Becoming Real

So I’m discovering, as I’m crafting the little pieces for this blog, that writing things down makes them real…..lends them more significance.

If you’re like me, there are days in life (happily, not that frequent J ) when you feel like a nobody. Like you’ve got precisely nowhere in life. But that, in contrast, there are people out there whose lives are full of good ideas and wisdom and cleverness and important stuff. People whose lives are colourful and exciting and filled with purpose..….little beacons of light. And I’m not talking about the great and the good. Just your friends; people whose blogs you read; folk you ran into at that last art retreat you attended…..(hmm).

So here’s a little exercise for you. Next time you’re feeling this way (if indeed you do…..or am I the only one in the universe who ever does?), write down a few facts about yourself…..and see if you don’t blossom into a somebody before your very eyes. Not a heroine or a leader or a rock star…..but a somebody. An interesting somebody. Interesting, at least, to you. Which is a very good thing, given that you have to live with yourself 24 hours a day for the rest of your life.

Try it. Next time you’re feeling monochrome and dull or insignificant, just list a few bald facts about you. And watch yourself turning into a real, live person on the page or screen before you. Possibly even a fascinating, quirky, deeply interesting individual. Who you would like to know.

Pleased to meet you! Now go look in the bathroom mirror and say hello to your new best friend.

The First Milestone

It’s a momentous day here on the hillside…….because today, Dixon Hill Doings - this wee slip of a blog - is one month old! Tada!



I’ve been overwhelmed by the reception my Doings have received in the world. So I want to take this chance to say THANK YOU. In very capital letters. And to express particular gratitude to those who have bothered to leave comments on the blog or to send me your thoughts by e-mail. I appreciate your taking the trouble more than I can say. Feedback is very helpful. So helpful, in fact, that I’m after more of it. J

To celebrate this little anniversary, I’m offering a prize: a lovely book entitled Moods of the Bronte Moors. It’s a collection of atmospheric photographs of the South Pennines - Dixon Hill country and beyond - taken by John Morrison. The pictures should give the lucky winner a much better idea of the landscape in which most of my Doings take place.

To be in with a chance of winning the prize, all you have to do is to leave a comment below this post. Tell me what you like and/or dislike about the blog so far; tell me what you’d like to see more of.

Anyone who leaves a comment by midnight on Monday (2^nd November) will be entered into the draw. I’ll choose a winner at random next Tuesday morning and post the name of the victor here.

In the meantime, feel free to pour yourself a glass of something delicious…...or put t’kettle on (as they say round here)……and join me in toasting Dixon Hill Doings. Hip hip hurrah!

To comment, click on the word ’Comment’ on the bar below. Then, on the following screen, enter your name in the relevant box, copy the numbers and letters in the coloured box into the box immediately to the right (Security Code). Then type in your comment and hit 'Submit'.

October InHERview

September this year found me in New England - attending Squam Art Workshops for the second time in four months.

The very best thing about disappearing into the woods of New Hampshire is that I always come out again with new friends. And this time, I came out with a lot of friends. Nine, to be precise. The Fireside Beauties.

I’m honoured to be the guest interviewee on fellow Beauty Gem’s blog this month. Go visit her at Droplets of Devotion to find out what I love best about October….

The Same Stretch of Lane

Last week, walking down a local lane, I was completely entranced by the abundance of berries still clinging to the rowan trees. Glowing like Christmas baubles in the sun.

Walking that same stretch of lane the following morning, I didn’t even notice the berries. Instead, my attention was held rapt by myriad cobwebs, heavy with mist and dew, stretched thickly from stem to stem along the banking.

A few days later and it was the golden leaves of the beeches that called to me, arched across the lane above my head, singing against the deep, deepest blue of the autumn sky.

Reaching the same stretch of lane this morning, I was greeted by a herd of brown cows, ambling across the field to dangle their heads over the wall with curiosity.

And tonight, I stood on that same old lane, transfixed by a billowing, luminescent sunset.

The same stretch of lane is never the same.

The Clockmaker's Shop

Don’t you love old-fashioned shops? Like sweet shops where the sweets are still displayed in rows of tall glass jars, and you can find tastes and scents and colours which take you right back to your childhood. Or hardware stores where everything is crammed in, higgledy-piggledy, but where they stock everything you could ever need to clean or make or mend around the house. Happily, we have good examples of both kinds of shop less than 15 minutes from here.

But my favourite of all the quaint shops locally has to be the clockmaker‘s. Stepping into this tiny shop with its brightly-coloured façade is truly like stepping back in time. The minute room is more like a museum than a shop. The dark, wood-panelled space offers little for sale. Instead, the glass cabinets display mysterious and archaic clock-making instruments.

There’s never anyone in the shop itself. The proprietor is always ensconced in the room behind, presumably making clocks. A proper old shop bell clangs as you close the door behind you, and then you wait..….until the tall gentleman finishes whatever delicate operation he’s engrossed in and comes to greet you. Words like ‘gentleman’ and ‘greet’ are so apt; because that’s exactly how he appears and what he does. And with such courtesy. The whole experience is positively Dickensian.

Rarely do I have occasion to step into this time warp (perhaps I should start collecting broken clocks?); but this week afforded such a chance (see? The Dickensian thing is catching). I entered the lovely old place, the bell jangling behind me, and waited patiently. The courteous man appeared and I told him that my watch needed a new battery. He took the watch from me, pressed his jeweller’s magnifying lens into his eye socket and proceeded to examine the watch closely. Very closely. Then he began to demur and mutter. I was baffled. Usually, a cursory glance tells him that he has the correct battery in stock and off he vanishes into the room behind to fit it. But not this time. Instead, he proceeded to tell me gently that there was nothing wrong with the battery, but that various parts inside the watch itself had clearly given up the ghost. ‘You mean it’s dead?’ I asked bluntly. He lowered his head slightly. ‘I’m afraid it is,’ he said seriously. ‘I’m very sorry’. It was for all the world as if he was offering condolences upon a bereavement.

So then I began to smile a lot and make light of my loss. I didn’t want the poor man to be thrown into such a sombre state on my account. And, truly, I was happy. Sad to say goodbye to a favourite watch to be sure, but so thrilled by the wonderfully anachronistic encounter I’d just had, it was almost worth the loss of my…erm….timepiece.

I shall continue to patronise the clockmaker’s shop whenever the opportunity presents itself because I want such shops to carry on forever and ever. Amen!