The Nordic Baking Book and The Nordic Cook Book - Magnus Nilsson

To add to the water pump woes, and the heat that makes it feel all but impossible to do anything, there's now an absolutely massive spider at large in my flat. It scuttled out from underneath some clean washing this morning, hid in a pair of knickers that I felt inclined to bin, and finally disappeared under the clothes horse and probably into a duvet cover. I don't wish the spider ill, but I really don't want it jumping out at me again, or in my bed (or underwear, even if I'm not wearing it at the time), and I'm at a bit of a loss as to how to deal with it. I think I'll have to take the duvet cover into the corridor (too many more spiders hanging around the windows for me to shake it out without getting more of them) which will probably freak out the neighbours if they see me - and honestly, it's Far Too Hot for this nonsense.

It's also too hot to finish sorting out the books to go (loading them into the back of a car isn't going to be fun) but I need to get them gone. Two books that are staying are Magnus Nilsson's The Nordic Cook Book and The Nordic Baking Book, although I did wonder about them briefly. I have recently found myself referring to both of them quite a bit, but before that, they'd remained more or less untouched since my sister gave them to me as Christmas presents.

The problem is, they're huge and unwieldy with it for practical kitchen use. A lot of what The Nordic Cook Book covers is the sort of thing (puffin, fulmar, pilot whale) that I wouldn't dream of cooking even if I could - and to be fair I don't think there's any expectation that you might cook these things, but they're a significant part of the food culture in places like Faroe and Iceland so it would be wrong to leave them out. I've also been told by people who have used the baking book that some of the recipes are unreliable.

The question of reliability is an interesting one - the original Mrs Beeton was a collection of things sent in and not necessarily checked, and I've seen some fairly suspect looking recipes in my time in magazines and compendium, but now we not only really expect things to work, but don't necessarily have the knowledge to be able to tell when they won't or know how to fix them. 

Because of how I use these books, reliability isn't my main criterion. I think the instructions for how to braid dough (which I do want to know) are sound, and the history of some of the other things I've looked up is convincing enough for me to quote with confidence (and references). The idea that things might not work is still off-putting, but the insight into a culture is enough to carry me through. 

And now, if I can just catch the merest breath of breeze after weeks of having these weighing down my desk I might just find the energy to haul them back to their normal resting place under the kitchen bookshelves, because they're too big to fit on them (I'll also be praying that's not where the giant spider has taken up residence, nothing about today will be improved by squashing it with kilo's of cookbook).

The Jumper update

It is ridiculously hot here, which I do not like at the best of times. As the pumps that bring water to my flat keep cutting out and can't be properly fixed until next week it is far from the best of times. All too frequently there's no water to flush toilets, wash hands, drink, wash in, or wash clothes in - a poor combination when it's over 30C.

It's also far too hot to knit, sweaty wool as well as being unpleasant to handle is going to be a moth magnet, so progress is grinding to something of a halt about 2/3rds of the way through my first sleeve. It should cool down by the weekend, but until then I'm not going to stress about it - although I do want to finish this as soon as possible so I have an accurate idea of how much yarn I used (my partner is sailing up to Shetland soonish - whilst I'm stuck here in the heat with flies for company - I can't give him a shopping list if I don't know what I need).

So far I've used less yarn than I had anticipated which is good news and found that a 25g ball goes further than I expected when I've stuck in something random for fun. I'm also finding knitting the sleeve okay, although it demands much more concentration than the body when everything was complete repeats. It's one thing remembering to make the increases, but having to work out exactly where I am at the start of each row is slowing me down even more than the heat. Carefully annotating the pattern and judicious use of stitch markers is helping. 

I had meant to talk about colours in this post, but they're all the bright red is glowing like hot coals in the evening sun and I just can't do it tonight - so, next time. 

Apricot, Cherry, and Fennel Bread - Cooking in a time of Covid and Brexit

I spent a lot of yesterday in the kitchen (thankfully a reasonably cool day compared to the forecast for the rest of the week) working through some of the recipes in Sicilia which had really appealed to me, really over-cooking for the one other person who was coming round and generally having a lovely time of it. I found quite a quantity of significantly out of date things at the back of the cupboard (gone now), didn't find a whole lot of things I thought I had on hand, and rediscovered a stash of dried cherries I had put somewhere safe to use last Christmas (they were fine).

