Secret Stitches, and Family Threads

 Remember that jigsaw I started a couple of weeks ago? It’s not your standard puzzle with neat straight edges — instead, it’s full of odd shapes that don’t play by the usual rules. I began to wonder if tackling it in an unconventional way might be smarter. More than one of you agreed, so the other day, after making almost no progress, I decided to put all the edge pieces aside and dive straight into the middle.

What a difference. In just two short sessions, the picture began to take shape, and suddenly the whole puzzle feels a little less daunting. There is still a long way to go, but I’m feeling much more optimistic now — perhaps even confident enough to tempt Tony back to the table.

This morning he was on the floor with Torstein, deep in the 35-piece Dinosaur puzzle, so maybe he’ll lend me a hand with mine again. After all, puzzles are always more fun when shared… even the unconventional ones.

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As I mentioned last time, after the sock fiasco, I was glad to return to my secret Christmas ornaments. They’re quick little projects, stitched from materials that are still fairly new to me, so I’ve kept the designs simple and straightforward.

On my days off I made good use of the time, and now there’s a box full of finished ornaments waiting patiently. The post office run hasn’t happened yet — hopefully in the next few days — but before they go, I must remember to take a few photos. It would be nice to have a record of this year’s efforts, tucked away alongside the memories of making them.

And for now, the ornaments remain under wraps — secret stitches waiting to surprise, with only the box knowing the whole story.

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Still on the subject of secret stitching, I’ve made a start on that secret cross stitch. The kit turned up in an op‑shop bundle, complete with a piece of 30‑count linen and a presorted bundle of threads. The linen went straight back into the packet — even with my second specs, I can’t see to stitch on that stuff. Instead, I pulled out a piece of 16‑count that looked perfect and got busy.

There was a brief moment of panic when one particular grey ran out, but my trusty Co‑Pilot came to the rescue, helping me track down a top‑up in my stash. Who knew Co‑Pilot could identify dark grey DMC numbers? A small miracle, and a good laugh.

I suspect the different fabric count is using more thread than the original linen would have, but no matter — I’m already halfway through the piece. With steady progress, it should be finished in plenty of time to slip under the tree for Tony, a secret stitch revealed at just the right moment.

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Grandad didn’t have all the fun while the children were here. After finishing his dinosaur puzzle, Torstein pulled out his Ludo game. He was persuaded to wait until after lunch — and what a lunch it was. The boy ate almost as much chicken as Grandad, then polished off a huge bowl of jelly and ice cream for good measure.

Once he’d helped Grandad stack the dishbasher, Torstein appeared beside me with the Ludo in hand. Charmaine joined in too, and soon we were circling the board, landing on each other’s pieces and gleefully sending them back to the start.

Torstein was quite upset when his counters had to begin again, but his spirits lifted the moment he was first to get a piece safely home. They lifted even more when he got to send one of his sister's pieces all the way back to the start. His delight at being the winner was unmistakable — a small triumph that capped off an afternoon of games and laughter.

It feels like ages since we last had the children here, with extra shifts and not one but two wedding anniversaries filling the calendar. All the more reason it was a joy to see them again.

Master Torstein is now at proper school, his counting improving in leaps and bounds. Grandad is eager to read with him as he learns, though today there wasn’t time. All too soon their visit was over — mummy had evening work ahead, and daddy had chores waiting at home.

We helped buckle them safely into the car, collecting hugs and kisses along the way, then stood waving as they drove off. The house feels quieter in their absence, but the promise of their return lingers. I’ll need to add ice cream to the shopping list before they come back — a sweet reminder of the joy they bring.

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Do you remember that massive hailstorm back in 2019 here in Timaru? It hammered down in not one but two long waves as the front moved over town, hailstones larger than marbles crashing onto roofs and roads. The damage was brutal — my poor car was a write‑off, left pockmarked beyond repair. The insurance claims went into the millions across the region. 

Last week, the skies opened again. Not quite as long this time, but the hailstones were every bit as huge and fierce, rattling against windows and bouncing off the roof at work and across the gardens. Trees had their leaves shredded and piles of white built-up all-over town. Once again there was lots of damage and the insurance companies are busy. My poor car took another beating. Thankfully, she’s not written off this time, though the dents tell the story of a battle fought and lost. Soon she’ll be off to the workshop to be straightened out — a sigh of relief I'm very fond of my wee car.

With the dents counted and the workshop booked, I’m ready to leave the drama of spring storms behind. Here’s hoping the skies settle, the hailstones stay away, and summer finally stretches out in steady warmth. A season of sunshine, stitching, and family visits sounds far more welcome than another round of thunder and ice.

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With a couple of days off coming, I’m hoping to make that delayed trip to the post office, add a few more secret stitches to my cross‑stitch, and keep chipping away at the puzzle that’s finally taking shape. Small steps, steady progress — and the quiet satisfaction of knowing each stitch, each piece, and each errand adds to the larger pattern. But first, back to work on Monday and Tuesday and the dentist on Wednesday. 

