Pula, Croatia: 2017

Pula is in Croatia; I have never been to Croatia; I know little about Croatia except that the Croatian football team have that very distinctive red and white check strip that you can spot from a mile off.  I look forward to the 2018 World Cup, just to see their football kit.

Liz K bought me this tea towel from her holiday in Croatia in 2017.  What a lovely thought, that someone should think, on their holidays, “must buy Barbara a tea towel”.  It is beautiful, in that very bright and garish way.  The stunning red border, the sea-blue background and the yellow drawings.  It would be good to speak Croatian to understand what those buildings represent.

I know that the Arena is the sixth largest surviving Roman amphitheatre in the world.  Venetians had wanted to dismantle it and move it to Venice; fortunately that plan wasn’t carried out.   The Zlatna Vrata is a 1st century BC triumphal arch and the Rimski Hram is a little Roman theatre behind the Archeological Museum.  That’s it for my knowledge of Pula.

Did you know that James Joyce and his wife taught languages in Pula or that Captain Von Trapp, of ‘Sound of Music’ fame, lived in Pula?

Pula does, in fact, have an extraordinary history.  There is evidence of Bronze Age bone objects, Greek pottery, Venetian influences, the Roman Amphitheatre built under Julius Cesar, remains from the Byzantine Empite, the Austro-Hungarian Empire and German occupation during the Second World War, and much more.

For me, this tea towel will always remind me of Liz K’s generous gift that makes me think that this is a place that I have never thought about visiting, but maybe should.

Brownsea Island: 1995

I remember Ian Harrison, colleague for 40 years, mentor and friend, talking about sailing in Poole Harbour, about his childhood growing up in Poole and Brownsea Island.  He loved the area, the area that generated his interest in sailing, led to his formative career in the Merchant Navy, which was cut short by polio.  His sailing was an important part of his recovery and Poole enabled him to become a Paralympic sailor.

When I was in Dorset in 1995, I remembered his words and felt I really had to visit Brownsea Island, the largest of eight islands in Poole Harbour.  It was one of those sunny days, where the sky is so blue you can’t believe that it is real.  Not a cloud in the sky, not a puff of wind; just the right weather for a quick trip, in a small boat, across the harbour.  Fee, not known as a good sailor, enjoyed the journey; we walked the length of the island, through the woods, sitting awhile to watch the wildlife.  We gazed out to sea, watching the terns playing in the air and ending up with a cup of tea at the pier.  It was a delightful day, especially as they had a tea towel (Fee didn’t quite understand the excitement of that for me).

Brownsea Island is beautiful.   The heart of the island is full of mature woodland.  It is home to the native red squirrel (because the grey squirrel has never been introduced there); its the only place in England where red squirrels are thriving in the wild.  There is a small muster, or ostentation, of peacocks.  The non-native sika deer thrives there.

Although owned by the National Trust since the 1960s, other interested parties have a stake in Brownsea Island.  John Lewis lease the castle, as a hotel, that it’s employees can use for holidays and is not open to the public.  Dorset Wildlife Trust manage an area in the north which is a nature reserve.  The whole island is a Site of Special Scientific Interest.

In 1907, this was a location for an ‘experimental’ camp led by Lord Baden-Powell which led to the formation of the Boy Scouts.  I’ve seen the term ‘experimental’ used on a number of occasions and I do find it rather creepy, knowing Baden-Powell’s approach to the Eugenics Movement.

I love this picture, a painting on the ‘blank canvas’ of a tea towel; it is all in the detail.  There are peacocks strutting along the Pier side, loads of terns and oystercatchers, the harbour full of boats; you can see Poole in the background.  Looking at it I can feel I am there, looking for another tea towel.  Great memories!

A – Z of Spring Woodland: 2017

“This term, do you want to go on a trip out, for inspiration?” asked Cathy, tutor of the Creative Writing Course.  There was an enthusiastic agreement.

”Any suggestions where?”.  The rules of the class are completely broken with everyone talking at once, no one being able to hear.  A lone voice proposes

”The Nottingham General Cemetery?”  Lots of murmuring.