It's been a while since I've tried to shop for specific ingredients rather than just buying what looked good, or is available, and then deciding what to do with it. Trying to find specific things was an eye-opener. I don't know if the reason is Covid, Brexit, or a combination of the two but there's nothing like looking for something to show up how many gaps there are on the shelves. I couldn't get the pasta shape I wanted, shelled pistachios weren't to be had, or dried figs. I wanted fresh figs too, which could be had for a price I decided to pass on in M&S, but to be fair they're not really in season yet. Everywhere I looked ranges had shrunk, there were gaps, and prices have gone up. 

Not being able to get shelled pistachios, dried figs, or even a particular pasta is a small thing, very much a first-world problem, but it's a much more real signifier of lost liberties and changed times to me than wearing a mask will ever be. Not being able to physically travel isn't much of a hardship whilst I can't afford to do it anyway, and it was always a luxury, but not being able to travel in my own kitchen is hard.

Regardless, I still managed to make a really good bread based on the fig and fennel loaf in Sicilia, and despite all the gaps I hadn't anticipated in my own store cupboard. It's the kind of loaf that seems just a little bit too expensive to buy when I see them out and about (it's not so much the bread, but the desire for a bit of goats cheese to put on it, and maybe a really good honey, and perhaps some properly ripe fruit to have with it, and then should it be the fancy butter... and then I've spent £20+ on what was meant to be a simple lunch for 1).

Making a couple of loaves at home removes the temptation to buy everything else in the deli to go with them, and is deeply satisfying. This is a recipe that can be played around with a lot, the dough can be made the night before you want it and left to prove in the fridge so if someone is prepared to get up early to knock it back and stick it in tins it'll be ready for a later breakfast or brunch. It's also a very good reason to buy Sicilia, which has plenty more where this comes from. This isn't exactly the version from the book, but rather the one that I cobbled together. 

Take a tablespoon of golden sugar, a 7g sachet of instant yeast, and 300ml of lukewarm water. Mix them together and set aside for 10 minutes or until it's bubbling away happily. Meanwhile put 200g of dried fruit chopped into smallish bits (I used cherries - no need to chop - because I had them, I had planned on it being apricots, the original recipe uses figs) 150g of fresh fruit, in this case, it was apricots, 50g of dried cherries (I thought about opening a bag of cranberries to mix it up, but the cherries needed using) 375g of strong white flour, 60g of rye flour, 60g of wholemeal flour, 1 1/2 tablespoons of fennel seeds, 1 tablespoon of pumpkin seeds, and 2 teaspoons of fine sea salt, in a bowl and toss together.

Add the yeast mix, stir well, and knead for about 5 mins - this is a wet and sticky dough. transfer the dough to a clean bowl, drizzle well with olive oil and turn it to cover thoroughly, cover with a damp tea towel and leave to double in size.

Turn the dough out and knead gently for another couple of minutes, set aside whilst you butter and flour a couple of 450g/1lb tins. Half the dough, form it into 2 balls, roll well in polenta or semolina, and place in the tins to prove for around another 40 mins under their cool tea towel. 

Heat oven to 200C, 180C fan, gas mark 6. Sprinkle the tops of the loaves with water and put them in the oven. Reduce the heat to 190C, 170C fan, Gas mark 5. Bake for 40 -45 mins until the tops are golden and the bottom sounds hollow when it's tapped. Cool on a rack for 10 mins before removing from the tins, allow to cool completely, and enjoy. 

I also made a strawberry almond and rosewater cake (with Vanilla because no rosewater) with a strawberry compote - again very good, and an amazing pistachio pesto which is by far the best pesto I've ever eaten. I'm loving this book. 

Sicilia - Ben Tish

This book turned up out of the blue when it was still cold and miserable back in the spring (thank you very much Bloomsbury), I spent a couple of happy hours leafing through it, and then because the publication date wasn't for months (10th of June) it worked it's way to the bottom of the pile of books on my desk where I'd notice it every few days and think I must look at it again.

That time has come only a month and a bit after it was published, and only partly because I've got a friend coming round for dinner on Thursday and was looking for some inspiration as to what to feed her. I'm still in the process of sorting out books to go and will admit that I've looked at 'Sicilia' providing a sturdy base for teetering paperbacks over the last couple of months and wondered if I really needed it. Mediterranean food isn't generally my biggest enthusiasm, I like it, but it doesn't catch my imagination in the way some other cuisines do - partly due to the difficulty of getting really good, ripe, fruit and veg in supermarkets here. Cheese is often disappointing too, and the lack of a herb garden doesn't help.