The needle saves the day. And my sanity.

Sigh. 

That’s it. I’m done. Socks have defeated me. I’ve cast on, ripped back, reknit, reimagined—and still, they mock me. Ladders, gaps, twisted stitches, toes that look like turnips. I’ve tried every trick, every tutorial, every whispered promise of ‘easy’ patterns. And for what? A pile of yarn that once held hope and now just holds disappointment. 

I give up. I quit. Socks are not my thing. Time to walk away, thread a needle, and stitch something that doesn’t unravel my spirit. 

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So yesterday after work, determined to do something that wouldn’t destroy my crafty soul, I pulled out my neglected Christmas ornament box and threaded a needle. Yay! The colours greeted me like old friends—reds, golds, soft greens—and as I stitched, something shifted. Each piece fell gently and delightfully into place, the thread gliding through like it remembered the rhythm. I felt better. Not fixed, not triumphant—just better. Finally, I was back to something easy, joyful, and kind to my spirit. A project that doesn’t fight me. A reminder that creativity can still feel good.

It’s just in the nick of time, really. These ornaments need to be finished, wrapped, and whisked off in the post before the calendar turns over. I’ve got a very festive deadline. The kind that involves the quiet hope that someone will open a package and smile. So yes, I’m back to stitching with purpose. Sending love with every stitch. And it feels good. Like I’ve rejoined the rhythm of the season, just in time to make it matter.

Turns out, I had more finished than I thought—which was a relief. They’re reasonably quick to make too, which helps. And with two whole days off work—today and tomorrow—I’ve got a window. Between the chores and the grocery run, guess where you’ll find me? Needle in hand, ornaments in a cheerful pile, stitching away. If all goes well, I’ll have them all completed and the internationals in the post by tomorrow afternoon. That’s the plan. And unlike socks, it feels doable.

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A New Recipe… Well, Sort Of

I’m claiming this as this month’s recipe share, even if it’s more of a method than a recipe. In Britain, I grew up with canned corned beef. It wasn’t an everyday staple, but in summer it made a quick meal—sliced cold with salad. Later, in my own kitchen, it popped up now and then in the same way or transformed into a hearty corned beef hash during the winter months. Cheap, easy, comforting.

Then came a holiday to New Zealand—and a revelation. Real corned beef. Not the tinned stuff, but proper cuts of meat soaked in salt and spices: corned silverside. Back on the Isle of Man, I hunted down recipes to make my own, since the local butchers and supermarkets didn’t stock it. But now, living in New Zealand, it’s readily available. No need to brine my own—I just pop a piece into the slow cooker and let it do its thing.

Some folks boil theirs. Most here add a generous spoonful of golden syrup. I prefer black pepper and chilli—and so does Tony, of course. My usual method involves slow cooking the beef in water with peppercorns, whole chilli, and garlic cloves. But recently, I tried something different. No water.

Here’s how it goes: rinse your piece of corned beef and rub it all over with seasoning. I used crushed garlic and plenty of freshly ground black pepper. Then wrap it tightly in layers of baking paper, I found a waxed variety that works best, followed by a snug foil coat. Pop it into your slow cooker—no water, remember—and let it cook low and slow. Mine went in at 6am before work and had a full ten hours to transform.

When I lifted it out, still wrapped in its foil parcel, the bowl of the slow cooker was still dry and inside the foil. the paper had mostly managed to contain the juices. And the meat? Falling apart. Tender, flavourful, utterly delicious. Tony declared the experiment a triumph and insists that all future corned beef will be cooked this way.

Photograph? No chance. We ate it all. LOL.

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The sock yarn? Oh, it’s still here. I haven’t banished it—just… paused. They’re such pretty yarns, full of colour and possibility, and I do love them. I might go hunting for a pattern that suits them better, something that doesn’t fight me quite so hard. But for now, they’ll be tucked away in Gran’s cupboard, the one that lives beside my quilting frame. (Something else that is sat, neglected while I attempted to wrangle a sock). A soft retreat, not a rejection. Maybe one day they’ll come out and become something beautiful. Maybe even socks. Or maybe something else entirely. Who knows? For now, they wait—quiet, patient, full of potential.

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Knits, Bits, and Butterfly Fits

 I did it! After many attempts, miscounts, and mysterious holes, I’ve finally turned a heel on a knitted sock — cleanly and without disaster. I’m so happy. Yay!

This time, I followed this tutorial that uses two needles and flat knitting, which made the process feel more manageable. The instructor also notes that this heel method works well on a 9-inch circular, so I might give that a go on a future pair. For now, I’m focused on finishing this sock and casting on its companion.