”Which cemetery is that?” says another.  More murmuring about all the cemeteries that people know in Nottingham; there’s quite a few.

Cathy is good at drawing a discussion to closure and helping the group arrive at a consensus; she knows this could go on for days otherwise.  “The General Cemetery it is then” she says definitively.

More discussion about bus stops, toilets, cafes and what happens if it rains.  We were not talking about tomorrow, this was six weeks ago.

Last week, Kate emailed with screen shot of the weather forecast “Bring your sun hats everyone”.

Today was the day for inspiration.  Looking out of the window, I thought Kate was probably a better artist and writer than weather forecaster.  Was it going to heat up as the morning drew on?  Was it going to rain?  No idea but I guessed I wouldn’t need a sun hat.

I can see that a graveyard could be great inspiration for a poet or short story writer; there must be stories behind the simple inscriptions on the grey slabs, names to be researched, stories to be created, a wealth of ideas.  Will a graveyard do the same for a Tea Towel Blogger?  Only if I have a tea towel of a graveyard or if there is a shop selling tea towels on site.  Let’s face it, that’s unlikely.  I am thinking that if I continue with Creative Writing, and there are more ‘day trips’, I am going to have to have a small collection of tea towels, up my sleeve, that will lend themselves to being blogged about, creatively.

Actually, on this occasion, the Woodland Trust’s A – Z of Spring Woodland might just fall into that category.

Say ‘Cemetery’ to me and three images spring to mind: Immanuel Church in Oswaldtwistle, overgrown in parts, overhung with trees and overpopulated, where I discovered the tiny grave of my grandmother; the War Graves Commission’s work in France and Belgium, rows and rows of immaculately cared for graves, equally spaced probably by someone with OCD, manicured as if for Crown Green Bowling and the National Memorial Arboretum with several hundred ‘rooms’ recognising all contributions to war.  So I wasn’t sure what to expect from the Nottingham General Cemetery; but it wasn’t what I found.

Twelve of us took our own paths; I am amazed at the creative genius of writers with ideas that have so much potential but it is about what we all see, what we focus on, what strikes that chord.  For me, it was the simple white slabs, scattered about that drew my eye, that made me question.  They were all markers for dead soldiers from the Leicestershire Yeoman to the Devonshire Regiment, from the Army Pay Corp to the Royal Engineers, from the 13th Canadian Infantry to the Durham Light Infantry.  So many died after the end of the First World War, December 1918, 1919 and 1920.  There is a sadness that these men died, not on the battlefield, not near their home but in Nottingham, to be buried alone, not in a War Graves Cemetery, not together but as solitary beacons.  These gravestones stand upright while others, larger, of grey slate, more ornate are leaning, broken, overgrown by falling trees.  There is something that does not feel quite right; I’m not sure what that is.

By the gate there is a memorial to 129 soldiers that are buried in a communal grave; nearby there are a few gravestones that are almost twinned, two perfectly formed headstones but joined together, like friends but there appears to be no correlation between dates of deaths or even regiments and one, I found, with three headstones joined.  There is only the bare minimum of information: name, rank, number, regiment, aged and date of death, nothing to say how they were outside of the army.  Were they husbands, fathers, sons, brothers, uncles, nephews?  No one thought that mattered, they were just soldiers.

Beneath the most beautifully shaped tree, shading and protecting, is the gravestone of a soldier from the Royal Field Artillery who died five days before the end of the First World War.  I stood by him and wondered if his family knew where he was and were they comforted by a most perfect setting or was he lost and forgotten?

I know there were a lot of military hospitals in Nottinghamshire, in fact more than in any other part of the country, which probably accounts for the resting places of these men.  What were their lives like after the war, tortured, painful?

Then I remembered Spanish Flu, at the end of the First World War, where 59 million people, across the world died in this epidemic.  My grandfather died such a death, in a quarantine boat in Sydney Harbour.  I have no idea where he was buried, probably in the Australian equivalent of Nottingham General Cemetery, solitary, alone, but hopefully under a tree, protected by its branches.

Creative Writers saw so many different things: there were trees in leaf, an Austrian woman with binoculars looking at a Greater Spotted Woodpecker, there was pussy willow, bees and even a rabbit. So I know that this was a fitting tea towel for our inspirational excursion.

