The Blue & Yellow Post

I was side-swiped this month by a talk with one of my acquaintances.

I work with this person. She and I have similar interests and insights. We’ve read the same books and have similar approaches to the importance of spirit in our life.

She loves and teaches stories, she is a writer and an editor, a seeker, committed to relationship building and a Libran. She also has a Catholic background and recently lost her father whom she cared for deeply. 

Like me, she believes that the path of the heart is all encompassing and when all is said and done, it is love that resounds and remains at the end of life.   I believe, though that she is farther along the path than me and a little clearer on what that tenet actually means in day-to-day life.  She is courteous and gentle; a great listener and very thoughtful in her care of others.

When she told me yesterday that she followed a guru in her spiritual practice I had a puzzling and negative reaction. And that worries me.

Despite the fact that we shared so many other interests I didn’t want to hear that she had handed over personal power to another. I find the choice of a guru akin to deifying another and this has never sat well. As I’ve done in the past, I dismissed the path as a possible method to find meaning and enlightenment.

What worries me is that I have no realistic alternative and no real reason for rejecting the path she’s chosen other than fear and confusion. Don’t get me wrong, I want to reach enlightenment along with the next person. Her path however, is dependent on trust and love – and that scares me.

When I went to India 10 years ago I sought the spiritual home I thought I needed. I was on a quest to find meaning and resonance. I had dreamt of gurus, met practitioners, read books, prayed and received confirming indicators that indeed this place and its spiritual practices would provide a place of rich sustaining support. Alas it provided noise, dirt, stress and crowds. I couldn’t see past the smells and confusion. As for inner sight I was lucky to maintain my sanity keeping an eye out for fast moving traffic and bullocks in the middle of the road. I was deeply disappointed and decided I had no spiritual bone in my body.

Besides, I had my darling husband as an alternative ‘religion’. He was my path to the heart. He was my divine other. It was enough. It was real and trustworthy. But it ended. Now without him I am rudderless and back to square one. Still sightless and a little the worse for wear; love might be the thing that matters in life, but it gets stripped away in the surety of death.

The sustaining truth from all of this, though, is that change is the other great constant in life; change in death; change in jobs; change in friends. And that the harbingers of change in my life invariably arrive with a baton – passing on a new curriculum of learning just before its time to move. This new friend brings with her the next list of subjects I am to study. When the student is ready, the teacher appears. In this case with she comes with a lesson plan: advising me to attend to the moment, to stay awake and to remember that for a seeker, the path doesn’t end.

We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time, T S Eliot

This is my last post for this journey overseas and as such there is a need to make it significant or full of insight. Alas with those compelling needs it might fail. If Ekhart Tolle could hear me - he’d remind me to live in the now and forget what you need or want. Just enjoy now.

The trip has been extraordinary; brilliant new vistas, challenges, laughs, delights, colours, smells and a light that is completely different to the one in Australia - home.

Milan is the last stop on this 7 week trip. I chose it for a number of reasons - not least among them was the fashion and the architecture, Castello Visconti-Sforza and of course, La Scala. Well I have seen sooooooo much architecture including some fabulous Art Deco and Art Nouvea balconies and iron work. I have been overwhelmed by the heat! frescos, statues, reliefs, mosaics, bells,cafes, good looking men, chapels, basilicas and the duomo which takes your breath away on first sight.

I have tried on every bit of outlet-worthy-last-season’s-oh-why-have-I-let-myself-get-this-fat piece of clothing;have walked every bit of shopping street,corso,via known to black belt shoppers:have worked the metro to within an inch of its red,yellow and green directions, and have found a few pieces that I will look at and sigh - Oh Milan.

One day I journeyed one hour away from gorgeous Milan to the small town of Bergamo. I was on a mission, to find and see the Visconti Tarot deck, which was, I understood in the care of the conservators at Acadamia Carrarar. I went up and down, in an out, around and about Bergamo on a gruelling 32 degree day, crossing bridges, climbing to forts at the top of the hill and ceremoniously saying good bye to Blokey, and then reaching finally the museum only to discover it was closed for renovations (for 2 years).

