tea – and so she thinks

Enchanted Tea Rooms

admin — Sun, 03 Mar 2013 19:41:02 +0000

A magical garden of sprites and elves. Sparkling faries frolicking in the grass and budding flowers breathing out enchantment. An effervescent shimmer in the trees that harbour chatter and the comfort of tea and cake to lure the weary traveller. A wonderful utopia of Puck, his pals, and us, in the Peak District.
Our boots are thick with mud as we splatter across the wooden decking to the entrance. Our calves ache from the hill and our ankles feel weak from the tumbling stumble down the other side. A few minutes ago the promise of such a charm was only an illusion, but now we are here, ready to indulge in fragments of fantasy.
We must look weary as the owner ushers us to a swinging seat under an arbour of roses, and later turns a blind eye to our homemade sandwiches consumed under tin foil. From the list of magical potions and enchanted spells that we are handed, disguised as a ‘menu’ we select ingredients with fairytale powers.
The mismatched crockery graces our table and the first few drops of hot water start to mix with the tea leaves and spices. The sky groans. The fluffy clouds grow ever more pavement coloured.
Tethered to a wooden post at the edge of the pond a little rowing boat bobs in anticipation of the impending rain, and we huddle closer together. The smell of fresh grass mixed with the woody scent of wet streets and the warming aroma of cinnamon, the stimulating scent of rose leaves and the sweet smooth smell of geraniums swirl in a heady blend around us. We sigh in satisfaction.
Magical raindrops fall upon us in the enchanted garden, the skin is wet, the heart is glad.

The teapot

admin — Sun, 27 Jan 2013 23:06:15 +0000

In the centre of the table sat the teapot, the porcelain greying with age, but still beautiful, the crimson flowers creeping over it. The handle had been broken multiple times but fixes rendered it capable of completing the function for which it was intended, whilst cracks in the surface revealed the bumps and scrapes it had been subject to.
Integral to the morning, whether this be the father’s first swig of tea as he rushes out of the door to work, or mother’s gently brewed with love cup to entice the teenagers out of bed for school, and the centre piece of lazy weekend breakfasts, the family gathered round, lingering over toast crumbs and Frosties stuck to the rims of bowls like limpets In the rock pool of milk. ssential in the afternoon for brewing the accompaniment to a biscuit, and brewing the feelings and warming the friendship that allows two old friends to pour out their worries and woes, squeeze out their laughter and tears. Sometimes it was nothing more than a comforting hug, a way to punctuate the day and reassure that life was continuing. To greet visitors and family, a way to welcome people in, a way to display arms open greeting, even though in practice they hugged the cup that was given. The children would never open up without a warm cup of tea poured from the pot – warm, not hot, and her husband did not feel as if he had truly come home until the first sip was taken.
So of course it was going to be bruised and battered. It was
an object to be used, without realising how much it was relied upon, and the love integral to its function.

A novel tea

admin — Mon, 19 Nov 2012 21:43:48 +0000

It is 4pm. I get cranky if I don’t have a cup of tea by this time in the afternoon. My boyfriend knows this and so he drags me to the nearest shop to indulge me in my favourite brew. We are very lucky as the nearest shop turns out to be The Fourteas, a 1940s themed tea shop. Despite being just 25 (literally just; we are away in Shakespeareland to celebrate my birthday) I am hit with waves of nostalgia, more than likely fabricated memories and feelings that I have built up with the aid of tales from my grandparents and grainy television footage and photos of the war.
The lady in her headscarf comes over to take our order. A list of more than twenty teas is a little dizzying for me, and her and her husband help us out. Basically I want something that will go well with that scrumptious looking carrot cake over there. The frosting glistens and calls to me, and the smell of nutmeg wafts temptation.
She brings a big slice, two forks, and a pot of tea. Period crockery that I last saw on the Antiques Roadshow is laid on the table. I don’t really know what to do with tea when it’s not in a bag. We manage. It tastes good. I read wartime recipe books and study the ration cards around the room. I peer out the daintily clad windows, grateful that I am in here out of choice and will not have to leave to escape an air raid. I see the smiles of people in newspaper cuttings, enjoying VE day celebrations. I listen to a scratchy Vera Lynn on the wireless. And I remember what a treat afternoon tea is, when you make it matter.
You can read the original article on the wonderful Jammatology.