Back to the Enchanted Place

I might not be the world's biggest Christmas fan, but if there's one thing I'm absolutely looking forward to as soon as the calendar's page is turned to the year's final month, it must be my week off between Christmas and New Year. This is, in fact, the only time of year when we're at home together for any length of time which does not involve any forward planning whatsoever. As the darkest days of the year are upon us, this usually means sleeping in until there's a smidgen of light on the horizon, followed by a leisurely breakfast and lingering in our dressing gowns nursing cups of coffee or tea until the mood takes us to get dressed. Depending on the weather, we might go for a walk or a rummage, or perhaps just stay at home and read. Apart from the odd food shop, household chores are confined to the bare minimum so that by the end of the week dust bunnies are having a field day here at Dove Cottage!

At my office, the final working week of the year is always a hectic one, involving the necessary preparations, not just for our week off, but in anticipation of our return in January as well. So, although I wasn't feeling too clever after succumbing to the lurgy during the weekend, I went in for a couple of hours of slog on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, collapsing on the sofa as soon as I got home. I was obliged to call in sick on Thursday and Friday, though, as lack of sleep and continuing coughing fits had left me totally exhausted. I didn't get dressed on those days, slept a lot and in my waking moments read a couple of pages in the two books I currently had going, none of which was able to grab my attention for longer than the odd 15 minutes.

The only ray of sunshine came in the form of a lovely handwritten card from Kezzie, in which she'd kindly included one of her sustainable snowflakes made from the insides of envelopes! 

I was feeling marginally better on Christmas Eve, which prompted me to get dressed and even attempt a walk into the village to pick up some Christmas cards for our neighbours. But although the fresh air certainly did me some good, I felt quite exhausted by the time I got back. 

An overdose of tea lashed with honey, throat lozenges, cough syrup and painkillers had been playing havoc with my appetite as nothing tasted quite as it should have. I was actually dreading our Christmas Day supper which for the last 28 years has consisted of gourmet, which is kind of a thing in the Low Countries, involving a variety of tiny pieces of meat one fries individually in tiny frying pans on a raclette-like device. As I wasn't exactly looking forward to all that effort, Jos just fried up all the pieces in a large frying pan, and we enjoyed them with potato salad, a selection of veggies and home-made cocktail sauce. And you know what: it tasted heavenly! 

The weather was simply too atrocious to venture outside and go for a little stroll to build up my strength. Instead, it was a lazy day of pottering, reading and listening to the handful of guilty pleasure Christmas albums which thankfully only come out of hiding once a year. 

In total contrast to the Pyjama Days of yore, I got dressed after breakfast, only changing into my jammies after supper. The dress I was wearing wasn't my original choice, which felt a bit restrictive for a day spent mainly on the sofa. Consequently, I was already wearing the mustard opaques and decided they didn't look half-bad with my final choice of frock, a vintage shift dress picked up at Think Twice.

More mustard was added with my charity shopped H&M batwing cardigan and one of the perspex rings I found on Rita's flea market stall the other week. The pansy brooch came from Cardigan antiques market while the 1960s style necklace was an old retail buy.

Boxing Day was another grey and rainy day, the initial mild temperature of 11°C dropping to 5°C and below from late afternoon onwards.

The forecast had been for some sunny spells in the afternoon, but they never materialized, although it did remain dry for a couple of hours. I wasn't feeling very energetic - emerging from the dreaded lurgy has been a slow process, sometimes involving one step forward, two steps back - and as brain fog had once again descended I wasn't too keen to leave Dove Cottage's confines.

Nevertheless, I accompanied Jos to the carwash, stopping at the charity shop in Lier along the way.

Seeing the outfit photos we made in our new favourite spot that day, it seems that although I was looking a bit pale, aided by some carefully applied make-up I did manage to look better than I actually felt. 

I was wearing yet another Think Twice find, a faux-patchwork patterned button through vintage dress, which I often seem to combine with shades of aqua. My King Louie cardigan and H&M beaded necklace were both charity shop finds. Only my ring and belt were bought on the high street.