Having this disappointing sign translated word for word by a charming Italian, I traversed yet another knee breaking hill to find the palazzo de Regina (the temporary home of the academia collection) was also under renovation. I was so despondent I cried.

Just a bit, because someone was playing Ave Maria on the Flute outside the Basilica Maria di Maggiore. How can you be sad? On a beautiful day, in a beautiful town when that happens?

Remembering Gabbie’s and Cate’s advice not to get attached, and realising how many other fabulous places were yet to be discovered, I stopped that course of thought, dusted myself off and planned the next adventure to take place back in Milan.

Now those that know me, know the passion I have held dear (more than any other) has been the threatre. I went off to la Scala to be delighted by a view from a box, a tour of Callas’ wardrobe and memorabilia from this remarkable place of dreams and music. And to my great delight and surprise I saw some tarot cards (collected from the theatre stalls over many years). The only Arcana card - the judgement card from the Marseilles deck- smiled back up at me from behind the Scala museum collection; as if to say, Be surprised by life, now that you have made the right decision to move on with things.
The Judgement card has an image of people being called up and out of open graves (for the last judgement). Most pictures I’ve seen of this card, shows the dead to be quite chipper, having been dormant for so long.

So there you have it. I got my Tarot message after all, that it is good to move on and let the dead bury the dead. Blokey would want that for sure. I also got to see so many more things than I would have - because I had an intention to try as hard as I did and to hope and to care and to be disappointed (so take that Tolle!).

And, I got to see Milan in all its size 8 splendour. And if I don’t fit into drop dead tiny Italian state of the art fashion, do I care? You bet your size 14 arse I do! But that’s up to me to change and let go of that extra baggage.

Ciao Milan and thanks

I’ve always wanted to go to Lake Como. Ever since seeing the movie “A month by the Lake”, starring Vanessa Redgrave and Uma Thurman. I have and it hasn’t disappointed.

I am in a hotel that rivals Faulty Towers - in its demographic and at times in its level of service. But that’s not to say it’s bad; rather it’s entertainment value outweighs all else.

The first element in this remarkable entertainment are the Brits - either complaining about the weather, that admittedly has been wet; or complaining that the good weather - now that it’s clear - may not hold.

The second element in this delightful entertainment are the Italians - charming and incredibly good looking. I’m talking in this last instance about the youngish - middle aged men. Now I never thought I’d be a leerer (is there such a word) but I’ve become one in Italy. A large majority of the men look like George Clooney, which explains why he got a villa, knowing that he wouldn’t stand out.

If I may be permitted to have a third element - and I’ll record one anyway - it is that the beauty of this place. The lake is characterised by charming villages and villas built along the banks of a remarkable deep stillness, blue green, grey, misty  or bright light hazy sunshine it’s all stupendous.

I’ve waxed lyrically about all the places I’ve visited on this holiday for the very good reason that I picked them as I was designing the itinerary. I needed to be reminded of the splendour of the world and to be reawakened by my own response to that splendour and beauty. Well I have.

I spent an hour at Villa del Balbianello this morning - Oh my God! Built in the 1700s is various stages it has belonged to counts, cardinals, monks and explorers and now resides as part of a bequest in the care of the Italian national parks people. It is in all senses of the word, a grand villa. I arrived at the front steps by way of speedboat full of Milanese (aka stylish) Italians. Up through the ornate iron gates framed by mossy sculptures and a garden green, dripping with bright red flowers and plane trees sculptured into candelabras. It beat the movie set of ä Month by the Lake hands down. 

In other circumstances (ie my owning the villa, or being the only one at the villa) I would have taken time to sketch and paint and lie about in this heavenly sculptured gallery of delights. But alas, I was one of many moving tourists, who filled each path, step, loggia, room and ramp 4-across. There was no stopping, just movement. And that was OK. I think my senses, visual and olefactory are reaching overload.

