A visit to Hafod, and the recipe for Manderin Orange Cake and a Witch

See end of post for a witchy explanation . . .

 First, the recipe:

MY OWN MANDERIN ORANGE CAKE

4 oz (113 g) butter or margarine

6 oz  (170 g) castor sugar

2 beaten eggs

Grated rind of one large (or 2 small) Manderin oranges, well washed

1small tin canned Manderin Oranges (drained, reserve the juice)

7 oz (200 g) Self Raising Flour, sifted

1 tablespoon fresh orange juice or milk (I use the juice from the tin)

Cream butter, sugar and rind until fluffy.  Gradually beat in eggs.  Mix in flour and orange juice alternately to soft dropping consistency.  Add Manderin oranges and beat well to incorporate and break up.  Grease and line an 8" (20 cm) cake tin.  Bake at 350 deg F/180 deg C/Gas mark 4 for 45-50mins until firm and golden and shrinking away from sides of tin.  This is a lovely soft and moist cake and one I make regularly.

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Yesterday I went to see Tam and Rosie for the day, taking the above cake.  When Rosie was fed and fettled, we drove the 15 mins or so to the Hafod estate, properly Hafod Uchtryd which is in the upper Ystwyth valley and within the ancient boundaries of Strata Florida.  

We chose to do the Ladies Walk, which was about 2 1/2 miles (though it felt twice as far on a hot day, with the ups and downs at the end).  This largely followed the river, and was a beautiful walk.  We had it mostly to ourselves though caught up with other folk when we stopped for a much-needed cold drink at the old stables, which are beside the ruins of the house, demolished in 1956.  It had been SO beautiful in its glory and it was sad to see it reduced to a pile of overgrown rubble, punctuated by trees. A later owner added an Italianate tower which I think did it no favours.  The man who built it was Thomas Johnes, who seemingly spent every last penny on it and was bankrupted as a result.  That said, he did his best for his tenants, and encouraged farming improvements and rewarded his tenants for good crops etc, as well as himself winning awards for tree planting on his estate.  (Please follow the links to learn more about him and the house and many thanks to Wikipedia and the Dictionary of Welsh Biography).  

Rosie was as good as gold 2/3 of the way round, then cried non stop the rest of the way.  She was hot and didn't want to be carried against her mum, she wanted OUT!  Who can blame her?!

I took no end of photos, but they are on my mobile phone, and damned if I have the technology to transfer them.  It doesn't recognize my password, and thinks I must have fingers like a Gorilla if they are to touch 4 dots to do fingerprint ID.  Yeesh.  I shall try again later, when my brain is working a little more efficiently.

It was a beautiful drive to and from Aberystwyth, but held sad memories of 6 days earlier when we had driven along there to Keith's funeral.  I was listening to Diana Gabaldon's Tell the Bees etc on my phone, but on the way back home it got to the part where Roger is involved in a battle scene, easing the passing of dieing men - far too many of them for my liking - and I couldn't stop the tears then.  

Then when I got home, there was a parcel waiting for me from my dear friend N. When I opened it, I found a lovely metal witch - meant to hang outside, but it's in my kitchen, even though  it's stolen the place where I had the big cart costrel.  I will have to put that where a repro Medieval helmet is (there are three surplus to requirements to go to the Fair). 

If you are thinking ????? a witch?  N said that what she remembers most about our old house was the witch hanging in the kitchen and the suit of armour at the end of the hall.  She couldn't run to a suit of armour, but she hoped that the witch would make me smile.  It did, but then tears soon followed of course, as I was already an emotional wreck.  Only Keith liked the wooden witch in the kitchen.  I think it had been a Charlies Halloween type of figure, sitting on a broomstick of course!  The rest of us thought it was daft, but Keith being Keith, loved it!  Eventually I prevailed upon him to sell it, after a lady viewing the house had hit her head on it, recoiled and then got stuck on the fly paper.  I mean, HOW do you tell a viewer not to move, I have to remove the flypaper from your hair?!  Happy memories at that, but how I wish - in the cold light of day - I hadn't put my foot down and we still had that daft witch.

Anyway, the couriers are coming for the coffer and the chair tomorrow, so I have a date with tidying up the Library, which meant first I have to finally get around to vacuuming the front bedroom where Keith spent his last months. That was hard.  As I folded up the green blanket he'd had on his bed, tears overwhelmed me again.  I can't bring myself to wash it.  It isn't dirty, but still reminds me so much of Keith it will just go in the cupboard as is.  So, I get my sewing room back again, but how I wish it had been another way.

The tidying up still continues, so that will help me through the day.  At some point I need to ask Ed to give me a hand moving the chair I had loaned Tam for breast feeding in the early days.  It's in the back of the car and is too heavy for me to manage on my own.  The contents of the coffer (all Charity shop buys of Tam's) need to be stowed away upstairs too.  Ah well, I'll get there, though it's not going to look tidy. . .