A creative effort rewarded

So what happened with that little craft project I mentioned - making a pen case? It turned out very well.

I like working with leather, and it only took one evening to get a result that I think looks pretty good. It didn't need to be perfect. Indeed, I didn't want it to be. If anybody noticed a certain lack of finish, then I'd be able to explain that it was home-made - by my own fair hand - and then that might lead to a pleasant conversation about all kinds of projects like this. I'm pretty sure that many people would like to plunge in and not only design something for themselves but make it as well; but reservations about the skills needed hold them back. Well, I'm as unskillful as they come. And I'm writing this post as least partly to encourage equally inept people to have a go. It's very satisfying to create something useful from raw materials. If not a pen case, then perhaps a phone case, or a purse. None of these need be very ambitious or difficult to make.

I began by considering why I wasn't just going to pop my new fountain pen into the pen case I already had. This was it:

Well, it was a traditional design (boring), in black (even more boring), and intended for a both pen and a pencil (whereas I wanted a case for only a pen). In any event, I wanted something in softer leather, a platform that I could gently place the pen onto when I put it down, without much danger of it rolling away, perhaps to its doom.

So I'd need to rethink the design. That black case above wasn't a suitable starting point. It was too elaborate. In particular, the stitching required was way too complicated for me to do. I could only hand-stitch, not possessing a sewing machine.

Experiments with paper folded and stapled in various ways revealed a way to make a very simple but perfectly functional case. What leather could I use? I decided to use some soft brown leather, an offcut from the Pittards factory shop in Yeovil, and cannibalise a yellow-leather purse bought from the Pittards outlet shop in Clarks Village at Street. I thought both would go nicely with the teal colour of the pen, and both would also look good against the teal colour of my bag. (I also had a blue-green offcut, but didn't use it on this occasion)

So, I cleared the table in my study, got the necessary simple tools together, measured and made lines on the brown leather, and cut out a rectangle. Then I folded one longer edge to form a kind of pouch for the pen to go into, hand-sewing the ends. I also cut out the embossed Pittards logo from the purse. This would be glued inside the case, but visible when it was open - a nod of thanks to Pittards for the leather. 

So far, so good. As you can see, when it was exposed but not actually being used, the pen nestled between the pouch section and the yellow Pittards label (which had just enough thickness to stop it rolling sideways). 

I still hadn't decided how I would fasten the case when the label section was folded over the pouch. So I took time out while I cooked and ate my evening meal. Meanwhile, I placed the new soft brown case upside-down next to the black case I'd spurned:

As you can see, when fully folded up, the new brown case was narrower but longer. The length didn't matter: wedged upright, it fitted perfectly into a corner of my bag. But it still needed some means of keeping it folded up so that the pen couldn't accidentally drop out. By and by, I thought on the lines of serviette-rings. After eating, I made a ring out of a glued strip of the same brown leather. 

I also unpicked the hand-stitching, which (to my mind) didn't look nice enough, and glued the ends of the pouch section instead. This restricted the internal length of the pouch section, so that when slid inside, the pen now fitted very snugly indeed, and was in no danger whatever of budging whatever the provocation. Gluing was clearly a good technique when using leather!

Now was that ring just slightly too slack? I decided that it was. I soon made another, which was a closer fit on the main body of the pen case. That completed the work.

And in the morning light, next day:

I felt very pleased. A deliciously retro object, and all my own work!

Had I saved myself much money by making a case myself, instead of buying one in a shop, or online? Well, the straight answer was no, not much! I hadn't looked online for design ideas, but doing so now showed me that other people had arrived at similar solutions before me, and had done it more skilfully. Actually, it was astonishing what had been out there, had I looked. Here's a selection from various websites:

Dear me - that's terribly similar to my case! Mind you, I prefer my 'ring' solution to winding a bit of string around that stud...

That last design is rather neat.

The colour of the case doesn't have to be brown. There's a splurge of different colours to be had:

Although the colours next used wouldn't be my first choice, there's no denying that these cases from a Cornish maker are trendy and eye-catching! 

Well. Who would have thought that in the twenty-first century it was even possible to buy a modern fountain pen case? Of course, any of these would fit your ballpoint or rollerball pen just as well, but they do seem to be made with proper pens chiefly in mind.

I'd definitely agree that the cases offered online are all head and shoulders above my own effort in terms of finesse and finish. But seeing them in no way makes me feel that I should have taken the easy route and bought a case online, and not bother to make one. After all, mine is unique; and I have all the satisfaction that comes from creating something with my own hands. That's ample reward.

A nice new signpost for those condemned to death or transportation

On my way back to the caravan from my Rendezvous Lodge walk last October, I saw this red signpost at a crossroads on the A31 near Winterborne Tomson. Of course, I had to stop and take a closer look.

As you can see, it has had a makeover, and is all freshly repainted. You can even see (in the bottom shot) how they mount the fingers one on top of each other, and can angle them just so. The post is topped by a London Underground-style circle and crosspiece with 'Dorset Red Post' on it, and the Ordnanace Survey grid reference (minus the letters that identify the 100 x 100 kilometre square, in this instance SY).