The yarn is behaving beautifully, the stripes are lining up like cheerful little milestones, and I’m finally feeling like a sock knitter with a plan. One heel down, one to go — and no turning back. Wish me luck. LOL

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Tony and I have completed a couple of puzzles recently, and it was my turn to choose the next challenge. I picked a butterfly-shaped puzzle — an op shop find that looked cheerful and unusual.

When we opened the box, we discovered that the edge pieces had been pre-sorted and tucked into their own bag. The rest of the pieces were in another. And what oddly shaped pieces they are! I suppose they have to be, to form the butterfly’s silhouette.

We haven’t made much progress yet. I’m still wrestling with the strange shapes, and I think Tony may have quietly bowed out for now. I’m wondering if we should abandon the traditional “edge first” approach and start in the middle instead — perhaps by sorting out the cottage pieces and working outward from there.

It’s not straightforward, but it will be an interesting challenge. And maybe that’s the point.

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I’ve got two of my usual three days off, with an extra shift added on Friday. After a quiet weekend (not much in the way of chores), I’ve got some catching up to do around the house, plus a few errands in town.

Once that’s sorted, I’m hoping to carve out some time to sit and knit. I’d also like to make a start on the cross stitch I mentioned — the one that’s meant to be a Christmas gift, if I can get it finished in time. With a bit of progress made, I might be able to take it to work and stitch during my lunch breaks over the weekend.

A warm thank you to everyone who sent anniversary wishes. We had a lovely, relaxing weekend, and our daytrip and picnic were just what we needed. The scenery was beautiful. If you haven’t seen them yet, pop back to the previous post — there are some lovely images from Lake Heron.

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Anyone else suddenly remembering that handmade Christmas gift they swore they'd start in October? No judgment here — I’m right there with you, counting stitches and hoping for miracles. What are you making (or thinking about maybe possibly starting soon)?

The Herons visit Lake Heron.

We’d planned something quiet and meaningful to mark our anniversary this year— a daytrip to Lake Heron. Not a grand gesture, but a gentle one: a shared outing, a change of scenery, a peaceful day, perfect for marking time together.

We left Timaru under a sky quilted in cloud — soft, warm, and promising. The country roads stretched ahead, quiet and familiar, with only the hedgerows and fenceposts or the occasional house to nod us along. No rush, no traffic, just the hum of tyres and a sense of adventure.

We’re heading yonder — following the fence line and the folds of the land, drawn toward the mountains. Even in November, snow still lingers on the highest ridges, like a quiet reminder that the seasons don’t rush. The clouds above were restless, but the road beneath felt sure.

The roads were mostly ours — quiet stretches of countryside with only paddocks of cows or mailboxes for company. But then, true to rural form, we found ourselves tucked behind a slow-moving tractor, while another rumbled toward us in the opposite lane. A brief moment of choreography on the open road: no horns, no hurry, just a nod to the pace of farm life.

I could feel the slow pressure changes in my ears as we crept upward, the road winding and folding with the land’s own rhythm. Each turn brought us closer to the mountains, the asphalt stretching thinner until — quite suddenly — it gave way to gravel. Tony eyed the loose stones with quiet concern, protective of his shiny red car. But onward we went, trusting the road and the day.

Higher and higher we climbed, edging closer to the snow — though it still clung to the farthest peaks, aloof and unreachable. At the top of a rise, we slowed, taking in the view as the road ahead zigged and zagged through the valley. Dust curled around the car in lazy spirals, hanging in the still air.

Then suddenly, we turned a corner — and there it was. Lake Heron, wide and windswept, stretched out ahead of us. A breeze danced across the surface, ruffling the water into shifting patterns. Snow-dusted peaks framed the lake, and the gravel road led us straight into the heart of it all. After all the winding and climbing, it felt like arriving somewhere quietly alive.

We followed the track around the lake’s edge, eventually pulling up on a flat patch of grass close to the shore. After two hours in a warm car, it was a relief to climb out, stretch our legs, and breathe in the fresh air. The wind was gentle — not cold, just enough to stir the lake and remind us we were somewhere wild. No shops, no signs, no picnic benches. Just us, the mountains, and the quiet invitation to wander.

And here we are — the Herons at Lake Heron. A fitting destination for our anniversary adventure, with snow-capped peaks and wind-stirred waters. No fanfare, just a shared smile and a moment to mark the day.

We wondered, just for fun, if Lake Heron might’ve been named by one of Tony’s ancestors. A little digging revealed a more poetic origin: an early settler, fishing at the lake’s edge, spotted several heron birds doing the same. Inspired by their quiet company, he named it Lake Heron. Still — we’ll claim it as ours. After all, the Herons made it here too.

After a short wander, we decided to head back the way we’d come. The breeze had picked up just enough to make lingering less inviting, and with no benches or sheltered spots, Lake Heron wasn’t quite the picnic haven we’d imagined. Besides, I’d spotted something on the way in that I wanted to photograph — so we hopped back into the car and began retracing our path along the gravel road, dust trailing behind us like a soft farewell.

