Tag Archives: fireside

Bell tent

An off-white circle rising to a point above me, like a private heaven. The wooden pole stands tall and firm in the centre, holding up the sky.

I’m half awake, seeing the pink light of dawn on the canvas. The film of dew coalesces and runs down each crease – little mini-rivulets.

It’s damp, cold. The duvet is almost sodden where it touched the tent wall overnight. I clear my throat and sniff, feeling the heaviness in my chest.

Long, lazy lying, feeling my bladder grumbling with gradually increasing intensity.

I stumble up, pull on yesterday’s clothes and a pair of wellies, and unzip the door. Stooping out onto the wet grass, I smell the damp, yet still warm ash of yesterday’s fire. I poke it with a stick, throw on some kindling from beneath the tarp, and fan it briskly with a plastic plate. First, a reluctant reed of smoke rises, then orange flame. Hopefully that will catch while I wander off to pee in the hedge.

Vanessa

“Umm…..”

She gazes sideways and slightly downwards, and the comment, such as it is, trails off into silence. Pause.

Clearly something intent occupies Vanessa’s mind, but for now, she’s not sharing the details. Time seems to slow down. I eye the frost patterns encrusting the corners of the window panes, and back precariously, yet blessedly hotly, closer to the wood burner, smelling the fumes of heated fabric emanating from my backside.

Her brown eyes suggest dreams of happiness not quite within touching distance, elusive.

“Shall we go, then? Perhaps Pete wants to come too.”

She moves towards the door, hesitates, then walks to the fruit bowl purposefully and selects three good apples.

“See you outside in five minutes.”

I set aside all expectations, and search for my gloves and coat.

Pot of tea

It dribbles at the spout, and that so offends me! Surely a carefully sharp edge could cut the flow crisply.

Steam drifts up from the cup, fine china not sucking away the heat prematurely, amber, golden, delicate tea looking beautiful, with one or two leaves swelling succulently in the bottom of the cup.

The china clinks and chinks with a satisfyingly stereotypically elegant set of associations. Miss Elizabeth Bennett.

The taste of butter and tannin. In the Himalaya, there truly is butter in the tea, but here it’s more of a long, almost chewable feeling on the tongue, yet with not a yak in sight.

The smell of tea leaves in a tin. The special teas I used to love, like Rose Pekoe – prising off the lid with the handle of a teaspoon, shaking the big black leaves against the ornate tin, and breathing in treacly dark, smokey smells.

The sense of repose and relaxation that a well set up tea scenario can offer – images of relaxed seating out on lavender-scented terraces, or cosy around wood stove on a crisp winter afternoon, fingerless knits clasped around an honest, steaming mug.

Sinking deeply into an armchair by the fire, legs folded under me.