refuse to let go
or driven like hail
stream bitterly out to one side
and fall
where the salvias, hard carmine-- 
like no leaf that ever was-- 
edge the bare garden. 

William Carlos Williams

The promise of a new season is a thrill. Watching, waiting for those first signs that change is afoot never gets old, perhaps because we're never quite sure when they will appear. Though December to me feels like winter, and though it is the month I've selected to release the winter issue of the magazine, it isn't cut and dry. Autumn's fragments are still evident in soggy piles of leaves by the side of the road, and the wrinkled conker shells up the footpath, and will remain, no doubt, for some time yet.

Winter is the quiet season. It is a time for reflection, contemplation, and a moment of stillness before life once again springs forth. It is an opportunity to spend dark evenings curled up with a blanket and cup of something hot, with a good book. I honestly can't remember the last time I read a book from cover to cover, but I know that of all the seasons, I love reading about winter the most. 

These are the books on my bedside table this winter.

Dorothy Wordsworth's Christmas Birthday by Carol Ann Duffy.
Set on Christmas Eve in 1799, Duffy's poem takes us to the frozen landscape of the Lake District. With beautiful illustrations by Tom Duxbury, it's the perfect little book to get you in the festive spirit. I also love that it's short enough to read in one sitting, and lasts about as long as a hot chocolate.

Night Sky, or any guide to the stars
My husband loves astronomy, but I'm really more of a beginner. That's not to say I don't enjoy locating key constellations, and it's a brilliant excuse to get outdoors at this time of year. Even better is that it gets dark incredibly early, and unlike the summer months, a spot of stargazing can take place early evening. Take a torch out and use a guide to map the sky.

Snow by Marcus Sedgwick
Another short book, Sedgwick imitates the six sides of a snowflake through the six chapters, exploring art, literature and science of snow, as well as his own experiences and memories. He suggests that "snow is transformative. It changes the world around us... Overnight, it repaints the landscape in white, inevitably bringing to mind concepts like purity and clarity of thought. Over the course of eons, it can remake the earth itself."

Winter edited by Melissa Harrison
Part of the collection of anthologies for the changing seasons, this one is my favourite. Particular highlights include Satish Kumar's approach to wildness, and Kristian Evans' thousand words for snow.

Village Christmas by Laurie Lee
If any collection of stories is likely to awaken nostalgic feelings of early childhood, then it's this one. "Outside there is no surprise in the coldness of the morning. It lies on the valley like a frozen goose. The world is white and keen as a map of the Poles and as still as the paper it's printed on. Icicles hang from the gutters like glass silk stockings and drip hot drops in my hand as I breathe on them."

And of course, there's the winter issue of Creative Countryside if you're more in the mood for a magazine. 

Winter is also the best time to linger in a hot bath. I think I've probably managed three or four baths since my son was born (he's almost nine months now) but I'm determined to make time for more over the festive season. The wonderful folk at Magic Organic Apothecary sent me their new Dreamy Mineral Soak to try, and it's truly the best bath product I've ever smelt. With a healing blend of lavender, pine, cardamom and Himalayan pink salt, it's perfect for soothing aching muscles and purifying the skin (ideal for winter).

Above all else, and as Edith Sitwell recommends, "winter is the time for comfort, for good food and warmth, for the touch of a friendly hand and for a talk beside the fire: it is the time for home."

---

Magic Organic Apothecary Dreamy Mineral Soak was sent as a gift, but there was no expectation of review or endorsement. I only include it in this post as a product I would genuinely recommend.

Today I'm delighted to introduce the first in a series of seasonal posts by Cheryl, a writer and advocate of simple living currently living with her family in a beautiful Romanian village. For more, head over to her blog and inspiring website.

Once upon a time, in a far-away land, there was a little village surrounded by orchards and fields dotted with ochre haystacks, full of women and men meaningfully wandering through the fenceless landscape, carrying handwoven baskets on their backs in the sun, in the rain and in the snow.

And this winter, in our fairy-tale village of Breb, Romania, this real place on Earth which our family calls home, the recent cold and snowy months have been dreamlike, in the most frozen and wintry sense.

