A day trip to Bowes Museum

I decided to go on a good old-fashioned day trip today. I went to Bowes Museum in Barnard Castle. It's a place I've passed many times, but never actually visited. I suppose I was craving a bit of genteel elegance.

Barnard Castle is a sweet little market town surrounded by the most beautiful verdant, voluptuous countryside. The English countryside in early summer is heaven on earth. I really enjoyed my drive there, I could smell wild garlic in the hedgerows and the frothy hawthorn blossom was gently falling all around. Truthfully, I would love to live somewhere like Barnard Castle. The high street was full of traditional butchers and greengrocers with ramshackle piles of colourful fruit and vegetables. Oh, it all seemed a million miles away from the School of Hard Knocks.

Well. Bowes Museum was lovely. I drifted around in a floaty maxi dress admiring the portraits of jowly majors mounting mighty steeds. And, I loved this trio of mysterious and melancholy ladies.

I was very taken with this little whippet sculpture.

And another whippet in this picture. Maybe I should have my portrait painted with the lurchers.

My favourite part of the museum was the costume room. This had everything from Tudor dresses to 1960s mini skirts. I loved this 1950s dress (do you notice the corset and bra too)?

But this elegant 1930s dress was the most perfect thing in the whole museum, for me.

There were also some lovely furnished rooms.

But, the thing that Bowes is most famous for is its glorious silver swan. It is an automaton, and it comes to life at 2pm every day. I didn't actually see this. By that time I was settled in a quaint little fish and chip shop, devouring the most divine haddock, mushy peas and bread 'n' butter.

Speaking of the contrast between the gentle romance of Teesdale and the crime and grime of the School of Hard Knocks, I am yet again facing a dilemma. Two interesting teaching jobs have materialised. The first is in the little mining village I grew up in. The second is in a picturesque village just outside of Sunderland - the village that is home to my misanthropic and eccentric ex Senor Boldon (Rochester's brother). My dilemma is this: do I continue to dedicate my career to the SOHK, and accept its Bleasdale-esque bleakness and Pompous's infuriating buffoonery. (If you forgive the 'fingers down throat' platitude, it is where I can truly make a difference. ). Or, do I go where pastures are greener, cheeks are rosier and life is generally sweeter?

Of course, if I opted for Senor Boldon's stomping ground then I could always encounter the bounder at parents' evenings. The horror! Hmmm. Maybe I should discount that option. Although, what a fascinating blog that would be.

Something tells me I am fated to be carried out of the SOHK in a wooden box. Given the nature of our current Year 5 and 6 nutjobs, that could well be sooner than any of us anticipate.

Fanny Rat Christmas

OK. So. A sequel. Sequels, so often a disappointment. I am hoping this one will be as thrilling as The Godfather Part 2, as heartrending as Nancy Mitford's Love in a Cold Climate, and as whimsical as The Muppets Take Manhattan. All perfect sequels. You will find the first installment of this festive love-story here. It ended with a windswept, seaside kiss on Christmas morning.

Christmas 2008. I'd been feeling rather under-the-weather. Dizzy, nauseous and very weak. When I left Rochester that morning he was headed off for a traditional Christmas dinner with his odd-bod family. I was headed back to bed. My Christmas dinner was to be a toasted bagel and a mug of Yorkshire tea.

During our seaside stroll Rochester kept muttering about how pitiful it seemed that I was spending Christmas alone. Now, I've always viewed Christmas as something of a chore. Something that requires grit and fortitude, like living through the blitz, rush-hour traffic, a tooth extraction or a James Blunt concert.

But, despite my loathing of Christmas I had, for the first time in years, bought a Christmas tree, strung mistletoe and holly across the mantlepiece, festooned everything (even the dogs and cats) in tinsel and fairy lights. I was actually feeling all those things I imagine 'normal' and 'happy' people feel at Christmas, childlike anticipation, fluttery excitement, warmth and affection. And this was all because I was seeing the swarthy rogue again.

On our first date, 6 weeks earlier, I had been disappointed that Rochester had not kissed me. I'd told him the story of my date with the forensic psychologist, and how the misguided misanthrope had chased me round my car at the end of the date, in an attempt to grapple with me. On our first date Rochester simply walked me to my car and wrapped his arms around me. Later, he had confessed in an email:

'I did come very close to chasing you round your car though.'