University of Nottingham Museum: 2018

“Can I have a look at those two tea towels please?”

”Which ones?”

”The brown and the green, please”

I was very excited to find two very unusual tea towels in a Museum Shop.  I looked carefully, difficult choices have to be made.

”I’ll have the green one please; they are lovely colours”

”Ah” said the assistant “There is an offer on those two; if you buy both of them there is a reduction in price”

”Never say that to a Tea Towel Collector; I’ll have them both”

”How many have you got?” the assistant asked.  I laughed.

“About 900, nearing 950 very rapidly.  I also have a Virtual Tea Towel Museum”

”Online?  I bet that takes up a lot of your time”

”It does.  Almost all of my time”

We both laughed and I left the shop happy.

The truth is that my move to Nottingham is a big deal.  I’ve moved from a town I have lived in for 35 years, away from friends I have known almost as long as I have lived there.  I haven’t moved far but it’s a different county, different health authority, different local authority meaning a new bus pass.  While I have had long associations with the theatre in Nottingham, and I did live in Nottingham for a couple of years in 1973/74, this is new territory.  One of the reasons that I chose the area was because of the good public transport system so I had to start using it.

Today’s adventure was to the Nottingham Lakeside Arts.  Catch the L10 at the bottom of the road and then take a tram.  So exciting.  It was a visit to the University of Nottingham Museum; we visited the Museum of Archeology and a special exhibition called “From Rags to Witches: The grim tale of children’s stories”.  If I am honest, we also went to an exhibition called “Scaling the Sublime” but it was a bit weird and set my epilepsy off with the strange effects.

The Museum of Archeology was wonderful, partly because it was so beautifully laid out, in a very modern way, light and airy and partly because of the amazing artefacts, many of which are on these tea towels.  I loved the combs, maybe crumbling but you can imagine them being used by women thousands of years ago.  The jewellery and pottery captured the imagination.

The exhibition of children’s stories was enough to give one nightmares.  The real meaning behind Red Riding Hood, Cinderella and Tom Thumb don’t bear thinking about, just sordid and lurid but actually very interesting.  I’ll never read a fairy tale to a child again.

It was a great day out, finished with a mango sorbet.  Lovely and the first of many.

Many apologies for the setting of the photographs.  If you live in a building site you have to make the most of what you’ve got.  I can’t wait to get a ‘frame’ in the garden within which my tea towels can be hung.  In the meantime a brick wall and two water bottles will have to do.

Harrogate: 1998

Harrogate is one of those places that has a lot of associations, and memories, for me.  Not big events but lots of small happenings.  I suppose this tea towel is somewhat reminiscent of Harrogate, traditional, touristy, of its time.  I like that sort of tea towel because it does enable you to reflect on so many aspects of Harrogate.

My favourite part of Harrogate is Bettys Tea Room.  On the corner of a main road, with black wrought iron, decorated with gold, it is an iconic building.  It is very big for a tea room yet when you are inside it seems cosy and intimate.  If you’ve not been in you have missed a treat.  There is usually a long queue stretching out of the front door but don’t be put off, it is worth waiting for and there are always staff handing out menus so you can ponder on what you want.  I’ve usually changed my mind a number of times before I have come to sit down.  If it is before 3pm then I will have scrambled eggs and bacon on toasted muffins, no butter.  Just describing it makes my mouth water.  In my opinion, there are very few places that get the scrambled eggs just right: so often they are too dry, too crumbly, too bland, too wet.  Yet at Bettys they are exactly right, every time.  This has to be accompanied by Kwazulu tea, a light, bright African tea but more recently it has been Rwandan tea, equally pleasant.

The last time I was at Bettys was 2017, celebrating Liz K’s ‘special’ birthday because, surprisingly, she had never been there.  On that occasion we had a double helping of Bettys: brunch at the main, and original, Bettys, and afternoon tea at a second Bettys which is based at RHS Harlow Carr.  We had a wander around the gardens, to ‘walk off’ the brunch, to ‘make space’ for afternoon tea.  It was a delightful day, not hot but warm and sunny.