These red posts are scattered around the West of England, and are not at all numerous, which makes them pretty special. Dorset has four of them. I wrote a post featuring the one at Benville, north-west of here (see Blood-spattered signposts, and transportation for life on 23rd October 2016), and reiterated what a passing chappie, who seemed to know his stuff, had to say about why these posts were painted red, and not the usual white. The gist of it being that condemned men were usually hanged on gibbets erected at crossroads, and left there, blood dripping from their lacerations, to be pecked by crows until they rotted away. All as an Awful Warning not to steal turnips if you were hungry, nor to be rude to the squire. Naturally the adjacent signpost would also be blood-red. Which all sounds like a good explanation, except that the best place for setting up a gibbet - to get maximum exposure and visual impact - is on a high place, in some bleak and windswept spot, where it can be seen for miles, like this one I saw last year near Elsdon in Northumberland:

They hang 'em high in the north east!

The Winterbourne Tomson red post on the A31 is basically in flat meadowland. The Benville red post I saw in 2016 was half-way down a hill. Here it is. Remarkably similar in style - perhaps Dorset County Council repaired and repainted both at the same time:

And now I've discovered an article on the Internet that has an explanation for the redness that seems to make sense. See http://yertiz.co.uk/four-red-fingerposts-dorset/. The writer of that article offers a rather convincing theory that as the four Dorset red posts are all the same distance from the county gaol in Dorchester, they must mark the old resting-points, or muster-points, that were used when marching prisoners to incarceration or transportation. And in the case of the A31 red post, he points to the farm just down the road, which is called Botany Bay Farm, and a pub not far away called the Botany Bay - that spot (now part of Sydney in New South Wales) being the Australian landing-place of choice for transported prisoners. Such as the Tolpuddle Martyrs, who tried to set up a farmworkers' union just down the road, and got sent Down Under for their pains. 

There are apparently modern regulations on signposts that require the local authorities to not only keep traditionally-styled posts like this in good order, but to preserve their original colour as an historical matter. So for centuries to come these posts will be there, just as now, even if the contemporary navigation systems in the conveyances of the time won't need any such roadside aids.

Bear Grylls, and a lesson in kissing gates

Yesterday I left you high up on the Dorset downs, walking southwards towards the village of Winterborne Zelston. Here's the map again:

My route back to where I'd parked Fiona was very straightforward: down into the village, turn left at the church, then follow the path and tarred road back to Mapperton.

Winterbourne Zelston turned out to be one of those thatched-cottagey Dorset villages, rather attractive and distinctly upmarket. The church seemed neat and tidy, and worth a look.

Inside it seemed well cared-for, with several lists showing who was on the local electoral roll, and who was responsible for flowers and cleaning and locking-up. 

Lady Sarah Grylls? Hmm. And then this:

Now was that Bear Grylls in the lower picture, the well-known risk-mad outdoor adventurer on TV? Was he also a Christian then? And was the Lady Sarah Grylls on the electoral register his mum? I really didn't know much about him. Looking him up later, the answer is yes to all of that. Well, well. And if I hadn't poked my face through the door of this church I'd have never known.

Across from the church was a wooden bridge over a shallow water-course.

This is chalk country. When the weather is dry, all the water is underground, because the porous chalk drains any rain away. Only when there is prolonged wet weather, and the water table rises, can streams flow above ground. Such as in the winter. The streams that appear then are called 'bornes' or 'winterbornes' and that's why there are so many villages in Dorset (and elsewhere in Wessex) that have 'Winterborne' as the first half of their names. Locally to Winterborne Zelston are Winterborne Tomson, Winterborne Muston, Winterborne Kingston, Winterborne Whitechurch, Winterborne Clenston, Winterborne Stickland and Winterborne Houghton. But there are also several Winterbourne Somethings on Salisbury Plain in Wiltshire. 

Onwards. The eastward path back to Mapperton left the church through a most unusual kissing gate. My good friend Angie knows all about these, and is an expert. I will gladly be corrected if I get anything wrong in what I say next about them! This gate was but one of three in quick succession, all different. Here it is.

The top picture in this set shows that you could use either the kissing gate, or, if you were desperately boring, a regular gate. Well, I strive not to be boring (though I probably fail dismally: sigh) and eased myself through the kissing gate - although, sadly, there was nobody to land a smackeroo onto. But I wasn't looking for rural sex, so it didn't matter. As for this kissing gate's design, it was the opposite to the usual set-up of a fixed semi-circular part and a hinged gate, designed to let a human body pass through without having to climb over, and yet be a barrier to daft beasts like sheep and big beasts like cows. This one had a fixed gate but a hinged semi-circular part. Much more fun. I wonder why they aren't more popular? It was, as usual, rather a squeeze; so I suppose the regular gate is not only for the ultra-boring - you might be on the tubby side, and have to use it.

Only a short distance away was the next kissing gate, still rustic, still made of wood, but of a more conventional design.

And then a third gate, this time in mundane galvanised steel.

Missing from this collection of kissing gates was the wrought-iron type - such as this dilapidated example seen by me at Bramshott in Hampshire in 1993...

...or this much better example I encountered in Shaftesbury in north Dorset in 2008:

Surely I'd see one of these too? But it was not to be.

By the time I got back to Mapperton, I'd had enough of country walking for the day. It was still warm, and I was hungry. I was so glad when Fiona came into view!

As I reached her, I checked my Fitbit. Gosh. 14,000 steps done. Hurrah!

That wasn't the end of my walking for the day, despite some mild protestations from the ligament in my left knee. I did more in the evening. In the end I got over 21,000 steps in that day, as shown in the weekly summary Fitbit emailed to me:

  

You do this kind of thing in the longer, sunnier days of the year, not in January. But I'll get back into it in the months ahead.