'Sicilia' is a mind changer though. It helps that it starts with a bread chapter, and I'm a very big fan of bread, especially these kinds of breads - the sort that are meals in themselves. They come filled with sausage or as lasagne bread, made with grapes wine, and honey, they cross over into cake territory stuffed with lemon, orange, cranberry, and nuts, with more nuts to top. And there's a fig and fennel bread that I'm absolutely making this week (despite being a fig sceptic) because it's precisely the kind of thing I'm craving in this weather - something that will be perfect with a little ricotta or goats cheese spread on it, fruit, honey, and maybe a little charcuterie on the side. 

If I wasn't stony broke I'd send a copy of this to my stepmother as it's both very much her kind of food and full of things it would be great to eat in a larger family group (all those breads, a whole lot of fritters, some very nice things done to fish, her polytunnel produce comes up trumps at times like this too). As it stands I'll be off to the international supermarket tomorrow to buy reasonably priced pistachios (it's relative) to make a pesto with.

This book also hits the mark as 'A love letter to the food of Sicily' which makes up its subtitle. The love for Sicily comes across on every page. Some of the recipes aren't traditional, but all of them are an homage to the flavours and history of the place. A pork, orange and mint ragu with fusilli is an example of this and is something I'll make as we move into autumn. 

There's a lot to like here, both in the way it evokes a sense of place, and for the selection of dishes - most look easy enough to make, some are calculated to impress, others to be regular favourites, plenty are both simple and frugal, and all of them feel like that thing I've missed the most in the last 18 months - food to share. 

Jumper Update

I meant to do this on Friday but waited until I'd finished the body of the jumper and the neck. Currently, I'm the proud owner/creator of a knitted straight jacket and have reached the interesting bits. I also found the measurement which tells me how long the jumper is meant to be from shoulder to hem which I was complaining was absent from the pattern a couple of weeks ago, so a red-faced moment for me here. 

And whilst I'm confessing things, I gave up on trying to learn Kitchener stitch on a sweltering hot July afternoon, with a whining dog (her leg hurts after a cruciate ligament strain but she still wants longer walks than she's allowed) for company. Instead, I used a 3 needle bind off to deal with the shoulder seams. I know this is impatience, that I should have waited until I was back home after dog sitting, made a practice sample, and learned how to do it properly. I need the practice for sleeve attachment, but I really wanted to be done - so here we are.

I'm also getting a bit confused by instructions that refer to left and right. My jumper is currently a tube, there's no shaping to differentiate front from back or left from right, and the shape it develops will be from wearing so how do I know which is which, and if I don't, does it matter?

Meanwhile, I now know that after all this effort that my jumper is both wide enough to have plenty of negative ease and not quite as ridiculously long as it looked on the needles. Both of these things are a relief. I was fairly sure it would be okay, but not completely sure - my maths is okay.

I'm also quite heartened to realise that I can knit something this big without losing interest half way through - I really thought I'd struggle with that, but I've enjoyed the all over pattern and found it went surprisingly quickly. I know I've said that before, but it continues to be the biggest surprise/discovery of this project. 

The Clearing - Samantha Clark

There's a William Morris poem, 'Love is Enough' that I particularly dislike - more now that those first 3 words are stuck on all sorts of Morris & Co merchandise. Love is not always nearly enough however much we'd like it to be. I don't know if Samantha Clark would share my feelings about this - I should ask her - but her brilliant, dark, difficult, hopeful, and honest book illustrates exactly why that phrase pisses me off so much.

I've had 'The Clearing' since November, I started it then, but for a few reasons, it felt very close to the bone and not the right time to read it. Now I have and I'm glad I waited until we'd all been vaccinated and can make tentative plans again. 

It's a memoir of art, family, and mental health - when Clark's parents die, she and her brothers have the job of clearing the house they lived in for 45 years, she also needs to reconcile herself to her past and her mother's mental health issues which had shadowed much of their lives. 

There might be more books like this about the process of grieving than I realise, but I don't often come across them. The last one I read was Helen Macdonald's 'H is for Hawk', which spoke about the sudden loss of a beloved father which hit me hard enough at the time but 'The Clearing' is something else. It's the awkward conversation where we admit that not all is well, that we've failed to love or love enough, or are forced to accept that love is not enough. That families are frequently unhappy through sheer bad luck.

