Spring in the Woods

Is there a better place to be on a sunny Sunday afternoon in spring than in the woods? There might be (Kay, for instance, would probably say the monadnocks), but as far as I was concerned last Sunday, when I set out for a walk from my parents' allotment, there was no place I'd rather have been than in the nearby woods.

I walked for about two hours, and although I met other people every now and then, I was on my own most of the time. The only sounds were the birds and bumblebees. It was warm enough to go short-sleeved, and I enjoyed my walk immensely. It was just what I needed after six days of lessons, and I am glad I had (and took!) this opportunity.

Such different shades of green and white! You only get to see this for a short time every year.

I'm afraid this picture doesn't do the woods justice; there was a true carpet of anemona.

I have walked most of these trails before, but I still find it intriguing to look along one of them and imagine what could be round the next bend.

The picture on the left is looking back the way I have just come. The one on the right shows a path leading down into a valley with a series of small lakes (or ponds, depending on how you define them). This time, I chose not to go there; I could hear what sounded like lots of people with lively children down there, and I wasn't in the mood for that.

Instead, I went the opposite way, up the steps, until I reached this trail.

Violets are so pretty, and there were lots between the anemona, but they don't easily show in a picture unless you take a close-up.

This grassy path is my favourite spot. Hardly anyone ever seems to be walking there; it is very quiet and gets very warm in the sun. I observed many butterflies but was always too slow for them with my camera, so you'll just have to believe me that they were there.

In summer, when all is green and leafy, you hardly notice how many different kinds of trees there really are in the woods.

Back towards my parents' allotment, along the rapeseed fields that are already flowering - it felt like June, not like the last days of March!

So far, I always said that summer is my favourite time of the year. Right now, I say it is spring.

Read in 2014 - 10: Mord im Herbst

In the 1990s, I discovered (probably by recommendation from my Mum) Henning Mankell's "Wallander"-novels, and made sure to read each and every one of them, plus one or two other books by the same author. A while ago, my Mum took out one from the library that we both had not read yet (it was published in German in 2012):

"Mord im Herbst" (this would translate "Murder in Autumn" in English, but the Swedish original is "Händelse om hösten") is a short novel of only 120 pages, and was originally written for a specific purpose: Some clever people in the Netherlands declared a particular month to be "Thriller Month" and had the idea that every customer who buys a work of crime fiction or mystery during that month gets an additional book for free. They approached Mr. Mankell with the idea, and he wrote this book because he thought it a good way to win people for reading.

Many years later, the book became the basis for a BBC film in which Kenneth Branagh plays Kurt Wallander. I did not see this film, and so I did not know more about the book than what it says on the back cover. But just knowing it was part of the Wallander series was enough for me to want to read it, and I was not disappointed!

Kurt Wallander has reached a point where he just doesn't feel like he wants to go on like this for much longer - both in his personal life (long divorced, with his adult daughter sharing a flat with him) and in his career. He is a good detective, but feels more and more listless about his work, and finds it hard to cope with some of the changes he observes in modern society in general, and Sweden in particular.

When a colleague tells him about an elderly relative of his wife's who has moved into a home and wants to sell his small house in the country, Wallander thinks this could be just what he needs. He drives out to look at the house and seriously considers buying it, until he (literally) stumbles across something half-buried under the leaves in the back garden: the bones of a human hand.

Of course, all thoughts of buying the place disappear - what matters to Wallander now is to find out who the person buried in the garden was, and how (and when) he or she died.

More than once, inquiries seem to have reached a dead end, and Wallander is almost ready to give up - only to come across something else to shed light on the events of many years back.

In the end, Wallander solves the mystery. But does he also find answers to the questions he is asking himself about his own life?

I very much enjoyed this. There was no overload of gruesome detail, and no improbable pseudo-psychological explanations, but a good mixture of facts and feelings. I can not read Swedish, so I have never read any of Mankell's works in their original language, but the German translation looks good to me, as far as I can tell. There were only two or three moments in the book when I could tell this was translated more or less directly from the original, because a native German writer would never express a particular idea like this, but none of it took away from the suspense and pleasure of reading.

