Early Autumn

Autumn! What strange magic is in that word, now that for the first time I write it to you! I wish you could see Scotland at this moment in early autumn – the sea is as smooth as a silver shield. If you look out into the ocean, there is one single fishing boat resting on its surface. The sea gulls wandering freely and tamely about. The rays of sunlight striking through the tree branches with red leaves, all outspread like fans, and the shadowy clouds dragging slowly over the mountain sides. The gardens are purple with Michaelmas daisies, the last roses of summer and poppies, all blowsy petals and washed-out colours, giving out their final flush of colours before they fall asleep under the cloak of mist in the late evening.

A sign of autumn - birds flying south

I simply cannot imagine how time flies, dear Readers. You might be wondering whatever happened to me after I wrote my last post in April. You might think that I went into some kind of spiritual vacuum where one is unreachable and left alone in peace. Or you probably think that I might have been taken ill and I stopped writing my blog.

The truth of the matter is not all of the above I mentioned. Before I go on writing what I have been doing in the recent months, I would like to say thank you so much for your most charming and thoughtful messages and emails that you sent to me during my absence. You have touched me deeply with your friendship and concern. Your kind, precious messages are absolutely blessing to me and I return you a thousand time repeated expressions of fondness and gratitude.

But back to the Practical! One of the major art projects that I wanted to do, unfortunately, fell through at the end of April. I needed a creative outlet, a summer project, to keep me occupied and to get away from the telephone and other forces of life that thrusted upon me. During the last six months I had no leisure except routine domestic distractions both days and nights. A major renovation work took place outside the house so that in the depths of winter, I would not have to be anxious about the rain leaks through many holes and gaps from the roof and the stones.  

Every gap and crack on the walls had to be repaired and repointed

Here the stone has weathered back completely, leaving hollows and large gaps



After the repair

Stone masonry is a work of art (Here is the after shot). It takes effort to make something look effortless and subtle!

After many months of procrastination and turning the blind eye to the infinite fret of the practicalities, I realised that my dear old house (built in 1888) was on its last leg. When the heavy April showers fell, the rain came into the dining room in the middle of one dinner party and the water began to splash away in the bowls which I placed on the table. One of the dinner party guests at the table had audacity to comment when he said: “That looks like a very watery soup!”

The lorry with a huge crane was hired for the delivery of cement mixtures and bricks and then the crane had to lift each bag over the iron gate to set it in place. It brought a surreal and theatrical spectacle into this small village.

I watched the delivery from the dining room's window as I felt too nervous to witness all the chaos during the delivery.



One of the disadvantages of living by the sea is the continual invasion of salt water and salty air that scrapes away the stones, the wrought iron, the paint and the metal, little by little until, to use Dr. Johnson’s words, the rust of the soul (“Sorrow is the mere rust of the soul”) and the corrosion of the materials that I possess is revealed to me. So, during the summer months, a new roof had been installed and all the gaps between the stones had been filled, repaired and repointed.

 

Needless to say that the house was inundated with the workmen and the contractors. My main occupation was to keep calm and make many cups of tea and serve them with biscuits (the workmen were particularly keen on Oreo biscuits). My voice became hoarse after many months of shouting to one another instead of conversing with one another in this tumult of the place with the sound of hammering and sawing.   

 

But in the evening, when everyone finished and went home, I would have a few hours to myself before bedtime. The summer evenings in Scotland are long and the light would be softened and amber coloured glow and I would go out to catch the sunset. I saw the church spire from the next village in the distance, as “slender as the willow-wand” (Tolkien), the golden fields spread out before me, my whole being in a whirl, and the green hills far greener than I could ever imagine; Mother Nature doing her part to maintain and instil optimism into me.    

Although the house is very old, I am still very fond of it. Fond of its quirks and characters but I came to realise that maintaining a house has a further drain on one’s meagre resources. Some of the imperfections will now have to stay as they are. In spite of all these challenges and limitations, the art of housekeeping can be a speedy attainment if one is willing to keep persevere. There were days when I stood in the middle of all the chaotic sights, sounds, movements, counter movements and all this commotion I experienced as if one was in wild torch-savage-dance, I kept hearing the words that the gallant soldiers might say to their wives and girlfriends when they are about to part: ‘Courage, Dearie, only for a month!”