Seeped in history...

Hello lovelies...

Thank you for all your lovely comments following my last post.

It is so joyous for me to share my passion for my beautiful 

Fens with you all.

I know everyone favours the area they know best.... 

the area you were born into or the area you grew up in.

For me the ancient landscape known as The Cambs Fens

is deeply rooted within my bones.

My family history reaches back to a time when Fenmen waded 

through the boggy marshes on stilts; before there were dry fields and profitable farms.

Over time, man has forcibly sculptured every square patch of the land

for his own advantage despite Mother Nature putting up a big fight, resulting

in the flat land now famously known for the best arable land in the UK.

On a holiday in Cornwall a few years ago, a shopkeeper asked me if I had travelled far

on my hols...

When I replied I lived in Cambridgeshire,

 she quickly returned with "Oh....you live in the damp patch then..."

The damp patch?

Can't say I've ever been described as a damp patcher before!

A stubborn 'ol Fen bird yes.

A Fen tiger yes.

One of them odd fen folk yes.

But...never a damp patcher...no.

My Fens offer skylines that equal a winning National Lottery ticket.

Her sunsets are masterpieces fit for the Tate Gallery.

As a child I would sit for hours watching clouds, create characters

and building my own stories...

I loved writing stories and poems.

I take SO many photos of the Fens and her landscape you would think at my age I would be bored of doing so by now but no.

I especially love trees.

Fen trees have a special corner in my heart.

Any shape, any size...any age.

They are always full of silent energy that bring a smile or two

whenever I see them.

Prince Charles was famously ridiculed for talking to the plants and trees but

I have to say I'm with him on that one....

I'm a firm believer in trusting trees with their wisdom.

They know a thing or two about survival of the fittest.

The tough 'ol Fen winds whip up a Fen blow around 

their ankles that often cause distress to so many....

and yet they plod on like tired old soldiers to get to the winning post.

They hold their own.

They are like little treasure boxes holding secrets to our past.

If only they could talk back....

Off to grab a cuppa and do some slow stitching so

until our next chat folks...

Toodle- ooh for now!