Wild Garlic, Bluebells and Crochet

As we drove up the woodland lane that unmistakable fragrance of wild garlic filled the air, immediately taking me back to the halcyon days of my childhood in my grandparents' quintessentially English garden. Now, however, I was arriving for a crochet workshop at Laughing Hens, nesting deep in the timeless landscape of rural Kent. This, however, was no whimsical reminiscence of bygone days of permanent happiness, blue skies and Victoria sponge for tea. This was all for real. The excuse was a crochet workshop, but to describe our day thus is a massive over-simplification of heaven.

The joy of Laughing Hens is that whatever the reason for being there, that simply becomes an excuse to slip gently into enjoying life for its simplicity, its glory and its community. It was as if time had stood still and a whole summer of treats had been poured into one wholesome day. We sat first in the grape greenhouse, intoxicated by the mellow warmth of moistened soil. Then we moved onto the lawn where all those ingredients of a mythical summer sallied forth one by one: dogs gallivanting on the new season grass, the waddling of chickens and the sound of spades turning over the soil in the herb bed, all to a score of birdsong which a Hollywood blockbuster of a typical 19th century English novel would have been proud of.

When we had chocolate cake (eggless since you ask, made specially) topped with strawberries and cream and a strong cuppa (antique cups and mismatched saucers) served from a proper Denby teapot with a pretty tea cosy, I could see why foreigners somehow long for that Englishness which seems so hard to grasp and recreate authentically. Foreign films just never quite get it right, if only they came here first to see how it was done, naturally, no pretence, authentically casual....

I found crocheting relaxing in a very different way to knitting. Crochet is focused, counting is of the essence, and it lulls me into an internal reverie. Knitting, on the other hand, is repetitive, with a very settling rhythm, bringing a calm observed involvement in what's going on. I'm delighted now to have the option of both, whatever takes my fancy.

After lunch, Millie-Pup and I meandered back down the lane for a quiet moment of reflection. The woods were awash with blue waves of bluebells topped off with the white lace of the wild garlic flowers. They reminded me of the crochet that we were doing, all delicate and inviting.

All day the sun shone with fluffy childish clouds imitating Millie-Pup on her exploration of what it is to be in the English Countryside, free and unfettered. As the day wore on, casting the shadows from left to right rather than right to left, and then lengthening them from one side of the garden to the other, each of us there shed the tensions of living in the modern world and happily settled into the timelessness of the long forgotten, never-ending summers of our youths.

First you must know that the standard of tuition and personal care throughout the day was outstanding. However, as we left, without a single dissenter, each of us thanked the Laughing Hens team for the wonderful day, full of relaxation and enjoyment. Not one of us mentioned the crochet. Somehow why we had come there no longer seemed to matter. What mattered was how transported and transformed we were into a realm of relaxation which to many is as elusive as the English summer.