The difference a new year can make

I am determined to be happy. I am determined that this year will be MY year. 2012 was a year of some great highs and some pretty incredible lows. Good riddance to all that, I say.

As such, I am happy to say that the new year is off to a very promising start.
As I type I am hours away from the Press Launch for my latest publishing effort. Remember that "Shakespeare Cookbook" I starting collaborating on in 2008? It is finally seeing the light of day! In many ways this project has been representative of my life in the UK generally.

The work, done with my wonderful collaborator, Chef Alan Deegan, has been a joy! The difficulty came in trying to get the work "out into the world". Publishers, agents, I can't count the number of letters, faxes and emails we sent out. People were all very interested, keen, supportive, but no one ever felt strongly enough to actually ask us to dance. Three years it has taken. Three years!

As I say, the fortunes of my career have been much the same. The past four years have been a perpetual carousel of "Hurry up, and wait". A virtually endless strain of half-baked hopes and unfulfilled promises. Of being led up the garden path and left at the altar! Quite honestly, if it were not for the truly wonderful DEB (who I could not live without) and the love and support of family and friends, I would have packed up and given in long ago.

Four years of rejection have taken their toll, but I feel that I have finally pushed (and am pushing still) through the anger, frustration and depression. Britain is a tough nut to crack at the best of times, so the added economic constraints have only added to the dilemma. Of course, I am not alone, which goes some way to ease the pain. As does the prospect of a new year and a new day!

And, one thing I have learned is that some things are truly worth the wait! Our publishers, Graficas Books, are an absolute godsend! A girl couldn't ask for a better publisher. The book itself is absolutely gorgeous!!!

The Food of Love - The Taste of Shakespeare in Four Seasons
www.the-food-of-love.co.uk

And I am just over the moon with it. I have no doubt that there are those "Shakespeareans" who will scoff and look down their noses at it, but I don't give a monkey's bottom! I am pleased as Punch and very proud indeed.
Right - must dash! Off for a quick swim and then to get ready for the gala Press Launch tonight!!
Apologies for my extended absence!
And, Happy New Year.

Backward Britain (I'm a little angry)

A glooming peace this morning with it brings;

The sun for sorrow will not show his head.

Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things. 

- Romeo and Juliet

What a bleak morning. Cold, dark, wet. Most appropriate for my mood. I should probably wait until I am in a calmer frame of mind before I attempt to craft some sort of response to the appalling result of the Church of England's General Synod vote on women bishops. 

But, really, what is there to say that hasn't already been said, and said betimes? I've offered my views on the matter in a number of occasions, most notably here: "Girl Power". And although my tone is largely flippant, there is a great deal of seriousness there.

The most shocking points are that the motion was defeated by a narrow margin, a mere 6 votes, and the dissenting constituency was the Laity. Not Bishops (both the current and in-coming Archbishop of Canterbury, Rowan Williams and Justin Welby voted in favour of women bishops), not Clergy, but the Laity. Those representing common, every day folk.

As sit here, a Churchwarden and key-holder of my local parish church, I cannot understand how anyone could possibly need to grapple with this issue! Our tiny village congregation is overwhelmingly female, and I am sure we are the rule and not the exception. Of our two Churchwardens, both of us are women; of our Readers, one is male, one female; of Clergy, one male, one female. An absence of women in roles of leadership and authority would bring our little parish to a halt. And, I have no doubt, in this day and age, that we are not unique. In our Benefice of 6 small parishes, half of the Churchwardens are women.

Of course, I am not equating being a Churchwarden with being a Bishop, but my points are that leadership, whether on a day-to-day parish level or diocesan level, is leadership; and that the face, heart and soul of the CofE -- on a day to day level -- is largely female.  

At a time when the Church is asking itself how it can reach out, be relevant and meet the needs of an ever-changing contemporary world, we take a step that appears positively Medieval! "Transform communities, make new disciplines," and etc. How can we do this when the message is quite clear: the contributions of women in the Church are valued - up to a point.

Today's news hurts, and it hurts us all. The Traditionalists and the Evangelicals - a rather odd marriage if ever there was one! - may have won, but at what cost?  

There is one Traditionalist group who call themselves Together 4ward. (Yeah, right.) How can we move forward together on this? As someone who has seriously contemplated -- and continues to contemplate quite seriously -- the possibility of pursuing a vocation within the Church of England, what am I meant to make of this result? Should it give me pause? 

Of course, one does not or should not pursue a vocation with an eye to achieving top tier status, one pursues a vocation to serve. It is a calling to humble action, not an aspirational career move. That being said, how can the Church counsel its women novitiates, mentor or encourage them with a stained glass ceiling above their heads?