My sister and I are travelling together. She will leave me in Milan the day after tomorrow. I have 3 more days on my own in Milan for some serious black-belt shopping a trip to Bergamo to see the Visconti Tarot deck and, if I’m remarkably lucky a night at La Scala to hear Verdi.

 It’s been great having her as my companion. We work well together. Perhaps it’s Karmic as well as familial. We laugh at the same things, break each other up, respond to the same sort of stimuli in similar ways. She is a delight. Even when she lost her camera at the Abbey yesterday (watch those pesky monks!) she was so good humoured about it, and took herself off on a 2 km walk today to report it to the police in broken English-Italian-English. 

Well the Lake is a must-see. Preferably without the tourists, but then again I am unmistakably one of them, and I am deeply grateful to the Italians they indulge us. I’ve always wanted to live by a lake. In my life, I dare say, that desire will translate into a house on Lake macquarie as opposed to a villa on Lake Como. But what’s in an address!?

Looking through a glass darkly - hardly! Not in this place exquisite light - Venezia.

We are, as the old English writers would put it, on an excursion today: to Murano, famous for Glass making,  the Lido, famous for Byron et al, and the Island of Burano, famous for lace - all aboard the Vaparettos! a water  boat that chugs from station to station up the waterways of Venice. What fun indeed.

We are staying in the suburb of Cannaregio far from the maddening turistos, near the jewish ghetto in a moorish inspired hotel, reminiscent of Shylock and all things shakespearean. Funnily, I’ve learnt more about Italy, during my life, from an English Playwright than from actual travel. Well, that is all changing as one can’t help but be inspired and aroused by this place.

Gab and I are in Venice, Italy. What a place! I thought Croatia was beautiful, but this is like a balm for the spirit.  A fair amount of it is enhanced by a delightful golden liquid called Prosecco (Miss Garner used to drink it in Salley Vicker’s book).

This intoxicant is enhanced by the vistas as well, the bright and variegated colours of the walls, the distresseed brick and rendering, the mossy-water-licked edges, the rotted wood and coloured striped poles that poke up out of the rocking rolling green water, the many boats navigating, bumping, in a dance across the canal ways: hell I can even stand the American tourists!

It is like living inside a painting or an art Gallery. This became especially apparant to me, when I went to the Accademia (Gallery) a day or so ago, and sat before enormous paintings from the 17th Century of the suburb in which I am now living. Why I even recognised the washing hanging from the shuttered windows, in much the same way they are displayed these days. Now that was surreal!

Yesterday we went to Frari the basilica that houses The Annunciation by Titian as well as a Donatello statue and surprise of all - the tomb of Monterverdi (my all time favourite composer of sacred music). Just when you thought you’d seen it all. A few days before we’d seen the graves of Ezra Pound, Serge Diaghilev and Igor Stravinsky at Cimitro, an island cemetery visible from Venezia town.

Well the city beckons, I need to be off to taste some more scampi, some more casa vino Blanco and catch another Vaparetto. Another glass of your finest my good man, line them up.

Tried to tweet- but there’s a twittering backlog! yikes.

What to do when you can’t tweet?  Blog of course.

Gab and I are travelling around Croatia and today we sorted out the ferry trip awaiting us later in the week that will take us further up the coast and thereafter over to Italy.

This is arguably the most beautiful place I’ve seen in my life. Sure everyone says that - but I mean seriously beautiful.

Picture this: Marble buildings with base reliefs in brass, marble stone road straight up the middle of a town; gargoyles, catholic statues of St Nicholas and a plethora of others, that sit atop a magnificent cathedral; squares filled with umbrella’d cafes and bars, fresh food produce every morning in the square; the most exquisite jewellery made of gold and coral - filigree handworked and competitively priced; pastries that pack the kilos on; a wall walk - of 2 km length that will manage to get the weight off.