'I think I'd have let you catch me.' I replied.

So, it was such a relief our Christmas morning date had ended with a long, languorous and tender kiss. I drove home feeling giddily happy and full of hope. I spent the day in bed, dozing, allowing myself to wonder what would happen next. Later Rochester called. He sounded rather drunk, we arranged to meet at my local for a drink.

'I'll be there in 45 minutes petal. I'll text you when I'm there, just come up and meet me.' he said.

I got changed, switched on some inane Christmas telly, poured myself a large gin and tonic and waited. . . and waited. An hour passed. I texted him.

'I'm on my way petal.'

Two hours passed. My shaking had started, and I began to think I should just give up and go to bed. Then a text:

'Get your arse up here now.'

Now, part of me, my deeply repressed Tallulah Bankhead side, desperately wanted to tell the recalcitrant cove to go fuck himself. How dare he keep me waiting??? But, to be honest, I have much more in common with doe-eyed and docile Olivia de Havilland than feisty Tallulah. So, I rather drunkenly (you can drink a lot of gin in 2 hours) made my way out into the starry and frosty Christmas night and tottered to the pub.

My local pub is a bit of a flea-pit. It is slightly tawdry and old-fashioned and attracts a rather eclectic crowd: hoody wearing twockers, bearded, domino playing octogenarians, tweedy-fuckwit academics. The pub's Christmas decorations could be best summed up as Poundland meets 1980's Czechoslovakian embassy. The swarthy rogue was no where to be seen.

Finally, I tracked the ne're-do'well down in the back room. He was playing pool with some local rogues and villains. He staggered towards me, arms outstretched'

'what do you think of me jumper petal? We all got one. Different colours like. Present from me mum. I'll just finish this game. I'm winning.'

He was wearing a rather tasteful, dark red merino jumper. I gave silent thanks to God that his mum was not the sort to buy novelty Giles Brandreth sweaters, festooned with snowmen or reindeer. I sat on a stool and took a surreptitious photo on my phone, to send to Madam Noir.

'Two fucking hours late, and now he's playing pool with the cast of Jeremy Kyle.'

I still have that photo, on my phone: the red jumper, the Czech embassy decorations, the pool table. I can't bring myself to delete it.

To be fair to the rogue, I did say he should continue his games. He appeared to be on something of a winning streak, all those 50ps he was pocketing were probably the only income the unemployed business consultant had acquired that month. Eventually though, the laconic cad's luck ran out and he was defeated by a rather butch woman. He took it quite well, I thought. He sidled over and put his arms around me.

'You have a very distinctive smell, petal. You smell of wood.'

Dear God. A small fortune spent on Philosophy, Pure Grace perfume yet he thought I smelled of MFI furniture. I briskly changed the subject and asked him why he was so late.

'Ah, petal, I got a lift off me mum. I invited her in for a drink. Told her I was meeting you like. And that you used to go out with Senor Boldon.'

Heavens to Betsy, I thought. What on earth must the God-fearing, straight-talking Scot think of me, working my way through her sons, like some sort of Alabama, Jerry Springer, trailer-trash.

'She just laughed, shook he head and said 'Och Rochester you are terrible!'

It then occurred to me that Rochester's mum would have had to accept many of his tangled and idiosyncratic relationships over the years. She raised 3 sons single-handedly. I suppose she was unshockable.

The thing about Rochester is he had a certain disheveled, ramshackle charm. And he was very, very funny, articulate and tactile. I always found him terribly easy to be around. He also had a way of looking straight at me when we talked, it was very intense and endearingly disarming. I found him incredibly attractive. We spent an hour or so teasing, chatting and canoodling in the pub, and then set back out into the night. I had promised him tea, and errr . . .Christmas cake.

I shall end the story there. That day has been on my mind as Madam Noir has a romantic anniversary coming up. It will shortly be one year since she embraced her 'Venetian' tendencies and had her first lezza kiss. I asked her how she was planning on celebrating, but it seemed neither she nor her girlfriend had any plans.