And perhaps, this is what the Traditionalists and the Evangelicals wish for most. That women novitiates will be put off, give up, give over and move on. "Why bother", I saw one woman had written on a news comments page, "I'll just become a Methodist." Alas, no! Do not retreat! This needs to be a call to arms! "Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more!"   

This is a time to demonstrate that women within the Church of England are here to stay, a force with which to reckoned, and we'll not give up the fight! 

Finding treasure close to home

“Give me the map.” – King Lear

Along with Her Majesty The Queen, Sebastian Coe, and Britain’s Olympic and Paralympic athletes, Shakespeare is having a great year. As the headlining act of the London 2012 “Cultural Olympiad”, Shakespeare’s life and works have featured in heavy rotation across a range of media (stage, screen, television, radio &etc). One of the most outstanding offerings of this landmark ‘Bardfest’ is a stunning exhibition at the British Museum mounted in collaboration with the RSC.

“Shakespeare: Staging the World” focuses on the playwright's world, both real and imagined. It takes us on a journey from medieval England and the forest of Arden, to Venice, Rome and finally to Prospero's magical isle.

Flying in the face of conspiracy theories, such as those espoused by the recent film “Anonymous”, the British Museum’s exhibition confirms William Shakespeare as the author of the greatest works of English literature, and posits Warwickshire firmly as the undisputed site of his inspiration and imagination.

Without doubt, Shakespeare’s Warwickshire origins were extremely important to him, and his works are steeped in references to local places, wisdom, tradition and folklore. His plays reveal a country dweller’s knowledge and appreciation of the romance and reality of rural life. This was delightfully realised in the exemplary British Museum show.

At the heart of the exhibition is the magnificent Sheldon Tapestry Map of Warwickshire. This map was one of a set of four tapestry maps made in the 1580s. They were commissioned by Ralph Sheldon (1537-1613) to hang in his new home at Weston in Warwickshire. The maps were made at the Sheldon tapestry works at Barcheston, Warwickshire. The tapestry works were set up by Ralph's father, William, with the aim of creating a tapestry-making industry in Britain by training locals to become weavers.

This extraordinary work of art – hand-woven in Warwickshire – is a pictorial record of the county in Elizabethan times, showing the River Avon, the Forest of Arden, the hills of Brailles and Burton Dassett, as well as fields, towns, villages and great houses of the gentry. It allowed me to see my world as Shakespeare saw it.

With delight, I surveyed the territory I call home, familiar to me even with archaic, 16^th century spellings: Warwicke, Lemmington, Kenelmworth, Coventrie, Stretford, Wasbvrton, Welsborn, Charlcot and Sherborn. Although rendered as Bearfoote, my beloved Barford was indeniably present - immediately distinguishable by its lovely bridge crossing the Avon.

I was surprised to find that this precious artifact, previously unknown to me, is held in the collection of the Warwickshire Museum Service. It can usually be seen in all its glory at the Market Hall Museum in Warwick. As is often the case, it is only in traveling great distances that we are lead to discover and appreciate the rare treasures that lie close to home.

More information

                           “Shakespeare: Staging the World” - Continues until 25 November 2012                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 www.britishmuseum.org

Typing 'The End'

Received news recently that we're soon to have a new editor at Warwickshire Life magazine. Although I adore our current editor immensely, I understand that change is inevitable.
Nothing, however, could have prepared me for the news that the new editor wants to cut my monthly column.
So, I have just now today submitted my final column to Warwickshire Life.
I've been (relatively) okay about it all. But now, after pressing SEND, I am heartbroken.

Woe is me. - Hamlet

Warning: This recipe may blow up in your face, or, How Not to Make Lancashire Hotpot

Quick & Easy Lancashire Hotpot

1. Slice the potatoes to about the thickness of a magazine (half a cm). Cook in boiling water for 8-10 mins until tender. Meanwhile, heat an ovenproof frying pan or shallow casserole on a high heat. Dry-fry the lamb for 5 mins until browned, letting the meat release itself from the base before you turn it. Heat the grill to medium.
2. Tip the onion and most of the rosemary into the pan and fry for 3 mins until the onion is slightly softened and takes on some of the colour from the lamb. Stir in the gravy, then season with black pepper.
3. Drain the potato slices and lay over the meat, each one overlapping slightly, then grill for about 5 mins, until the potatoes are golden.

This recipe promised me ease and convenience. Just what I needed on a day when I was feeling less than brilliant. The two-day-a-week commute to London, teaching keen American undergraduates, had finally taken its toll. Venturing out in the world, unprotected without my annual flu jab, I had succumb to the first cold of the season.

Things always (and always) seem worse when you have a cold. Damp weather seems wetter, the wind, windier, and melancholy moods, moodier. Feeling sorry for myself -- and wanting to prove to myself that at least my domestic prowess had not waned -- I drag myself from off the settee, and shuffled to the kitchen with the goal of preparing a Lancashire Hotpot for my Darling English Boy. 