This morning we walked for about an hour - past grand old mansions that are now post offices, banks, restaurants or tourist offices. Makes one wonder what sort of life style these croatians had before the war savaged their town.

Each day we trawl for the perfect coffee; each night for the perfect seafood repaste. They work hard for the tourist dollar and we are delighted to be spending it here. Fabulous scampi, prawns, fresh mussells, fish and pasta. Cool beer and house wine in a jug. Go that weight gain.. what a way to live.

Our apartment is buried in the heart of the old town, our landlady a charming woman who laughs when we try to mime our communicative needs - 2 beds not one; ice tray for gin; hallway light control etc. If you come to dubrovnik - you’ll be swamped by people at the boat offering apartments - we were so happy to get this fabulous deal doing it that way. I’ll tell you the details if you plan on visiting her.

For now - a ferry awaits, a seafood dinner and a concert in the old church at th end of the central stradun road.

Dorbra !

We’ve just landed off the ferry in Dubrovnik from Bari in the south of Italy. After a fabulous sleep on the rocking and rolling Adriatic waters.

Our tiny cabin provided the right amount of privacy and peace and recovery from the nightmarish customs passport check we endured at Bari.

After conflicting instructions from the check-in windows, about 300 passengers of varying nationalities all found ourselves in an airless corridor waiting for passport control to open the doors.

Like cattle we were herded for nearly 2 hours in a tight space with no explanation, other than random and agressive waving of the arms. Was the boat delayed, had it sunk, were we stuck at Bari forever? Now and then the Canadians made a run for it,  but were always sent back. There were a handful of clergy in the queue so we had spiritual counselling, and a nun from the queue, dressed in a brown habit handed out sweets to the back-packers - she was possibly looking for vocations but in any event she was a great balm to them.

Finally, either the late boat arrived, or the cleaning was complete, or they decided they’d punished us enough, and the doors were opened and we were practically run through  - some even got through without a passport? No check no question no nothing - oi what does it all mean?  On board we had a couple of stiff drinks and all was good.

Anyway, when the new day arrived we sailed into the delightful town of Dubrovnik that keeps delighting the senses with steep stepped alleys, tiny apartments, charming landladies, very cool internet cafes and a plethora of sightseeing boats in the harbour. Even popped into the church for a quick hail-mary.

The task ahead is to visit the beauty parlour (where I will have to talk Gabbie out of getting a hair dye - lest it turn out bright red like most of eastern europe!) have a swim, walk the wall of the old town and relish this town that seems to have emerged from the mist of misery last night like nirvana.

Counting down to our evening flight off this magnificent island of Keffalonia, one of the Ionian Islands off the coast of Greece.

I’ve been on Kefalonia for two weeks, and was lucky enough to see Myrtos beach, arguably one of the most beautiful beaches in Europe. I also visited Ithaca, a blessedly beautiful place with tiny beaches, emerald turquoise water finished with chalky clean-white stone edges, and countless tavernas and fishing boats, ancient men on scooters, minis full of coptic priests and menus that had half the items unavailable, and chilled golden beer, mousakka and calamari - all for 10 Euro. Actually every lunch and dinner, by the way ended up costing about 10 Euro - wierd!?

Ithaca is an island made famous in and by Homer’s myth. See Ithaca and find peace. I think that’s true actually. I put it down to the  fact that Ulysses wife, Penelope wove the qualities of fidelity, love and peace into her tapestry and in doing so formed the sustainable bones of that Ithakan myth. At the heart of this peace is trust that the future would bring the return of her wayward husband.

Our Ithakan guide for the day, unfortunately lacked the charm of a greek accent, seeing as though she was from Britain. The Island of Keffalonia seems to have more Brits than Greeks. Myrtos beach was full of them, baking themselves with a frightening lack of sun-screen and if I might add, good taste in swim-wear. But there you have it. These British holidayers seem to have made Shirley Valentine a new religion.

