Calm

We got up – late – this morning to clearer skies and fresh breezes.

We felt a bit more cheerful as well, because last night we managed to work a reasonable shift and earn some money.

It has been ages since we have been in gainful employment. Last weekend there were the floods, before that we were away at my parents’ house, and before that the taxi was off the road: if it had gone on much longer we would have had to sell the children, there might be something to be said for a real job.

Of course we don’t want real jobs at all, we like what we do even if it means we have our exciting impecunious moments. Being unemployable has the massive advantage that we can do what we like, and today we got up and decided that what we would like to do most was go for a walk and feel the wind in our hair again.

We went up Orrest Head, which is the mountain at the back of our house, tramping up through mud and wet leaves and clambering over broken branches whilst the dogs charged about excitedly, sniffing everything and bouncing about joyously.

It was difficult to pick out the path in places, because of all the weather adventures, and at one point we lost it completely and had to trek along sheep-tracks and climb over walls until we found it again. We did this with some trepidation, partly because we know from our recent experiences that people get terribly worked up about footpaths, but mostly because we know that in one of the fields up there there is a vile tempered and hostile donkey, which we very much preferred to avoid.

It turned out all right, of course, nobody came rushing up to us to tell us icily that we were on the wrong path and dispatch us shamefacedly back down the hill to walk on the permissible stretch of mud, and we didn’t see the savage donkey at all, so perhaps it has drowned.

It was rather splendid to be breathlessly at the top, pink faced and pleased with ourselves, and it was lovely to be doing something just for the simple happiness of it. The view from the top is ace, you can see the whole of the lake and across to the Langdales, and we amused ourselves for ages marvelling at ponds that used to be fields and pointing out submerged trees.

We picked our cautious way down over the slippery rocks. Mark kissed me at the kissing gates, and the dogs bounded over tree roots and into piles of muddy leaves, and when we got home Mark brought the logs in for the fire whilst I chucked the dogs into the shower before they had chance to think they might like to sleep it off in our bed.

We felt as though we had gained a toehold on happiness again then, back in our warm kitchen with contented dogs at our feet, and coffee and home-made fruit cake.

Mark went over to the farm then, to help his sister with the boiler, and I spent the afternoon making soap.

This was a lovely satisfying winter-day thing to do. I put the crock-pot over a pan of bubbling water on the stove and mixed almond oil and coconut oil, and stirred it and whisked it and finally put it in the oven to finish. I lined some loaf tins that had once been my grandmother’s with greaseproof paper and poured the cooked soap in to set.

I made three different batches, all with different scents, and felt very pleased with myself, apart from getting caustic soda stuck in a small cut underneath my thumbnail, which I can tell you was a deeply horrible experience. I wasn’t sure if I had cooked it for long enough either, because the way you tell with soap is to put a bit on your tongue and see if it is nasty. I did try that but it turned out that my palate was just not sophisticated enough to distinguish between soap that tasted nasty because it was not cooked enough, and soap that tasted nasty because it was soap, so I am no wiser.

Mark came home and helped me tidy up and we went to work then.

It is lovely not to be having adventures.