I suggested they simply recreate that first date. Personally, I love all those little traditions and rituals in relationships. Madam Noir was concerned that, frankly, their first date was more Barbara Windsor than Barbara Cartland. They had walked along the bleak and industrial seafront at Seaton Carew and indulged in a battered sausage from a fish 'n' chip van. Their first kiss had been prefaced with Rachelle uttering the alluring and seductive words

'Right. Let's get this over with.'

Actually, I think it would be very poignant and moving. To go back every year, to remember how it all began, to relive the shivery, breathless excitement of falling in love. The conversation with Madam Noir got me thinking of my first kiss with Rochester, how fitting it seemed that 'our' place was a dark, swirling and wintry North Sea and how very,very sad it is that we'll never enjoy our own Christmas day anniversary.

A Day in Bamburgh

Bamburgh is such a pretty village. It reminds me of St Mary Meade, the fictional setting for Agatha Christie's Miss Marple books. I fancy moving there, opening an old fashioned detective agency/ tea rooms. Hetty and I could solve crimes over Earl Grey, cucumber sandwiches and victoria sponge. There is also something quite eerie about the place. There is a little square in the centre which is surrounded by trees. It is anything but pretty, the trees are so big that the square is permanently shady and dark. It is inhabited by dozens of rooks, which swoop and caw constantly. Creepy. Daphne Du Maurier would have loved Bamburgh.

Here is Madam Noir and Hetty, trying to look demure next to some beautiful hydrangeas.

From the beach you can see Holy Island and the Farne Islands. Hetty had some serious bouncing to do. The sky was steely grey and the sea was pewter, but it was still beautiful.
Next we explored the winding paths that snake through the dunes. This path took us right past the castle. The dunes are my favourite part of Bamburgh, I adore the windswept, blue-green marron grass.
'Twas lunchtime. Those dunes are breathtaking, but rather tiring to climb (especially in Birkenstocks). Foster's Bar, 'no dogs'? Shame on you!

Hmmm. Fish and Chips at the Victoria Hotel. It looks lovely doesn't it? Sadly for me it was less than 'historic', very disappointing. Still my loss was Hetty's gain. She had already devoured steak pie from Bamburgh's very famous butchers. She ended up having a whole battered haddock too.

We were planning on returning to the beach, for more fresh, North Sea air, but sadly the heavens opened after lunch. We came home.

There you go. Miss Underscore's summer holiday 2009 over. To think, in 2007 I visited New York twice. In 2009 I've had a day at Bamburgh beach, and a weekend in a freezing cold, Somerset pig-sty. Bloody credit crunch!

A Dark Pool

Madam Noir and I visited the fantastic Laing Gallery last week. It is home to Isabella and the Pot of Basil and several other breathtaking Pre-Raphaelite works of art.

I already have one print from the Laing in my dining room, The Bathing Pool by Harold Knight. On my recent visit I bought a print called A Dark Pool by Laura Knight (Harold's missus). It is looking rather lovely above my sitting room fireplace.

The picture reminds me of the South Tyneside coastline (although it is actually Cornwall I think). I wonder if the girl is thinking of jumping. Why is the title 'A Dark Pool', when the water is such a fresh and breezy blue? It is surely a reference to her deep, emotional turmoil. Miss Underscore smells fanny rat skullduggery! I expect some swarthy rogue grappled with her bearded collie on their first date, and then cruelly discarded her. Men: cads, the lot of them!

Meg update: Meg may have found a lovely home in Leeds. She will be living with an ecologist and even going to work with her every day. I will be heartbroken to lose Meg, but it sounds like she is going to have a wonderful life.

Caring for a foster-dog has been a very satisfying experience, but I think sensitive, gentle Hetty will adore being centre of my universe once again.

An evening in Easington

Hetty had to go to the vets today, the maudlin mutt has been struggling with kennel cough for a couple of weeks. I still use a vets near my home town of Easington.

After the vets' appointment I took Hetty for a walk around the village. My dad loved Easington, when I was little we would walk to St Mary's church every night. We would stroll through the churchyard and sit and look out over the village green. There is a lovely coastal view to Hartlepool.