Ithaca had a different feel to Keffalonia. It was peaceful, it was also picturesque, full of tiny protected harbours, pocketted by a soft palette of stone buildings, overhanging bouganvillea, faded shutters and spilling over rusted balcony railings. Everywhere you look was a blinding chalky white stone path leading further on to a vista of unspeakable beauty.

On Keffalonia, yesterday we found ourselves driving one way up the back passages of Assos, a tiny village built beneath a ruined castle. Looking up the steep sloping road, it took approximately 2 mintues to decide that the icecream was far more appealing than a sun-drenched climb up the fortress road. Yes, Castles and Ruins can lack both intrigue and the necessary charm late on a hot day especially when competing with Norgen-Vaaz tirimisu and rasberry ice cream.

So packing all our travel gear, our books, our sun tans and our hangovers (yes if you do drink toooooo much Retsina you will get a headache!), my sister and I are visiting an internet cafe prior to the trip to the airport.

Lasting images of our stay: goats with bells herded by wise and thoughtful dogs; old women in black who didn’t need to be costumed for their extra role on the 1940’s Captain Corelli’s Mandolin filmed a few years back on this island; Onassis style boats moored in tiny harbours; white stone roads that are impossible to traverse without at least one stumble; cypress pines that reach up into a star-filled night like cathedral spires; siestas where the shops shut for 3 hours after lunch; olives and fetta, Retsina and cool clear deep still water where the colours make you laugh out loud with heady delight.

Yassoooooo.

The scene was unlike any I’d seen or painted before. The structure was drenched in sunlight. Sharp shadows were cast by the gnarled olive trees, and dappled light defined a myriad of stone walls that ran in random lines

 I had no idea what part of the structure was what as I tried to capture the scenes punctuating points; A collapsed roof, arched windows framing bold stone wheels and fragmented wooden presses, rusted gates, broken steps and rugged stone walls.  

How many years before had a family run this Olive press? Who was it that had lived in the   adjacent homestead?  When did they close shop and in what circumstances? Now the home was boarded up -  its green wooden door and shutters, faded and stripped of color, were banded by steel cross bars. Intruders like myself could only guess what lay behind them. The many memories, stories, dreams, history were forever locked away behind resilient sun-drenched stone.

Was the Press in operation when Byron walked these island roads? Was the press as old as Francis of Assisi who had also lived on the Island?

The white chalky stones and terracotta tiles now fallen and almost embedded in the ground, are now awash with tiny white flowers, as abundant as the butterflies and bumble bees that traverse  them. There is continual movement in this still stone ruined landscape. The wind now and then carried what sounded like laughter and the wonderful whooshing sound of the greek language.

The Press stands near the villa where my family and I are holidaying. It is one of many ruined buildings that seem to characterize Greece. From the splendor of the Acropolis and Delphi to these tiny roads around the Islands, the land seems to be at peace with transience.

Sometime later in the week we’ll travel to Ithaca – a destination that has been on my wish-list for many years. From the villa we can see Ithaca. On Friday, we will catch a small boat from the town of Fiskardo, 10 minutes away. We will walk on the ancient land trodden by the Greek hero, Ulysses and we will see what he saw. And will we go the land of the lotus eaters, and stay away as long as he did?

When I was little I pored over the Greek myths of gods and heroes. I watchd the movies in the 60s that tried to recreate the stories of Ulysses, of Jason and Argonauts and the Trojan War; the struggle between destiny and a personal hunger and striving for love, for eternal glory or to meet your destiny – no matter what.

A few days ago, I was at Delphi, beneath the mountain of Parnassus. Our guide told us myths and stories all the way from Athens. And as we passed the intersecting roads where Oedipus met his fate, and killed his father, I cried.