Samantha's mother's illness starts when she's a young child, young enough not to have clear memories of who this woman was before she became trapped by anxiety and fear, closed in on herself, and a burden to her children and husband. It's full of the everyday grind of trying to protect people you also have to protect yourself from and the kind of conversations that we rarely have openly. they're also the kind of conversations we should be having, and fortunately, there's a lot of other things in here about art, and ways of seeing, light, hope, and love to balance the darker segments.

'The Clearing' didn't get the attention it deserved when it came out due to Covid, which is really a shame. It wasn't the easiest book for me to read, but it was a really helpful one, and on both counts, this is because of her honesty which I'm grateful for. If I've made it sound like a bleak book, it isn't - there's a lot of beauty here as well as hope, and really the best thing is to seek this book out for yourself and give it the once over. It's out in paperback now and really should be being shouted about from the rooftops as something special. 

The Heeding - Rob Cowen and Nick Hayes

I am the kind of tired you get to be when a large, very warm, dog with an injured leg decides at 2am that your bed is the place she wants to sleep, that you will make an excellent prop for her, won't mind that she keeps trampling on you in her many attempts to get comfortable, and who then has bad dreams until 7am when she decided it was time for me to get up, dressed, and be dragged around a field. It's not necessarily the best preparation for thinking about poetry, handling hot drinks (I spilled coffee down the side of my armchair), or crossing the road.

Today, with all the talk of 'freedom' day and an end to restrictions seems like an appropriate time to talk about 'The Heeding' though. It records Rob Cowen's pandemic year in poetry accompanied by Nick Hayes prints. My copy is a proof, and it tells me that the June 17th publication date was chosen to coincide with the end of the first lockdown. Leicester never really came out of lockdown which makes that an oddly disconnecting thing to read in what is still a disconnected time.

I was familiar with Rob Cowen's nature writing before this, but not his poetry, and I'll be honest, the vague comparison to 'The Lost Words' on the cover didn't do anything to prepare me for what I'd find inside. I don't think it's a particularly helpful selling point either - these two are worlds apart.

What actually happened is that 'The Heeding' regularly, efficiently, and comprehensively reduced me to tears - which was essentially cathartic. It's been a strange time, and whilst I can honestly say it's not been the worst time for me, I'm not unscathed by it either. 

The last year, for someone who lives alone, has a wide circle of friends online, was in a congenial bubble, escaped any major health problems, and who has the sort of hobbies that thrive in relative isolation (knitting and reading do) was often quite pleasant. Which I sometimes feel a bit guilty about. 'The Heeding' shows a different sort of year, and this is where I realise that this time has touched me more than I thought it had; I've missed that sense of being a part of a community, of insight into other people's lives. Reading this shows, again and again, me how limited my world has become, how safe, how circumscribed. 

'the Heeding' catches other moments and moods too, things and I recognise with an uncomplicated kind of pleasure, but more than anything it feels to me like a record of the strangeness of the times, of briefly silent streets, of noticing the things that had become almost invisible, of memories from this time last year tripping us up just when we thought we were reconciled to the new status quo, and the fears and attempts to comfort shared in phone calls and messages. The bubbling undercurrent of anger and frustration that boiled over into last summer's protests, and has bubbled away ever since is here too, and much more.

'The Lost Words' is a lovely book, but at no point did it ever elicit the range of emotions in me that 'The Heeding' does. Nick Hayes's graphic, sometimes brutal, sometimes gentle, black and white imagery perfectly matches the poems. Together they feel like something elemental. This wasn't quite my pandemic year, but I recognise it, and when I need to remind myself of what this time was like this is where I'll turn. 

Rhubarb and Rose Jam

Amongst all last weeks recipe testing was a rhubarb and rose jam, partly inspired by my favourite soap (find here) and as now is absolutely the time to make it I thought I ought to post the recipe before it was too late. I like this jam - the rose is subtle, the colour is pretty, and it's great with yoghurt. I'm also an absolute convert to making jams like this in smaller quantities.

The reasons for this are many and start with not wanting to be stuck with a lot of a flavour you might not end up totally in love with. The second point in favour is that the whole process is suddenly a lot quicker - which is a consideration in the summertime when standing over a hot pan is a penance. A quicker cooking time also means that you keep more of the fruit flavour - which in turn is an argument to make a couple of batches if you want more jam rather than just sizing up the recipe. Because it's much quicker to cook that's not as tedious as it sounds.