Back in 1998, Liz and I came to Harrogate in December, in appallingly foggy weather, to do our Christmas shopping.  We stayed two nights in the Swallow Hotel, managed to do all our shopping, all our wrapping and the writing of Christmas cards.   On the Saturday night, we saw that the Brighouse and Rastrick Brass Band were playing at the theatre.  I love a Brass Band, that ‘wall of sound’ that makes the hairs at the back of your neck tingle.  They were brilliant, loud and lively, filling the auditorium with sound and atmosphere.  We never regretted going and if there is ever a Brass Band playing locally that is where you will find us.

Harrogate is the sort of place that is convenient to stay for a number of events; it’s a nice town, with lots of places to eat and a variety of shops.  Back in the 90s, when I was in to flower arranging, I went to the annual autumn Harrogate Flower Show, an amazing event.  I’d never been to anything like it before, or since come to that.  John and I stayed in Harrogate when we went to the Great Yorkshire Show back in 1987 and ‘made a long weekend of it’.

One of the most surprising things for me, as someone who doesn’t cook at all, was being persuaded by Liz that I would like to do a Bettys ‘Bread Making’ course.  It was one day long where we made four different sorts of bread.  She was right; I loved it but then it was so closely supervised that it was almost impossible to go wrong.  I am very proud of the bread that I made which I captured on film.  It was good but it was the one and only time that I have ever made bread; I have no intention of trying again.  It’s too stressful if you are on your own: is it kneaded correctly? How long does it prove for? How long does it get baked for? When you tap the bottom does it sound hollow?  Is it supposed to sound hollow?  Too much to think about!

I have some great memories of going for a day to Harrogate, with Lynn and Helen, for breakfast at Bettys at Harlow Carr, a long walk around the RHS Gardens and then tea before a long browse round the shop and a drive home.  We always bought a lot of Bettys bread for the freezer.  We could never miss a ‘Rascal’ to take home.  Maybe I was younger then and could get up early and spend long days out; its a bit tiring these days.

Harrogate was one of the places that I always visited, as part of the Mental Health Act Commission.  There was a private psychiatric hospital, run by the Quakers, which I actually enjoyed visiting.  It was probably the best hospital that I had visited where the patients were the happiest.  I think that is a nice memory.

This trip down memory-lane has been really nice, a quaint old-fashioned town that has always drawn me there, not for long holidays but just for a few days.  I love it and I think the tea towel reflects the place.

 

Wolf Pack of 2018: 2018

On 25 March 2018, I wrote a Tea Towel Blog entitled “Too Many Tea Towels?”.  This told the story of my involvement in a Puppetry Workshop for the Nottingham Puppetry Festival.  Puppetry is way out of my comfort zone but I was intrigued by the idea of being able to make a puppet, largely from those old tea towels that sit at the bottom of the duster cupboard, waiting to be used.  The theme for our workshop was ‘Dogs’.  Liz and I chose to do an Afghan Hound and its puppy.  We managed to use over 30 old tea towels (and I made a record of which ones were used!).

The workshop was great and there was a sense of camaraderie amongst novice puppet makers with a growing sense of panic as the festival approached: would our puppets be finished?  Of course they were.  But this was not just about making a puppet, you had to know how to work it, how to make it come alive.  We had several practice sessions, none of us feeling confident but it was ‘alright on the night’.

I felt that this event might make a good tea towel so on our last day together, before the event, I took photos of each of the dogs with a view to making a tea towel.  And, yes, today’s tea towel is a composite of all the ‘performers’; puppets are performers, it’s nothing to do with the puppeteer.  I think the way our imaginations worked was interesting, all very different, some comical, some serious but all with character.

The tea towel is called the Wolf Pack of 2018 because throughout the 10 weeks we worked together that’s what I thought the title was, not realising it was the Woof Pack.  By this time, I couldn’t change its name.

As a tea towel I love it; I think Bags of Love did a wonderful job.  I gave one to David Longford, who masterminded the whole thing.  He said he couldn’t use it as a tea towel but has it pinned to his notice board in the Theatre Royal.  I gave another to Stephen Jon who ran the workshop, who understands tea towels and is using it as such.  Me? Of course I am using it for its true purpose and every time I use it I am taken back to making the Afghan and her ability to perform in the streets of Nottingham.  What better memory?