I cried because there as an actual road from which this extraordinary story took seed. I cried because there is something extraordinary about stories that last as long as that. I cried because I was now walking the same path that many seekers had walked. It was the Delphic Oracle that told Alexander the Great he would conquer the world. It was the Oracle that foretold of wars and caught Nero out on his plan to murder his mother Agrippa. And it was the Oracle that was built from bees wings and wax.

I could do with much, much more of these Greeks.

I had a farm in Africa…  well actually I had dinner in Athens, in the Plaka, with my most extraordinary nephew!

We are  thousands of miles from home. I am holidaying in Athens with my twin sister and her twins, Michael and Georgie, our closest girlfriend Rosey, our beautiful niece madeline and tomorrow my sister Gabby.

So wer’e here miles from home and we are counting every blessing, every sight, every sound and every part of the story.

We spent the day in Delphi. Well my sister, Cate, Rosey and I went to visit the Oracle, whose advice “know thyself, and “no excess” (what dumb advice is that!) made us gob-smacked with awe, so much so that all we could do - on the return to Athens was retreat to a quiet taverna, order a gin and review the photos and mental shapshots of the day.

How do you explain  to your dinner companions what it was that made you cry at Delphi? How do you translate that moment of gob-smacking, oh-my-god-I’m really here- response to hearing the guide say “down to your right is the road where Oedipus met and killed his father”. How do you explain why you want the Oracle to tell you, in 2008 what you you should be doing  with the rest of your life?

It was my nephew who asked me “what was it that was so special about delphi”?  

“It was my nephew who “twittered” with me today - and read what I saw at Dephi (while I was seeing it)

It was my nephew who offered to show me and Rosey around Lycabettus Hill tomorrow,

And it was my nephew- who at 4 years old told me to “go home to Australia and find myself a husband” (which, for you disbelievers, I did!).

It was my nephew who get’s what moved me today, who sees me in pursuit of gnosis and beauty.

I love you kid.

Once upon a time a simple little family lived deep in the woods of a land far away.

The husband was an old wise man. He had 2 children who were simple of heart and mind, called rooney and trooney. His much younger 2nd wife he named Beauty. He died in tragic circumstances and around the same time his simple children disappeared never to be seen again. So Beauty was left alone in the world.

She decided to pack up her possessions and leave the wooded house she’d known for the last 13 years. Her only possessions of worth were the cloths she had woven since being a little girl. She came from a long line of weavers and each generation added something unique to the craft. Beauty’s talent was an ability to weave almost intangible cloth, as light as wind, as soft as water and as bright as the sun.

Beauty could also embroider the cloth in such a way that it came to life and anyone who looked on it felt a deep longing and was immediately transported into the scene itself. Why it was even said, beauty could embroider feelings, such was her skill.

Most of beauty’s work had been sold at market. But she packed up what was left of her work into a parcel which she carried on her head. And she set off on the northern road. She walked most of the day, through all sorts of landscapes until she saw some farming lands in the distance. Coming closer to the verdant fields, she noticed a single cowherd and some dairy cows. He was herding the cattle into the barn.

Beauty asked the cowherd if she could spend the night in the barn along with the cows. He simply nodded. Beauty was touched by his gentle nature, and felt sorry for the cowherd who only wore the flimsiest of cloth. She reached into her pack and handed the cowherd a fine blue cloth the colour of midnight. Embroidered with the sun, the moon and a thousand tiny stars, the cloth was large enough to envelope the young cowherd, so that he disappeared into the night.

Beauty settled on the warm hay in the barn and was so tired she fell deeply asleep the moment her head touched the ground. The last thing she heard were the murmurs of the night and a single voice singing softly to the moon.

The following day there was no sign of the cows or the cowherd – for they had set off at first light to graze on other fields. She ate some cheese and bread from her pack and walked further on the northern road.

The road turned and twisted into a deeper darker wood. The ancient trees reached towards the sky, forming a cathedral like canopy above. She looked upwards marvelling at their grandeur and missed her footing, tripping on an exposed root. Down she tumbled – flat on her face in the mud.