I hated Easington growing up. It seemed so stifling, bleak (it was the era of the miners' strike) and provincial. In fact, provincial is a term that implies a certain glamour and sophistication that Easington never had. I couldn't wait to escape from the place. I applied to universities miles away: London, Glasgow, Bristol and Brighton. I never felt I fitted in Easington, although looking back, I think that was probably just healthy teenage alienation. I went to London University in the end, and felt just as displaced and disaffected there.

However, walking round Easington tonight I felt strangely at one with the place. I even succumbed to the temptation of supper from the fish shop: cheese patty, chips and curry sauce. It was my favourite as a child. I have to say, the cheese patty was vomitroicious, it resembled some kind of battered sanitary towel , but the curry sauce & chips were wonderful stuffed in a butter-slathered roll.

The church in Easington is beautiful. I used to go regularly as a child, my parents had their funerals there, I appeared as Mary in the 1978 Nativity there (sympathy casting, my mum had died that year). The higgledy-piggledy gravestones in the churchyard are worn and eaten by the sea air and resemble melting cinder toffee. If you are lucky you can see bats flittering round the church tower at dusk.

There is a lovely, traditional village green in Easington. Tonight a huge shire horse was tethered there, quietly cropping the grass. It all made me think that I quite miss village life: being part of a place that is your blood and history.

On another note, I think I possibly went too far with my scaring of Year 3 with Hansel and Gretal. I started to read the story after morning break. I told the class that our teaching assistant had been called away to go and work in the nursery (something she is often asked to do). They didn't realise she was actually hiding in the cupboard, in full witchy old crone regalia. I also told the mesmerised children that when reading some fairy stories there is an old legend that says that the evil goblins, ghouls and witches from the books come back to life. I got my class to promise to keep a look out while I was reading.

When I got to the line 'the children didn't hear the gingerbread door creak open, or notice a woman as old as the hills creep towards them' my bonkers TA slowly opened the cupboard door and started shuffling across the classroom. For extra impact she began to moan and wail. She was bedecked in a vast black velvet cloak, the only part of her face visible was a false, green, warty nose. She was carrying a wooden walking stick in one hand and a large roasting tin in the other.

Well, the children were horrified, there was screaming loud enough to summon the disapproving Year 2 teacher from the next classroom. Most of the children immediately slid under the desks and cowered. One boy rushed to the classroom toilet and locked himself in. There were tears, and a little bit of knicker-wetting. I have to say, it was a moment I shall never forget. It was hysterically funny. I don't think I have ever laughed so much in years. I am probably painting a rather unprofessional (and possibly illegal) portrait of the event. In truth, most of the kids were thoroughly enjoying acting terrified. When my TA disrobed and revealed herself the children were delighted. They have talked about it non-stop ever since!

Singing Hinnies and Stottie Cakes

I love the sea. I adore living so close to the coast, I do probably take it fore-granted though. The North Sea is beautiful in a very unique way: it is not twee or picture-postcard pretty, it is surging, slate-grey and icy. The cliffs are angular and treacherous, the rocks and pools are strewn with jet black, glossy, slippery seaweed. I love the drama of the place and the soft grey light. In summer we get a lot of sea fret, sometimes the fog horn sounds for days on end. I love that sound so. It really does sound like home to me.

This morning, after dealing with the police and conducting our Miss Marple investigations, Madame Rouge and I headed off to the coast. We walked along the cliffs at Marsden, the setting for many a date with Rochester. I felt rather sorrowful, remembering those joyful and optimistic times with the geordie gigalo. I do miss him, terribly. But, it was a beautiful fresh and blustery spring day, scented with ozone and salt.

Madame Rouge and I chatted about university life, and the 14 years that have passed since we saw each other. She is lucky beyond measure, she met the love of her life at university and they have been together ever since. No traumatic love affairs, internet dating or heartbreak for her, and two beautiful children too. So fortunate.

We retreated to the National Trust tea shop at Souter, a charming little place. I hadn't been there for years. It has lots of northern specialities on the menu: stottie cake sandwiches, singing hinnies, panackalty, pease pudding. We had toasted cheese sandwiches, huge wedges of home-made cake and a big china pot of tea. A lovely setting and the perfect ending to a relaxing couple of days.