Something I appreciated particularly about this book is what comes after the end of the story: in an epilogue of more than 10 pages, Mankell tells the story of how it all began with him and Wallander, his most popular creation. I always like to know some background of a story, which is inseparable from some information about the author. This is particularly interesting, because the author wrote it himself, and not some journalist or literary reviewer who collected quotes and blurbs and documents about the author (which is of course inevitable if the person one writes about has long been dead).

If you have never read a "Wallander" book, I very much recommend them. If you have, I would like to know what you think of them.

Back to School

My last proper school day was at Librarian school, in the summer of 1988. Therefore, I was slightly worried about how I was going to cope with an entire week - Monday to Saturday - of lessons from 8.30 to 5.00; so many hours of just sitting there, listening to a teacher, making notes and answering questions every now and then.

But I needn't have worried: it was all different this time. Back then (not at Librarian school, but before that), I didn't particularly like school. I was often bored; I didn't like some of the teachers, and I was not exactly popular in my class. This time, I was very motivated to get the theoretical background for my practical work, and of course at 46, I feel different towards teachers and lessons in general than when I was 16.

It was a great week! There was a lot I already knew, and the lessons served to plant those things deeper in my mind (we'll find out how deep after the exam in June). Lessons were given in manageable portions with enough breaks in between. The other participants (11 of us) were nice enough, as were our professors, and it was good being away from home with all its destractions so that I could really focus on learning and revising.
The hotel were most of us were was just across the road.

 
Ulm isn't that far away from where I live, only about 1 1/2 hours on the train, but it is always "one jacket colder" there, as the saying here goes. It snowed twice during the week, but the snow didn't stay. There was plenty of sun, too, which made for nice long walks after class to get my head ready for some revising before watching telly or reading until bedtime.

We had the opportunity of a guided tour in the town center, which was very, very interesting, but unfortunately very, very cold (in spite of wearing a padded winter coat, scarf and an extra pair of hand-knitted woolly socks).

On our last evening there, I took my camera and went for the longest walk of the week, nearly two hours (which isn't long if you are used to do a lot of walking, but the sun was setting then and I needed to get back to my room for some more revising - and some food!). 

When I arrived back home on Saturday evening, I found that my birthday parcel from England had arrived, my Dad had put bunches of yellow tulips and daffodils in the living room for me, and spring was in full swing outside my kitchen window:

Party Post

Two years ago, I threw my first cocktail party. The event was repeated in 2013, and I did not have to think about what to do for my birthday this year: it was, of course, yet another cocktail party. How easily a good thing becomes tradition!

The 2014 one presented a bit of a challenge, in that I was actually getting ready for three things at once: the party, having a house guest for the weekend, and leaving the day after the party for a week away from home (on a work-related course). But none of it is particularly time-consuming to prepare, and so it wasn't a problem; I just had to make sure everything was ready when it had to be. 

Friends and family helped with the party stuff; my sister made savoury biscuits and dainty little cocktail sandwiches, my parents lent me the large long-stemmed wine glasses that are perfect for Hugo and Aperol Spritz, my Mum made a "Cold Dog", and I was once again able to borrow the vintage 1950s dishes and bowls for all the snacks and things from a friend. RJ went booze shopping with me, since I can't carry more than a few bottles on foot.

The lovely 1950s dishes and party things, courtesy of one of my friends.

Snack away!

If you prefer something sweet, try a piece of "Cold Dog".

The bar was, as before, set up in the kitchen. The living room looked just like it did in the pictures you can find on the 2012 and 2013 posts, with the garlands and candles and chairs. 

The steel bowl was filled with crushed ice just when the first guests arrived. The lime is needed for several drinks, such as Mojito.

19 invitations were sent out; there were 11 of us there in the end. It was a great occasion to be with my friends and family, drink my favourite cocktails, and of course it was also an occasion to dress up - always welcome with me!

Normally, my first choice for a cocktail party outfit would not be a dirndl. But satin practically screams "party!!!", and since my hand-made dirndl has a pink satin skirt, I wore it for the first time since I bought it in December.