Oh dear oh dear, said a voice to her left, what a mess you’ve made.

Beauty looked around for the voice and saw an orange dog and blue lynx.

Blinking twice at these strange figures, she heard the lynx chortle,

What a fine mess you’re in – you should have looked where you were going.

Beauty scrambled to her feet laughing, you’re right of course lynx – but if you could show me the way out of the woods I can dry off in the sun, and it will brush off – you’ll see. Perhaps, if you could also show me a river, I could wash my face and hands as well.

The lynx laughed, and pushed past her so quickly Beauty almost lost her footing again. But she chased after lynx until they emerged in the sunlight.  Before she could thank her guide, lynx disappeared.

Beauty looked at this new vista – a field of wild and splendid poppies, as red and bold as the eye could see. Overwhelmed by the sight and the warmth of the day, she surrendered to the impulse and lay flat on her back gazing up in wonder at the sun above her. She was soon asleep - dreaming of embroidery the colour of crimson blood and rubies. When she awoke the sun was low in the sky and she knew she needed to quickly find another place before night fell.

She walked down to the river that ran through the poppy field and saw her reflection. Beauty laughed so hard at the messy sight she saw, she lost her footing and fell headlong, pack and all, into the fast flowing river. Beauty grabbed at overhanging branches but was unable to grab hold of anything for any longer than a minute – for the river current was too strong.

Just surrender, the water murmured, just go with the flow.

Beauty could do nothing else but give in. The river raced past fields of lavender, of sage or rosemary of thyme of sunflowers and finally a field of cotton, with their puff ball flowers she knew so well.

The river finally slowed and the water became golden and shallow. Beauty was able to stop and stand up on some rocks.

Thank you river, for I would never have made it this far without you. But the river was silent and she started to think she imagined hearing that voice earlier.

With the sun almost set, Beauty made her way to a nearby Cotton Mill. The door was open and inside the millers wife was setting the table for dinner. Beauty asked if she could dry off by the fire.

Well you’d better, laughed the miller, for you are drenched through and you’ll catch your death if you stay like that.

Beauty sat by the warm fire and unpacked her fine cloths – spreading them around her to dry as well. The miller’s wife watched all of this with greedy eyes – for she could see how valuable the cloth was. Beauty turned to thank her for her hospitality and the miller’s wife quickly set her features into a smile, hiding the greed and envy behind a warm and generous grin.

She fed Beauty a fine dish and poured goblet after goblet of wine, drugging the last goblet with a sleeping draught. Beauty was so hungry she ate it all and swallowed all the wine, marvelling at how wonderful it made her feel. She forgot all her sadness and fear of the future. Before long, she was sound asleep snoring as loudly as the pigs outside.

When she awoke she was on the side of the road with a very sore head and no parcel of cloths. Realising the miller’s wife had stolen them, Beauty started to wail and cry for all that she had lost and for her own stupidity.

So loud was her wailing that a passing tailor heard the din and stopped to scold her. Now the tailor was a wily fellow with a ready smile, a quick wit and big heart. But he had a twisted leg and walked with a limp. It certainly didn’t slow him down for he was born like that.

Now stop it right now, he scolded Beauty. Not given to self-pity himself, he said, why you have your health, you seem young and healthy, what could be so bad? You can come with me and I’ll put you to work in my shop.

Beauty was so startled by the tailor’s abruptness, she agreed and followed him to the next town where his shop was already set up and well established.

And so they worked together for many years. She embroidering and weaving cloth finer than ever before, with images of poppies, and cows and fields of sunflowers.

The tailor grew to love her and she him. Eventually they married. And people came from far and wide to see their fine work and buy as much as they could make.

One day many years later they heard that a miller’s wife had been robbed and murdered.

And of the cloths she stole from Beauty? Why some say one cloth forms the sail on a pirate ship, another forms the tent of a gypsy fortune teller, and another hangs in the queen’s own chamber. As fine as ever before.