Orkney: 2014 (going back to 1973)

Last Wednesday, Liz K came to have a look at ‘the building site’ that we call home and share our vision for a lovely bungalow, maybe in a few weeks time.  We walked round the nature reserve at the back of the house and enjoyed the sunshine.  It was good to have a visitor and to retire to the most wonderful fish and chip shop for tea.  The conversation turned to her forthcoming holiday, which she is very excited about, to Shetland and Orkney.  I could feel myself going green with envy.

”Where are you going from?” I asked

”Aberdeen” she said.  She’s actually going to be in Aberdeen, briefly, at the same time as I will be visiting Jean.

It was a bit like an ‘ear worm’, Hard as I try, I couldn’t remember where I left the mainland from, when I went to Shetland and Orkney in 1973.  Was it Aberdeen? Was it John O’Groats?   Did I go to Shetland first, or was it Orkney?  Round and round in my head this conundrum went.  The only thing I could think was that the scenery and landscape of Orkney and Shetland were so different.  ‘Orkney and Shetland’ are almost always referred to in the same breath but they are so different visually and economically.  I have woken in the night trying to remember how my original holiday went.  Then, suddenly, it came to me; Rory and I drove (technically I drove) to John O’Groats, made a short crossing to Stromness and camped in that area for about a week.  We then caught the boat to Shetland, stayed there for about three weeks, returning to Orkney for another two weeks and back the same way.  We deliberately chose not to go from Aberdeen because I thought it might be a bit choppy!  I felt happy once I had actually remembered the itinerary of the holiday.

For me, Orkney was an amazing place; the weather was beautiful, not hot but warm and still and sunny, the sort of weather for a jumper but no need for waterproofs, the sort of weather where camping was a pleasure.  I loved the Neolithic remains; we must have crawled through as many burial chambers, brochs and stone circles as time would allow.  I loved immersing myself in the history: Scarpa Flow, the Churchill Barriers, the Italian Chapel.  We travelled to Hoy and Papa Westray.  In 1973, there weren’t that many visitors; it was like having the place to ourselves.  The 1973 holiday to Orkney and Shetland was the last holiday I had as a student, before entering the world of work, the last holiday I had where there was no real time limit.  When my mother asked when I would be back home

“I’ll probably be away for four weeks, maybe six, depends on the weather, and the money.  I’ll definitely be back before 3rd October.  I’ll send a postcard to let you know”

She was horrified but with no mobile phones or internet there was no easy way to keep in contact.

Orkney and Shetland were places that I always wanted to return to; they offered a magic that is difficult to find elsewhere.  It was 41 years before I managed to return to Orkney.  By that time, Orkney had changed somewhat; the independent craft industries had been set up, the Co-op had a few more shops, the roads had been tarmaced but were still single track with passing places, there was a cafe with internet and there were some tea towels (which there weren’t back in 1973).

I have already written about my tea towels from Skara Brae and Shapinsay but the two above are classic tourist tea towels: one of a map of the Orkney Isles and the other of puffins on a cliff.  I suspect the one of the map may have been around in 1973, it has that lovely ‘dated’ look.  The only other island we were able to go to in 2014 was Shapinsay because we didn’t have a car and it was a matter of co-ordinating the return ferries with the bus timetable but we were able to explore the Mainland by bus which was quite exciting.

The tea towel at the bottom of the page is of Skaill House.  Skaill House is a few hundred yards from Skara Brae and is described by Historic Scotland as “the most complete 17th Century Manor House in Orkney”.  It is remote and low-key, standing on a small hill overlooking Skaill Bay and Skara Brae.  It must have been a great place to live.  I was excited to find a tea towel with the inevitable picture of a puffin, the Old Man of Hoy, St Magnus Cathedral and Standing Stones of Stenness (or is it the Ring of Brodgar?) and Skaill House at the top.