Temperatures have dipped to -20°C for nights on end, pipes have frozen and flowing water has turned the streets into thick glaciers, providing entertainment for the young sledgers who race downhill, screaming with laughter at high speed all the way. But to walk on such ice, to visit a neighbour, or go downhill to the village shop is a matter of slipping, sliding and by some skillful act of balance – not falling down.

Here, the cold comes with simple beauty. The ice flowers that grow overnight, present themselves in the morning light. The foothills are covered with white, glistening magic. The smell of burning fir and alder fills the air as the smoke billows from small chimneys attached to wooden homes. As we step outside, we inhale life and death as we become part of this ethereal landscape. The smoke is a reminder of the trees that are harvested in the foothills of the Gutâi Mountains, the very thing that keeps us warm and alive.

In winter, it seems that wood is harvested every day, felled by chainsaws and brought down from the hills by horse and sleigh, the exception being Sunday when no work is allowed. I put another log on the fire with hope deep in my heart that come warmer weather, in another season, I will see seedlings being planted on these very hills, for if they were to be thinned to the point of lace work, what would these traditional wooden houses be born of instead? Concrete and bits of styrofoam hopefully will not overtake this romantic existence, but like the loss of craftsmanship, only time will tell.

In a place where looms outnumber the weavers, we can brazenly dream that the old ways will not be lost in favour of greed…

So, as we deeply slumber under heavy, handmade woollen blankets, woven from the fibres of the Țurcana sheep, we dare consider the reverie of spring – trees filled with flowers in the billions, and of birds chirping their sweet songs. Adventure awaits higher up the forested hills, near the peat bogs of Morărenilor Lake, on the Creasta Cocoșului (Rooster’s Crest) and in walking barefoot among gentle blades of green while foraging for all that disappears in winter.

To live simply among the seasons has never been so enchanting, or so full of mirth.

Usually celebrated on February 2nd (or the eve of February 1st), Imbolc (pronounced 'im'olk') is one of the four Celtic fire festivals that make up the wheel of the year, and celebrates the passing of winter and the return of spring. It comes at a time when many of us are longing for the end of cold, dark days, and serves as a reminder that brighter mornings and new growth are on the horizon.

As Imbolc is also St Brigid's Day, celebrations of this Celtic fertility goddess are also held to signify her transformation from the crone of winter to the maiden of spring, and often take the form of lighting candles, fires, and celebrating the sunlight. Appropriately, snowdrops are one of her symbols, and form as a further reminder that the bleakness of winter is waning.

The day is also a great opportunity to reassess any goals you set yourself back at the start of January, as the start of spring we plant the seeds that will grow and nourish us for the rest of the year. Spring-clean whatever you want to be rid of (both literally and metaphorically) and set forth on a new journey of optimism and hope. You could also plant some actual seeds to symbolise the promise of this new season.

Head over here for more ideas on how to celebrate the festival.

If you're a subscriber, you'll have already received the first edition of the newsletter - A Seasonal Year - but if you're not don't worry, because today's post offers a compact version to inspire you to live slowly and seasonally throughout the winter months. Don't want to miss next month's newsletter?

Winter Rituals

• Prepare the house for colder weather: light candles; get a stack of logs ready for the fire; choose rich, jewel colours for your accessories; choose a reading spot; and festoon your home with greenery.
   
• Embrace daylight whenever possible: get outside for a walk at least once a day; position yourself near to a window when working; try and watch the sunrise and sunset as often as possible.
   
• Plan for the year ahead: choose a word (or two) to focus on and set long-term goals; order seeds for the vegetable patch / allotment / kitchen windowsill, and plan out your summer harvest.

Three Seasonal Recipes

1. Pheasant casserole with celeriac mash
2. Bubble and squeak
3. Chestnut and chocolate torte

Three Seasonal Reads

L-R: Burial Rites by Hannah Kent; Village Christmas by Laurie Lee; A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens.

 

Final Thoughts...

Winter is the time for comfort, for good food and warmth, for the touch of a friendly hand and for a talk beside the fire: it is the time for home.
Edith Sitwell