Pickings were meagre at the charity shop that day. That, and the fact that my heart wasn't really in it. I still managed to snag a funky pair of Gabor sandals which, with the reduction our loyalty card entitled us to, cost us all of € 1,25. 

Finally, we woke up to a clear day with lots of sunny spells on Tuesday. I also woke up feeling more clear-headed than I'd had been in over a week. Not wanting to tempt fate, however, we decided to take it easy in the morning and then go for a short walk after lunch. 

The mercury would eventually climb to 8°C that day, although it did feel quite a bit chillier than it actually was. Or perhaps it was just me. In any case, I opted for a warm woolly skirt from Think Twice, worn with a vintage C&A jumper charity shopped back in January.

The bottle green mock croc belt was a charity shop find as well, while the green-based enamelled brooch with its posy of pansies pinned to the jumper's asymmetrical collar was among my latest flea market haul.

Meanwhile, the sun was streaming through our curtained front door window, creating a kind of magic lantern effect, so wild horses couldn't have kept us inside.

So, wasn't it just our luck that the minute we'd set off to our chosen destination, a smattering of tiny raindrops appeared on our car's windscreen?

Quickly consulting our phone's weather app told us this was supposed to be just a blip so we decided to proceed regardless. 

Although the sun only put in another appearance when on our way home, any sign of rain had fortunately disappeared by the time we'd reached the park in Duffel.

What was supposed to be just a short limb-stretching and head-clearing walk turned out to be quite a bit longer than intended. Drawn by the magical orange-red glow of the carpet of bald cypress leaves which is such a feature here in Winter, we soon veered off the path we'd initially taken and and crossed an expanse of minor mud into its direction.

I've lost count of the times we have walked here over the years, often preceding or following a rummage at the nearby charity shop, which this time we gave a miss.

There's something to delight us here in every season, from the first hesitant signs of Spring to the exuberance of the Autumn hues, but there's definitely something to be said for its relative bleakness in the depths of Winter. The steel grey mirror of the pond reflecting the row of skeleton trees standing sentinel on the edge of the River Nete's towpath beyond. The squidgy, squelching muddy tracks lying in wait to suck you in. The moss and lichen covered tree trunks and the frost-bitten remains of Summer's bounty.

It was almost inevitable that we would end up at the castle ruins which funnily enough could be heard before its wonky towers appeared between the tangle of bare branches. One of the towers was wearing a crown of bickering gulls, while atop another, the resident pair of Egyptian geese were loudly honking, leaving all and sundry in no doubt that they were the lords of the castle.

The castle ruins greatly add to the appeal of the park, which once again proved to be the perfect poetic backdrop to the year's final post, same as it did in 2016 and 2017. 

An enchanted place, with the birds still the keepers of our secrets ...

Much as I'm eagerly awaiting the restoration of the castle ruins so that they can once again be visited freely, I will most certainly miss the state of wild abandon surrounding them now.

The faded coat of arms adorning the rusty wrought iron gates barring the bridge leading over the moat. The weeds and grasses and tendrils of ivy gleefully, luxuriously, taking hold of what for all intents and purposes is rightfully theirs.  

The split and hollow trees, brittle and frail, yet not giving up on life, even if they're only playing host to strapping Winter greens.

The rusty remains of a bike, stolen and discarded, hidden away among Summer's growth until its corpse is revealed in Winter.

We climbed to the tow path, leaving the already dying light behind us, the sun's ever weakening rays casting an eerie glow on the granite grey river. Far away, too far to catch with my phone's camera, a train chug-chugged over the railway bridge, its cadence mingling with the cries of the birds and the echoing snatches of people's voices drifting over from the opposite side of the river.

And here we were back in the park itself, where the Brutalist fountain, finally relieved of its crippling layer of moss and weeds, was rippling the almost-black, opaque water of the pond. Back among the fiery fairy dust of the bald cypress leaves. 

Now all that's left to do is wave my magic wand and make 2022 go away. 

Here's to an infinitely better 2023! 

Happy New Year!