Every year, I am amazed at the number of presents and cards I get for my birthday. And once again, everybody knew just what to give me; there were books, chocolate, not just one but TWO necklaces, a season's ticket for the palace grounds, vouchers for the spa near where I live, and much, much more. Since my guests knew that I was going to leave the very next day, they were all sensible and didn't give me any flowers.

In short: I had a great time, and hope the same was true for everybody else who was there! A lot of booze was left over, which means that I will "have to" throw another party soon...

Read in 2014 - 9: Scarhaven Keep

If you have been reading my blog for a while, you'll know that I often read books that I found as free ebooks on Amazon's kindle shop - free mostly because their authors have been dead more than 70 years (which means their works are, if not specifically protected, available to be published for anyone who wishes to do so) and/or the authors are relatively unknown today. Many of the books I have been reading through this rather random way of choosing were published in the 19th century, or very early on in the 20th century. So, the one I am about to review now is comparatively modern:

"Scarhaven Keep" was first published in 1922, at a time when people were already well used to telephones, telegrams, trains and cars, although it was still a long way from phones and cars becoming everyday objects for nearly every household, even the more modest ones.

It is a detective story set in a picturesque fishing village on England's north coast, Scarhaven, with the ruins of an old castle keeping watch over it. There are dangerous cliffs for those who don't know their way around, and even a place called "Devil's Spout" which the natives say is a bottomless hole where nothing that has gone in has ever come out again.

A young playwright arrives for a meeting with a famous actor and producer to talk about a play they want to produce together, only to find that the man has not been seen since the weekend. Everybody agrees that not turning up for an appointment is very uncharacteristic for the famous man, and the young playwright finds himself drawn into the mysterious case of the actor's disappearance very soon. It seems he has nothing better to do, and so he teams up with those who want to find out what happened.

In the course of the story, we come across murder (really?), an impostor, a young lady who is very sensible and another young lady who plays a rather mysterious role, her very unpleasant character of a father, a good-hearted poacher, a ship's captain who has more to him than meets the eye, an invalid curate who turns out to be neither invalid nor a curate, and many more. The cast is fun to look at (mentally, of course - there are no pictures, but you can imagine them all quite well), the places have charm, and everything is logically explained - something I really like in detective stories.
The reader never has to guess at "how did they do that?", but every time something is organized, the characters explain what they are about to do; who is to take which train, where and when they are to be reached by phone, and so on.

I really liked this book. There were some surprises, although the romantic interest was clear from the moment the woman appears in the book for the very first time. But romance is not the main feature of the story; it is all about finding out who did what, and why, and when.

Scarhaven and the other places featuring in the story, such as Norcaster and Northborough, do not really exist. But the way they are described, and the place names themselves being so similar to Scarborough, Doncaster etc., make me think the author had Yorkshire in mind.

Speaking of the author, I found a mini-biography about him here. Should I happen to come across another one of his books for free at the kindle store, I will download it.

A detail I found interesting: The sentence "mum's the word" appears in this book, just as "mug" used to mean someone's face. I didn't know these expressions had already been around in the 1920s.

Here's to Me!

On Thursday, I had a day off and did all those things you hardly find time for during a normal working week, such as paying a badly needed visit to the hairdresser's, and attending a fashion show at one of the largest and best established fashion stores in my town. 
It was the most beautiful and warmest day so far this year, with temperatures reaching 22 Celsius in the afternoon. The view from my kitchen window was this:

My Mum and I love going to those shows (twice a year); they give you sparkling wine and snacks, and of course watching the show itself is fun. It is rare for me to find anything I want among the outfits presented (I am not quite part of their target group - that will be the case in another 10-20 years), but we usually stay after the show and have a look round on the entire floor. I nearly always find something for myself then, and this time was no exception.

Here is the dress I bought:

And what it looks like on the fashion label's website:

Tonight, I'll be having another one of my beloved cocktail parties. Tomorrow, I'll be off to Ulm, a town a 1 1/2 hour train ride away. I'll stay there all of next week and will only come back next Saturday evening. This is the start of my course at the Academie for Data Protection and Information Security. I won't be able to visit blogland from there, so it's good-bye for a week. Be good!