Truth be told, I was feeling guilty. The poor DEB has done double duty in the kitchen these days, what with my traveling back and forth to London, and now being poorly/ill. I needed to reclaim my territory. So, armed with my favourite pyrex casserole dish, I set about this simple three-step recipe. How hard could it be? A cheat, really. A doddle, really, even with feeling under the weather. 

Famous last words... 

I got half way through Step #2, added the onion, began to stir, and BAM! And explosion of seared lamb, roasted onion and blackened glass. I stood there for a moment in shock. What had just happened? I stepped back and realised, to my surprise, that I was okay. There was glass everywhere. 

Clearing up the mess, I thought: How could something so simple have gone so wrong. As I stared at the shattered bits and pieces, I realised that the same may be said of my new life in Britain. How could something so seemingly simple have gone so wrong? Or, at least, not quite as well as it should have?

The past four years have been full of great joy and a great deal of struggle. And I know I am not alone in feeling that I am not exactly living to my fullest potential. I know that these are hard times, all round. Millions are struggling to secure and stay in full time work in Britain, not just me. Redundancies are common place. Why should it not happen to me? Receiving my 'walking papers' this week from the popular, regional magazine that has hosted my monthly column for over 2 years was a real blow. The new editor was kind and gracious, she acknowledged the popularity my column has enjoyed, and her reasons were the buzzwords of the day: cuts, budgets and costs. I, of course, understood. But not without feelings of hurt and resentment.

The hardest part about this is that my column, although it never paid me much, gave me joy and real sense of purpose, drive, hope, direction and definition. It was a monthly challenge, that gave me a real sense of achievement. An identity (beyond that of Wife) that I could cling to and amble about in socially. In essence, it gave me everything that had seemed all but lost for me. In the midst of a sea of (endless) rejection letters from colleges and universities up and down this country, my column was my anchor. It held me fast whenever I felt I just might drift away in a wave of depression or anxiety. And now that anchor is gone. I'll have to start again.

What are you meant to do when you have tried every trick you can think of, every thing that you know how to do to succeed? How do you 'give up' when giving up isn't really an option? Am I discovering that there is only a superficial openness here, and the Britain is in fact a deeply closed society? 

This was the first moment in four years when I seriously doubted my decision to move here. And, the first time I ever seriously considered wanting to leave. (Taking the DEB with me, of course!) But where we would be go? What would we do? Who would we be?

And how much would we be leaving behind? I know I wax lyrical about our beloved Barford, but it truly is a special place. We have family near by, and good friends now, who feel as close as family. 

Just as I begun to doubt this place and this choice, this place once again revealed itself to be 'right'. Over the past four sick days I have been shown such loving tenderness. Friends and neighbours stopping by to drop off 'sick day supplies' (boxes of tissues, magazines and chocolate); or home remedies ("My mother picked these elderflowers this summer, make two cups of tea and drink it daily. I swear by it with my boys."). My sweet friend, Kate, who insisted on foregoing her well-deserved day off lay-in to drive me to the doctor's, sat with me in the surgery (doctor's office) and treating me to a hot chocolate after; cheering phone calls from my brother-in-law; and a warming plate of dinner delivered straight from the Harvest Supper in the Village Hall.

These are the things that matter, these are the things that round out our lives. The rest are merely incidentals. That is what I have to remember, whenever I feel the urge to weep, to wail, to give up, or just plain run away.

Few things in life that are truly worthwhile are hardly ever "quick" and are certainly rarely "easy". Next time I attempt Lancashire Hotpot, I shall opt for a different recipe. One that may require a bit more effort and more time, but one that will hopefully give better results. I've learned one thing though: when, even after all your very best efforts, things blow up in your face, all you can do is clear it up and start again.

In Jane Austen's Footsteps

“In Warwickshire, I have true-hearted friends.” – Henry VI, Part III

“You should write a novel,” a friend suggested casually over a cup of tea. “Your life,” she added,  “has been so ‘Austen-esque’.” The comparison of my ‘romantic narrative’ with the stories of Jane Austen does seem apt in some small ways. After re-establishing our acquaintance in 2007, my Darling English Boy and I pursued a long-distance relationship built firmly on correspondence. Beyond emails and text messages, in true Austenian fashion, we actually wrote letters – and sent them in the post!

On one occasion, the Darling English Boy signed his missive: “Your Mr Darcy or Colonel Brandon - which ever you prefer.” What a deliciously romantic choice! And, what a boon: a man who knows his Austen from his elbow. (I was completely hooked.)