Starting with 500g of rhubarb will produce 2 or 3 average-sized jars of jam.

500g of rhubarb cut into 1 - 2 cm chunks

325g of jam sugar (or granulated sugar and a teaspoon of pectin powder)

A loose handful of scented, unsprayed, rose petals - how many this takes will depend on the variety, but 2 - 4 flower heads should do it) - make sure they're bug free.

Juice of a Lemon.

Put the cut rhubarb and rose petals in a pan and either layer it with the sugar or sprinkle it over. Set aside until the sugar melts, drawing out the moisture from the rhubarb as it goes. This helps it keep its shape when it's cooked and will take a good few hours and can be done the night before the jam making.

When you're ready to make the jam put a plate in the fridge for wrinkle testing and start sterilising your jars. Add the lemon juice to the pan and gently bring the whole lot to a boil. Boil vigorously for between 5 and 10 minutes, testing on the plate for the level of set after about 5. If it's still really runny boil a little longer, then take off the heat and pot it into your jars. When it's cooled down completely store it in the fridge, it should keep for about 6 months. If you want to make a lot whilst the rhubarb is at its best you can freeze it (plastic tubs probably better for this than glass jars)

This is a lowish sugar, Swedish style nearly jam so it won't ever be particularly firm - upping the sugar content to an equal amount with the rhubarb will give a firmer set, but will change the balance between the flavours. A jam with more sugar won't need to be kept in the fridge before opening, and might be better for spreading on toast and scones - but not so good for folding through whipped cream or yogurt, but it's all a matter of preference. 

It's also worth noting that the amount of water in the rhubarb can vary quite a bit. Now, before the rhubabrb has dried out, got woody, bolted, or started to flower is the time to make jam with it - but the stalks I get from my mother's garden behave quite differently to the ones that I buy from supermarkets, which are not the same as the ones I sometimes get on the market. It's why I prefer the wrinkle test for this to using a thermometer. 

Finally, rhubarb is also great at carrying other flavours, so if you have plenty of it and a very small amount of something else - a few strawberries, black currents, raspberries or similar they'll punch above their weight in the finished jam. I'm also thinking of trying this with Elderflower whilst there are a few heads still not gone over. 

Friday Jumper Update

I've reached the point where I'm knitting in steeks and only have a relatively small amount of the body of my jumper to knit just as the weather is hotting up again. With a wet and thundery, but not yet too hot weekend in the offing, I might just get this bit done before it's too sultry to want a by now really quite big wooly jumper on my lap. 

The sleeves are knitted separately and won't be so bad to work on in the height of summer which is something to be grateful for, but I'm also at the stage where I'm moving out of my comfort zone and will have to embrace a set of new to me techniques. I followed the instructions for the steeks, which are slightly different to the only other time I've ever had a go at them (making a tea cosy) but knitting them in isn't the part of the process I'm nervous about.

Grafting, false grafting, and crocheting all await me, and all I can say is thank god for the internet. The instructions in the book are brief, although I'm quite pleased that I mastered a backward loop cast on with no trouble after totally giving up on a twisted German cast on. It made me want to cry with frustration, and honestly, the stress of it didn't seem to warrant the slightly better finish it would give. Next time. 

I have June Hemmons Hiatt's 'The Principles of Knitting' which is sometimes really helpful, but one of the less mindful aspects of knitting is that there seem to be a lot of names for basically the same techniques - which is confusing. June Hemmons Hiatt certainly doesn't list a lot of things I try and look up under the name I have for them (she also has a habit of saying she doesn't see the point of certain suggested techniques which I both respect and despair over). 

Crocheting the reinforcements for the arm steeks should be relatively simple - finding basic tutorials for that will be easy. I'm more ambivalent about the grafting as it's the sort of thing I'm generally clumsy at, and hot weather won't make it any more appealing to sit and work it out. For the shoulder seams, I'm wondering if a three-needle bind-off wouldn't work just as well, although grafting them will be the practice I need to attach the arms, so...

I've also confirmed that having put this much time and effort into the jumper, the casual we'll just see what happens attitude I had at the beginning has well and truly gone. It's a serious investment of time to make this thing, I like what I've got so far quite a lot (my issues around some of the colour contrast aside), I need not to do a bad job on the rest of it. 