Read in 2014 - 8: This Freedom

What would you expect a book by the title "This Freedom" to be about?
Of course, "Twelve Years", the true story of an Afroamerican man kidnapped and sold into slavery and turned into a multiple-award winning movie, is quite present in many a mind. But "This Freedom" is not about slavery in its commonly understood sense. It is a book that, when it was first published in 1922, was heavily criticized by defenders of women's rights. It tells the story of a woman who wants, above anything, freedom - freedom to live her life the way she sees fit, which is not quite the way women were supposed to be living around the turn of the century and the time of WWI.

Rosalie grows up as the youngest in a country reverend's family, a family that is rich only in children. From her earliest conscious memories she knows one thing for sure: The world belongs to men, and women have but one task, to be there for their men. Men and boys can go where and when they want, with whoever they please, while women and girls are expected to be always at home, ready and willing to do the men's bidding.
Like her sisters, Rosalie is largely educated at home by her mother, but a combination of unexpected occurrances (some very sad and tragic, others positive for at least two members of the family) leads to her being installed in London at a girls' boarding school. Weekends are spent with a rich aunt, who, in a generously good-hearted, boasting way never fails to make Rosalie feel the poor relation she is.

Rosalie loves to learn, and the older she gets, the more obvious her exceptionally bright, logical mind becomes. She also loves about the school that it is an almost men-free world - here, it is the women who determine what is done when, and how. When she comes across a book about economics and banking, this book ("Lombard Street") becomes her "bible"; it shows her what she wants to do in life. Marriage and raising her own family never enters her mind.

Love does not ask whether it fits into someone's plans or not, and so it happens that Rosalie falls in love with the most unlikely candidate. (I must admit it was not much of a surprise to me, as it won't be to many a reader; too often have we already seen this trick of the authors' trade: boy meets girl, girl detests boy, girl falls madly in love with boy.)
By that time, Rosalie has already carved out a niche for herself in the business world. She is successful, she earns her own money, she loves her work, and is highly esteemed by her employer and his clients. Marriage will not change that, she is sure, and neither will having children. With her husband, she has what looks like the ideal marriage: both partners have equal rights, both thrive in their work, both love each other and their children very much, and the household is well organized, running smoothly from morning to night.

Things begin to change, gradually at first, but then in leaps and bounds. Decisions have to be taken. Decisions are taken, but they do not yield the expected results. Helplessly, Rosalie and her husband watch their family, which they had always perceived to be an extraordinarily happy one, disintegrate. Blow after blow they receive, until it seems they can't take any more. The book ends on a hopeful note, but many sad and dramatic events line the last of its four parts ("House of Men", "House of Women", "House of Children" and "House of Cards").

I was happy for Rosalie when she made her dream of a self-determined life come true. Her enthusiasm is described so well, it is infectuous. The sadness that follows is infectuous, too, and I couldn't help but feel sorry for her and her family. 
The criticism the book received originally is justified, if the story is taken at face value. But there is more to it than that, I think. To me, the author does not suggest Rosalie did wrong in putting her work first. He rather shows how difficult it is to balance family and work, and that is true for both women and men. It can work out, and probably does in many families (made easier nowadays in some ways, more difficult in others). But it can also go horribly wrong. 
On the other hand, the family life at Rosalie's childhood home can hardly be described as happy, although her mother was always at home; Rosalie's home life with her husband and the children, while they were young, sounds happy. The things that her children do and that happen to them as they grow up could have happened just the same if Rosalie had always been a stay-at-home mum.

A book I can recommend; I'll probably go and look for more by the same author on the kindle shop.

Speaking of the author, Arthur Stuart-Menteth Hutchinson (often just given as A.S.M. Hutchinson) was yet another one of those immensely successful authors in their day whom I had never heard about before. Hutchinson lived from 1879 to 1971 and, while Wikipedia lists less than 20 novels and a few short stories as his works, some of his books were bestsellers. According to the New York Times, one of his novels ("If Winter Comes") was the best-selling book in the US in 1922. What I find quite touching is that he was so thrilled after the birth of his son that he wrote a book about it. Were he alive today, he probably would have blogged about it :-)