One thing about Jane Austen neither of us knew was her affection for Warwickshire. The City of Bath may well lay claim to being Austen’s place of residence. However, in her novels she decries the “insincerity, smoke, confusion, and horrid gatherings” that were unavoidable features of city living. Without doubt, Jane Austen was a country girl at heart, and Stoneleigh Abbey, here in the heart of Warwickshire left a lasting impression on her.

In 1806, Jane Austen arrived at Stoneleigh Abbey with her mother and beloved sister, Cassandra. This trio was enrapt by the beauty of their cousin’s newly inherited stately home and its bucolic setting. Nestled on the banks of the River Avon, Stoneleigh Abbey sits on 690 acres of parkland and is surrounded by a lush, verdant landscape. Austen found here the “life and liberty” she so missed in hustle, bustle and din of Bath.

Taking in the view from the house, one can see the woodland grove that gave Austen such pleasure on those late summer days. She called Stoneleigh’s woodland grove a “pretty wilderness.” This phrase resurfaces famously during the iconic encounter between Elizabeth Bennett and Lady Catherine de Bourgh in her masterpiece Pride & Prejudice.

Stoneleigh Abbey and family figures associated with it provided Austen with ample fodder for her renowned novels. It is referenced at length in the description of Sotherton Court in Mansfield Park, and as one takes a turn about the estate, thoughts of Pemberley immediately spring to mind.

By far my favourite feature – after the breathtaking Georgian plasterwork in the Grand Hall – was taking a stroll along Jane’s favourite path. On a (surprisingly) sunny summer day, I found myself following in Jane Austen’s footsteps. What better inspiration could there be for a would-be novelist or avid Austen fan?

Every September, hundreds of “Janeites” (as Jane Austen fans are known) flock to Bath for that city’s annual “Jane Austen Festival”. I have yet to persuade the Darling English Boy that we should don Regency costumes and join them. Lucky for him, I have found a touch of Jane Austen much closer to home.

More details

Stoneleigh Abbey – “Warwickshire’s hidden jewel”                                                                                       Jane Austen tours Sundays (1pm) and Wednesdays (12pm). Special Jane Austen evening tours with wine and canapés, throughout the year. See website for details: www.stoneleighabbey.org

Glorious Twelfth (August Column)

Is that lead slow which is fir’d from a gun? – Love’s Labour’s Lost

Hunter green wellies, touches of cashmere, Lamb’s wool and tweed - the hallmarks of country apparel. To me, country apparel has always been the apex of British fashion - and a style of which I have long been enamoured. 

I regularly sported wellies and short, tweed skirts through the sunny streets of Manhattan - only to have a chorus of taxi drivers bellowing at me at every turn: “You expectin’ rain, sweetheart?”

Thankfully, my lifestyle has finally caught up with my wardrobe. But what about the pursuits for which country clothing was actually intended? One of the joys of my newfound rural life is having opportunities to experience country sports.

Shooting has always held a certain fascination, with “the Glorious Twelfth” being the centre of shooting lore. The start of the grouse season is indeed the stuff of legend - and luxury. Grouse shooting enthusiasts pay high prices in pursuit of their passion. A 200-brace day on one of the more prestigious moors, for eight or nine guns, would cost more than £38,000; and that’s before adding in agents’ commissions, ammunition, keepers, loaders or beaters tips, insurance, food, travel and accommodation. That’s a costly bit of tweed!

Before biting such a choice bullet, I set my sights on a shooting experience closer to home. My brother-in-law is a retired Warwickshire Police Inspector and former team manager of the GB Police Clay Shooting Team. His shooting career was inspired at the age of 10, after hearing news of Bob Braithwaite’s remarkable clay shooting victory at the 1968 Mexico City Olympics and this marked the birth of a lifelong passion, which has seen him win numerous national Police and inter-service titles including the Services Clay Classic in 2007.

For the past two years he has coached the Warwickshire College shooting team, and he has led them to achieve back to back victories in the 2011/2012 Schools Challenge events at Bredon School in Gloucestershire, winning two £1500 shotguns. This year, Warwickshire College were also awarded “School of the Year” by The Clay Pigeon Shooting Association.  On the back of this success and in line with their ‘Enterprise College’ status, (Shooting being worth an estimated £2 billion to the UK economy) Warwickshire College are now exploring opportunities to offer their shooting coaching facilities to a wider public.

One mild, summer’s day, I donned my wellies and met him at Edge Hill Shooting Ground, where he introduced me to the joys of clay shooting. The experience was nothing short of exhilarating and empowering: the feel of firepower, the joy of precision and success and hitting the targets.

I had expected that I would be utterly useless at shooting a swiftly moving object out of the sky, but I surprised myself! I have no doubt this was much more than a mere case of beginner’s luck. More than being just a sure and able shot, my brother-in-law is also an excellent teacher. And - he looks great in tweed!