In lieu of a real post, I present to you the first two chapters of my dissertation in picture form:

Put some new shoes on, and suddenly everything is right

Long, long ago, when I was young and naïve, and thought that I would Never Change, I was enlisted in helping with a move. Our family is well-known for sticking the word ‘party’ on to the ends of words that are not at all pleasant, in a misguided attempt to mask the true nature of the task. So, at this Moving Party, I got stuck carting, what seemed at the time, the world’s supply of shoes, helpfully sorted into laundry baskets by my ever-thoughtful Aunt Jan. Poor ten year old me. I could not imagine a time when anyone would need so many shoes. Why on earth would you need more than three pairs? Tennis shoes, sandals, and a nice pair for special occasions. Simple. Maybe a pair of slippers if you were feeling especially indulgent.

Oh poor ten year old me.

I complained rather loudly at having to move so many shoes, and I’m sure no one appreciated it. And I made a bet with dear old Aunt Jan. One that I thought I would never go back on, probably because I was ten and thought I would Never Change my opinion on anything. (For the record, mushrooms are still gross.)

I bet my Aunt Jan that I would never own more than five pairs of shoes. I must have given myself a little bit of wiggle room—probably for a pair of creekin’ shoes, or something equally important but not really in the true definition of Real Shoes.

Now Aunt Jan has moved once more, and I wasn’t there to cart around her shoes again. I’m sure she would have taken no small amount of pleasure in making me move her no doubt massive-at-this-point shoe collection. I’m not sure there are enough laundry baskets in our collective family to hold her shoe collection now. Thank god I’m across an ocean. This pasty, scholarly body probably couldn’t handle the strain.

But I also have a confession to make.

When I came to York, I brought not three, not five, but eight pairs of shoes.

And yesterday, I bought another pair. And I left several pairs at home, ranging from a pair of converse that are more holes than shoes, and some really nice heels.

So Aunt Jan, I am way past our original bet of five pairs of shoes. So if you remember the terms of our original agreement (I certainly don’t—I just remember that you made me cry!), I will do my duty and pay up. And if you don’t, well then maybe we should just get together sometime and revel in our expanding shoe collections.

Lathing Maidens in Devon

Greetings, dear Internet! Most of you probably thought I had died overseas, but this is not the case! I am alive and well, and oh so busy. I thought my summer would be a gentle one, full of research and croquet, but this is also not the case. Turns out, my summer has not been gentle at all. Nor has it been much of a 'summer', come to think about it. It's been rainy and 50 degrees since early May. And the one sunny week we had in May was the week before our assessed lectures, so none of us really got to enjoy it. Typical.
But my assessed lecture went really, really well. I got a 73 on it, which to American readers is heart-stoppingly low. But in fact, it's a distinction! So even though my gut reaction is always awful when I get my British grades, after a few seconds, my brain kicks in and tells me how well I've done.

But this post is not about grades and lectures. It's about Devon. Because Devon is amazing. One of the reasons  my summer has been so packed is because I've been helping other people with their building surveying recording and other such weekends.  I spent one week in June surveying a mill at Castle Howard, which was amazing experience but oh so time consuming. (Though I was also fed a lemon cake that was so amazing that I proposed on the spot.)

And this weekend, I went to Devon for a timber-framing course. Originally, I wasn't going to go, but as the course got nearer, people dropped out, and I stepped up so that a friend (she of the proposal-worthy lemon cake) wouldn't have to make the seven hour drive by herself. Also, carpentry looked fun.

Well. I  might amend that statement. Carpentry is hard. Really, really difficult. But also rewarding as heck. In three days, myself and six other amateurs constructed a green oak porch, and while it turned out a wee bit wobbly, it was solid! And all my mortices and joints fit! Talk about a sense of accomplishment.

(Lath making. On a shave horse. Most of the time I had to use the carpenter's son's horse because my legs are so short. Sigh.)

(Hammer of Thor. Charlotte does not approve of my antics.)

Charlotte and I drove down early Thursday morning, and arrived in rainy Devon around two in the afternoon. We set up camp in the rain, ate dinner in the rain, and played cards, in the rain. And didn't sleep for fear of being blown away in the night. The next morning, our course tutor, one Henry Russel told us we could sleep on the floor of the bake house. And then the caretaker of the Yarner Trust, which was running the course, agreed. Thankfully. Because holy cow did it rain. It was niceish the second night, but there was torrential rain the third. During the day, we had a barn to work in, and we learned all about timber and medieval carpentry practices. We learned to scribe joints--basically figuring out how wobbly wood fits together in a nice, tight joint (and the bane of my existance), we learned to lay out frames, and fit them together in multiple dimensions, we learned how to drill and chisel tenons and mortices (the holes tenons fit into), and learned to make pegs, lath and probably a millon other things. So it was a packed three days. Usually this course is over five days, and I think it would have been better in five. But three is what we had, so three is what we worked with. In the end we had a fantastic porch complete with seats and lathe sides, and two happy owners who fed us cake and tea. 

(The group of us feeling well chuffed.)

(Women laughing at lath.)

So it was an excellent weekend. I have a new name for a pub: The Lathing Maiden. I have only one slightly clamped finger. I have allergies from hell. I have now broken into an English Heritage property by accident (it was the largest cruck-framed building in the country, how could I resist?) And I have a new appreciation for medieval carpentry practices. What a weekend.