The Flint Anchor - Sylvia Townsend Warner

For this Sylvia Townsend Warner reading week I picked up 'The Flint Anchor', which I bought from an Oxfam shop in a small Leicestershire town in 2010 - it seemed like a good omen at the time. I was there for a new job, finding a Virago Modern Classic that I didn't have seemed propitious - it wasn't. The job was miserable, and 'The Flint Anchor' remained unread.

Helen says this will be the last Sylvia Townsend Warner reading week which I think is a shame. I appreciate the work that goes into organizing it but hope that at some point she has a change of heart and will do another for the selfish reasons that she's not only convinced me to engage with this wonderful writer, she's also provided a lot of background material to consult in her really excellent posts. You can see what she has to say about 'The Flint Anchor' Here.

I picked this book up with a mind full of other things and lost myself to the extent that I read until 2am the first night, and the second. Fortunately, I finished it at 1am last night and feel somewhat fresher today. It's the last of Sylvia Townsend Warner's novels, originally published in 1954, and the portrait of a 19th-century family, so more or less a historical novel - but it's a slippery book to really classify.

I've read a few times about Sylvia's variety as an author, how different all her books are, but that's not how I find them. 'The Flint Anchor' has the same melancholy tone that characterises 'Kingdoms of Elfin', the same preoccupation with religion that I found in 'Lolly Willowes' and 'Mr. Fortune's Maggot', and the same sense of thwarted love and misunderstanding that I found so moving in 'Mr. Fortune's Maggot' is here too. John Barnard might not meet the devil whilst he's out walking, as Lolly Willowes does, but he worships a false idol and the devil might have been a better bet all round.

The anchor of the title is a decorative device set into the walls of the Barnard house in Loseby, Norfolk. John Barnard inherits the lion's share of the family business as a young man and finds he has a gift for making a success of it. Unfortunately, he doesn't possess a similar gift for friendship or love. He pitches into marriage with his sister in laws friend not through any particular partiality but because he's expected to marry and it'll free him of some troublesome relatives. Any desire John Barnard feels for his wife is spent long before the last of their 11 children is born - of whom only 5 reach adulthood.

Of all these children it is only his daughter Mary that John really loves, and loves to the exclusion of everybody else in his life. It's a love that blinds him to her faults and his other children's virtues alike. He will make mistake after mistake in trying to protect her. His wife comfortably descends into genteel alcoholism somewhere around child number 10.

If this sounds miserable, the tone of the book is so detached that I really didn't find it so. We see John Barnard mostly as he sees himself; a little confused, flawed, human, and both overwhelmed by the duty that marriage and fatherhood have pitched him into, and disgusted by the reality of it all. He's ruled by a determination to do his duty whatever it costs him - and those around him. He is essentially a good man determined to do good, but without personal happiness and emotionally isolated the results are bleak. Despite a lifetime of effort on behalf of his community, an effort that carries the town through the worst of times more or less unscathed he can't even inspire admiration or respect amongst them.

It would be easy to see John Barnard as entirely the author of his family's unhappiness, but I'm intrigued by Julia's alcoholism and indolence - she resents the rounds of pregnancy and childbearing, but she is also the instigator of their production. Julia and her children are inclined to blame John for her state, but Sylvia keeps showing us the social and emotional cost of having a mother who is a drunk - it is only Mary, too selfish and ignorant to notice her mother's state who is unaffected by it. 

The eldest daughter could marry and leave, and in doing so could probably have taken some of her younger siblings with her, or at least provided them with a sanctuary, but she chooses not to and eventually joins a religious community. Maybe it's the right decision, but I think there's a sense that all the older Barnard's are joined in the authership of their unhappiness.

The book is also surprisingly open about homosexuality in the fishing community of Loseby. It was still a criminalized when the book was published, and considered as an unspeakable sin by the Barnard family, but in the working part of the town love is love and they're not fussy about where it's found. It's a powerful contrast to the Barnard's who remain in Anchor house with their limited understanding of love and the petrifying value they place on respectability.

What I most admire about Sylvia Townsend Warner, and find in abundance here, is her clear eyed ability to pick something apart and lay it out for our inspection without judgement or emotion. We might feel sorry for the Barnard's, we might recognise something of ourselves in them, or we might just be fascinated by the spectacle - I found this book compelling for all of those reasons and more.