There are so many memories that I have of my 2014 holiday in Orkney: the Commonwealth Games Torch Relay passing through Doune, buying a Harris Tweed tea cosy, the best fish and chips in a pub near the sea, buying minute steak sourced from local cows and cooking it in the cottage where it just melted in the mouth, watching the sky try and go dark at night but never quite making it, taking pictures of the perfect crescent ofthe moon in a perfectly clear sky, walking to the Hoxa Tapestry Gallery in St Margaret’s Hope in the pouring rain and being given a lift by a stranger who also came to pick us up after our visit, the fabulous Wireless Museum where I could have stayed for days, Skara Brae and it’s Visitor Centre, as you walked along the road all the cows in the fields followed you along in a friendly sort of manner, the bright sunshine all day every day and the friendliness of everyone.

But I didn’t make it to Shetland so I still don’t have a tea towel from there but it is on my ‘to do list’; it’s always good to have something to look forward to!

The Nottingham Alphabet: 2018

I decided that if I was going to settle in Nottingham, then I had to learn the language.  What better way to learn the language than to buy a tea towel with it all on?  In my experience, most alphabet, or even dialect, tea towels are just black and white.  This one is posh, in full colour!

I thought that considering what a mess I am living in, while the work is being done on the house, that the most appropriate setting for a picture of a tea towel is amongst the pike of bricks on my drive.  As I positioned the brick at the top, in preparation for holding the tea towel down, Tom the Builder came and moved it.

”Hey, you’ve moved my brick” I shouted, aghast.  He looked at me quizzically.

”Sorry, I didn’t realise” he said, watching in fascination while I took a photograph of a tea towel amongst his bricks.

”Finished now” I said.  You could see him pondering about what on earth I was doing.

”Do you want to see where the cat flap is going?”  he said, as if the interlude with the tea towel and bricks had never happened.

To move to the actual tea towel, ”Ay up” is a friendly greeting used all around the East Midlands but I have never quite known how to spell it; now I know.

”Cob” is an interesting word; in London it was known as a “Bread roll”, sometimes shortened to just “roll”; in fact there are, purportedly 18 different terms for a cob in Britain.  Out of Nottingham, it could be a “Bap”, a “Bun”, a “ Barm”, a “Muffin”, a “Teacake”, a “Dinner roll”, a “Finger roll”, a “Buttery” or a “Batch’ to name but a few.

Rather than going through each word, my advice to anyone not from Nottingham is to read the word out loud, exactly as you see it and then most of it will make sense.  It works for’W’, ‘S’, ‘E’, ‘P’ and ‘O’.  You need to know that QMC stands for Queens Medical Centre and Vic Centre refers to the Victoria Centre, a large shopping mall.  I think I am going to have to apologise to both Andrew and Mari who might be struggling for a while with this.

My favourite will always be ‘mardy’ because it is a word I have used most of my life; I dont know where I learnt it from but it means grumpy, moody or bad-tempered.

Having worked through the tea towel, struggled a bit with ‘Yoof’ because I was taken off track by the conversation, I am still flummoxed by ‘T’ and ‘J’ but then I’ll be in Nottingham for a good while so I will have time to decipher it.  What a great tea towel and another one to add to my new kitchen drawer.

Alternatively look at http://www.dukkigifts.co.uk and it might help you!!

Vermont: 2007

Because planning on moving house has taken up so much time and thought and worry, and because the actual move has meant that I have been without internet access for more than two weeks, Tea Towel Blogs have been somewhat overlooked.  It is not easy to get inspiration for a Tea Towel Blog while sitting in Waitrose or Sainsbury’s cafe.  This has meant I missed writing a Blog to celebrate the third anniversary of my first blog; I missed setting targets for the next year; I missed reviewing the achievements of the last year.  Maybe that is a good thing; don’t want to make a habit of these things.

Lack of internet has also meant I have not been able to keep up to date with ‘friends’ I have met as a result of the Blog and the Virtual Tea Towel Museum, so this one, Vermont, is dedicated to Mari with many apologies for not being in regular touch.

Mari is in Vermont at this point in time, staying with her sister, supporting each other after a very stressful, and sad, period in their lives.  Mari’s sister lives in Vermont which seems like a great place to rest and recuperate.

