Romanian traditional dress


View of Otley from the top of the Chevin

View of Otley from the top of the Chevin

Two reasons to stay right where we are in Menston in Yorkshire, Otley  Chevin and the Washburn valley. Catching a bit of news on the radio this morning I was intending to post something (a grump) about that but it will keep till tomorrow.

Otley Chevin is no more than 5 mins by car from home. We usually walk but had a brief visit there the day before yesterday on the way to do something else. In the picture you’ll see the rather ‘cute’ small town of Otley nestling below.

I always smile when I see the sign about the dry stone walling training area; the former assistant head of the school where Petronela and I met refused to believe you could build walls without mortar. They are, of course, a major feature of the Yorkshire landscape. He also refused to believe that the sheep on the moors here roam free without shepherd or sheepdog; of course they do.

Washburn valley

The Washburn valley, perhaps the smallest of the Yorkshire dales, is one of my favourite places, only 20 minutes away by car. We did set out today with the idea of finishing a walk there with the always delicious home made cakes at the ‘heritage centre’. Though we have been many times, clearly never on the last Sunday of the month as we didn’t know there were no cakes on that day. We settled for the free homemade biscuit! Petronela is still grumbling about it! She looked her usual gorgeous self though in one of her ‘ie’ (Romanian traditional blouses).

The ‘lake’ is a reservoir, one of four, created between 1869 and 1966 by damming the small river in this little vale, to satisfy the increasing demand for water from the city of Bradford. Perfect walking weather, warm but not hot. Not too many signs of autumn yet, a bit of colouring of some leaves and a few fungi.

I’m picking up on today’s post from my recently found blogger ‘friend’ in Latvia, Ilzie – same title: Sunday. I was thinking of her yesterday and her three daughters when I met two of my favourite young ladies, Mia and Olive, just a little older than Ilzie’s three. Ilzie was ‘doing’ her youngest’s second birthday party; I was at a post wedding ‘reception’ of two friends here: Ruxandra, the Romanian founder of our writers’s club, and Sam, an extraordinary English flamenco guitarist. They greeted us in their elegant, beautiful wedding attire; the bride’s dress is based on the traditional Romanian ‘ia’ (pronounced ee-a), blouse.

The bride, me, Petronela and the groom

The girls I met are daughters of another member of our writers’ club, Emma, a wonderfully talented singer/song-writer. I seem to ‘know’ a lot of amazingly talented women, the group now including Ilzie. Before the birthday party took over she was building her kitchen.

Sunday breakfast

Sunday for me here is ‘English breakfast‘; I hadn’t made one since leaving for Romania in July. Only a couple of posts ago I told you my breakfast six days a week is raw oats with milk and perhaps fruit.

The basics of English breakfast are, of course, bacon and eggs. The eggs are often fried but this morning I made ‘scrambled eggs‘. Other things on the plate might include ‘black pudding’ (blood sausage) – never for Petronela! – sausages and, for other people, fried tomatoes (neither P nor I like them) and ‘baked beans’ from a tin but not in our house. My usual addition, as this morning, might be sauteed mushrooms, fried bread and perhaps sauteed boiled potatoes over from the previous evening’s meal.

I won’t bore you again about my scrambled eggs, which I’m arrogant enough to say are the best in the world – just eggs, from chickens that run around free – with a little butter, salt and pepper. Not everybody likes their soft, creamy texture, fortunately P does. I’ve posted about them before. Another thing I love about Sunday is it’s the only breakfast P and I have together. We only miss having the evening meal at the table together if one of us is not at home, now rare.