About halfway back to the 'real' road, we paused again at a still pool mirroring the sky and mountains so clearly it felt like stepping into a painting. This was the photo I’d hoped to capture — and it didn’t disappoint.

On the way in, I’d noticed this smaller lake tucked into the valley, surrounded by a soggy, marshy fringe. It’s one of the Māori lakes — shallow and seasonal, appearing after rain or snowmelt, then vanishing in the dry summer months. The breeze that stirred Lake Heron didn’t reach down here; the surface was glassy, the reflections undisturbed. A quiet contrast, and a reminder of how many kinds of water the mountains hold. 

There wasn’t really a path to the water’s edge, but we picked our way closer, careful not to soak our shoes. Down in that valley, beside the quiet lake, everything felt hushed — still and silent, as if the land itself were holding its breath. Lake Heron had been bleak and beautiful, dramatic in its scale. But it’s the serenity of this smaller lake that will stay with me. A soft moment, tucked between mountains, where time seemed to pause.

Back in the car, we set off in search of a good picnic spot. The road offered its own entertainment — dodging farm machinery, admiring livestock, and watching the landscape shift from green to gold. This field of rape caught my eye, blazing bright against the muted sky. And right next door, a pale, lumpy paddock sparked a shared chuckle: clearly, the marshmallow crop was poor this year. Some harvests are best left to the imagination.

We picnicked in the small town of Mayfield, where the Domain offered a single table tucked into a sheltered corner surrounded by tall trees. Birds chattered around us hidden in the trees, they were remarkably well-mannered — not like the sparrows back in town who seem to materialize the moment you sit down, picnic or not.

I’d packed cheese, cold meats, crackers, pickles, and bottles of water, all quietly stashed behind my seat. Tony was surprised and delighted — a small feast he hadn’t seen coming. We shared the moment, left a few crumbs for the birds, and made sure to take all our rubbish with us. A simple lunch perfectly timed.

We chose a different route home, heading to the state highway and leaving the country roads to the farmers and their heavy machinery. It wasn’t long before we reached Tinwald, on the southern edge of Ashburton — which, of course, meant a necessary stop at one of my favourite stores. A little indulgence, a little tradition, and one last pause before the road carried us home.

This beautiful hexie quilt was draped on a ladder by the door, greeting me like an old friend. It was instantly inspiring — a patchwork of florals, stitched memories, and clever reuse. I could see that the maker had cut old cross-stitch pieces, doilies, and embroidered fragments to form some of the hexies. Nestled among the blooms, they looked perfectly at home. And you know I do love a scrappy quilt. After pausing to admire and snap a photo, I stepped through the door — and into heaven.

Almost as soon as I stepped inside, my eye was drawn to a beautiful blue bag hanging on the wall. Surrounded by quilts, kits, and bolts of fabric, it stood out — and tucked inside were the supplies to make one just like it. Sold.

Tony and I wandered the store while Rachael, the owner, cut fabric for another customer. We chatted as I admired her current project: a quilt top made entirely of half-inch squares. Sixteen blocks in a 4x4 layout, each one a mosaic of tiny, precise pieces in an Irish chain style quilt. She was choosing a floral backing and had a pile of hexie papers beside her, along with a clever little tool for removing glue-basted papers. It was lovely to talk shop with someone who clearly loves the craft.

Then it was my turn to pay, and we headed back to the car for the drive home.

 I curled up for a nana nap on the couch before we went out for tea — a quiet end to a day stitched with beauty, laughter, and love.

Pieces well placed.

 I may not have done much knitting recently—and no sewing at all—but life hasn’t been all work and sleep. Tony and I have completed not one, but two jigsaw puzzles this week. The Hawker Hurricane Warbirds you’ve seen before, in progress. Here it is, finished at last. Getting the sea and sky done was a bit of a mission but done it is.

That was Tuesday, on Wednesday, three nights ago, Tony pulled the Kiwi Road Trip out of the cupboard, and we made a start. I finished it this evening. To be honest, it’s only 500 extra-large pieces and a joy to put together, with lots of little details that made things easy peasy.

Two puzzle completions in four days—wow! Since Tony chose the last two, I think it’s my turn next. I’ll let you know which one I pick. It’s my weekend off work, and I’m taking it. No phone calls. Well, there shouldn’t be. And if there is, the answer will be NO.

Tomorrow, Tony and I are heading up to Lake Heron for a special anniversary outing—a look around, a picnic, and a walkabout. I'll be taking photos. We’ll come home later and go out for tea. A lovely way to mark the day we became Mr and Mrs Heron.

Maybe Sunday I’ll manage a little knitting.

I do hope that your weekend is as relaxed as mine is planned to be.