I was in Vermont in 2007, on a holiday celebrating the changing colours of the trees in Fall.  It was a wonderful holiday, visiting clapperboard towns, beautiful countryside, meeting very friendly people, seeing more pumpkins ‘than I have had hot dinners’ and collecting a large number of interesting and unusual tea towels.  New York may not have had any touristy tea towels but Vermont certainly did.

I like this tea towel because it is designed for tourists, with scenes of ‘typical’ Vermont; the background is unbleached linen with images of the things that represent Vermont – the state bird, the state flower, the maple leaf changing colour (State tree), Quechee Gorge and Vermont in the winter, the Bennington Battle Monument and the Old Constitution House.  But for me, the iconic covered wooden bridges bring back all those memories of a wonderful holiday; I have tried to identify which bridge the one on this tea towel might be but with no success.  It doesn’t matter; its symbolic.

I hope you have a happy and peaceful time in Vermont, Mari.  Best Wishes.

Farne Islands: 1972 onwards

When I was preparing to move house recently, I came across an old scrapbook of mine.  In it were the tickets, for a boat from Seahouses to the Farne Islands, dating from 1972.  I am not sure on which, of the many, occasions I visited the Farne Islands that I bought this wonderful tea towel.  It is a National Trust tea towel, designed by Pat Albeck, with such clear detail, some beautiful colours, that it makes every trip I’ve made there come alive.  There are the cormorants and shags, terns galore, guillemots and gulls, the blue seas and craggy rocks.  I’m there.

My first visit was with my parents in 1972.  They were on holiday in Kelso; I visited them for a couple of days, staying in the same hotel as them.  Kelso is a beautiful area and the weather was glorious.  While Kelso is in Scotland and the Farne Islands in Northumberland, the actual driving distance is relatively short.  We decided to go to the Farne Islands for the day; my parents knew I loved visiting islands so this was going to be an adventure.  It certainly was that for my father.

You are warned, when you visit the Farne Islands at certain times of the year, to be aware of the Terns.  Terns nest on land and are very protective of their nests if they think there is danger.  The protection mechanism is ‘dive bombing’ potential intruders.  The guides suggest that you always wear a hat, especially if you are bald.  Now my father wasn’t bald, or even thinning of hair, so he thought he was ok and refused to wear a hat. Six or seven terns decided to ‘dive bomb’ my Dad.  Once they have found a target, it is very difficult to distract them.  My mother and I were crying with laughter by the end of the trip while my father nursed his peck wounds.  He didn’t think it was funny at the time but I know he ‘dined out’ on the tale many times.

I loved the Farne Islands; it is geology and history all rolled into one with the National Trust thrown in.  I loved climbing up the path from the pier, across the grassy hill with the warning signs about keeping to the path; the views are stunning with the sky full of birds and gannets diving in the distance.  The noise is incredible.  So when Rory and I decided to go to Shetland the following year, sailing from John O’Groats, we stopped off at Bamburgh to camp and took another trip to the Farne Islands.  Rory had heard the story of being ‘dive bombed’ from my father, on many occasions, so in all the photographs of him on this holiday, Rory is wearing a hat; he didn’t get attacked, although it was later in the year so it might not have happened anyway.

1982 was my third trip, with John.  The third time that the weather was beautifully sunny and warm and the seas calm.  I believe it was on this trip that I bought the tea towel.  John never went anywhere without a hat so he was always going to be well protected.  I am mesmerised by the gannets; their flight is so graceful, their plumage so sleek, their dives so fast but usually successful.

It wasn’t for another 27 years that I visited the Farne Islands.  No matter how many visitors have been before or how many there are on the day, the Farne Islands look no different.  It may have been reseeded, the paths might have moved a little, there may be a few more information boards but essentially they are unchanged.  As Liz and I stood at the top of the path we vowed that we would visit the Isle of May, a similar setting off the coast of Fife.  It may have taken us eight years to achieve that but it was worth the wait.

The Farne Islands are certainly somewhere I would want to visit again, a place of beauty and bird life and one look at this tea towel brings it all back, especially my Dad’s sore head.