We have had warm weather for several days now. This means ice cream for some but to me it says laundry that smells of sunshine, dried in an hour.
I grew up in a house without a garden and, after moving from the city, discovered that one of the pleasures of having an open space is the chance to line dry clothes rather than baking them in a tumble dryer. Something about the sight of clothes furling and snapping in the breeze kept me at the back door for minutes at a time. I found that if I left things on the line overnight they would acquire a perfume that was better than any synthetic scent that the soap powder manufacturer could come up with. The ”Spring Breeze” that came out of the bottle and had been designed in a lab was replaced with something more subtle.
Once those clothes made it onto the ironing board (along with a few very small spiders) that perfume really made its presence felt, released by the applied heat. It made a pleasure of a chore. Towels that had been folded away after time in the sunshine released it again when I took them out of the drawer.
Of course it isn’t always sunny and it is frustrating in winter to spend cold minutes hanging wet stuff on the line that still won’t be dry by the end of the day. Somehow it is worse to have the same washing hanging on clothes horses in doors, where that synthetic floral odour becomes more intense in a centrally heated atmosphere. I think it has more to do with a dislike of the cold outdoors than a need to dry things quickly inside that makes me do it. I can see why it is regarded as unlucky to hang up washing indoors in some countries - in the past the damp atmosphere must have invited chest infections.
At the time I moved here I had an elderly neighbour who still obeyed the etiquette that had probably been followed by her mother and grandmother. It was regarded as rather slovenly to leave your things on the line overnight but I like to think that I helped to break that trend. After I had done this a few times so did she. I once heard Aggie Mackenzie, co-presenter of “How Clean Is Your House”, talk about this. She said that there was word used in the area she grew up in, ”clarty”, to describe someone who didn’t get the washing in by the end of the day. Clarty - that’s me! I have an ulterior motive, I want my clothes to smell of the morning dew.
It is easy to forget that an earlier generation of women had to spend hours scrubbing those clothes down, their hands cracked and sore and backs aching. Even so I would be surprised if they didn’t stop occasionally, to watch the wind make flags of those sheets and shirts. There is nothing quite like a perfect drying day.
I still have to remind myself to wipe down the line first so that I avoid a grimy mark across the duvet cover, even though I’ve been doing this long enough to have needed new supplies of pegs both wooden and plastic. Some of the wooden ones have taken on the silvery hue of age. We’re not sure where pegs disappear to. Some end up keeping bags of flour safe from invasion. Plastic ones disintegrate with heavy use. Quite a few end up in the lawn. We now have enough experience to seek out more durable pegs in nicer colours.
Occasionally a bird scores a direct hit but it is a small price to pay for the pleasure I get from line drying. If I’m lucky, that mark will be washed off and the item dry again within the hour, courtesy of the sun and wind.
I grew up in a house without a garden and, after moving from the city, discovered that one of the pleasures of having an open space is the chance to line dry clothes rather than baking them in a tumble dryer. Something about the sight of clothes furling and snapping in the breeze kept me at the back door for minutes at a time. I found that if I left things on the line overnight they would acquire a perfume that was better than any synthetic scent that the soap powder manufacturer could come up with. The ”Spring Breeze” that came out of the bottle and had been designed in a lab was replaced with something more subtle.
Once those clothes made it onto the ironing board (along with a few very small spiders) that perfume really made its presence felt, released by the applied heat. It made a pleasure of a chore. Towels that had been folded away after time in the sunshine released it again when I took them out of the drawer.
Of course it isn’t always sunny and it is frustrating in winter to spend cold minutes hanging wet stuff on the line that still won’t be dry by the end of the day. Somehow it is worse to have the same washing hanging on clothes horses in doors, where that synthetic floral odour becomes more intense in a centrally heated atmosphere. I think it has more to do with a dislike of the cold outdoors than a need to dry things quickly inside that makes me do it. I can see why it is regarded as unlucky to hang up washing indoors in some countries - in the past the damp atmosphere must have invited chest infections.
At the time I moved here I had an elderly neighbour who still obeyed the etiquette that had probably been followed by her mother and grandmother. It was regarded as rather slovenly to leave your things on the line overnight but I like to think that I helped to break that trend. After I had done this a few times so did she. I once heard Aggie Mackenzie, co-presenter of “How Clean Is Your House”, talk about this. She said that there was word used in the area she grew up in, ”clarty”, to describe someone who didn’t get the washing in by the end of the day. Clarty - that’s me! I have an ulterior motive, I want my clothes to smell of the morning dew.
It is easy to forget that an earlier generation of women had to spend hours scrubbing those clothes down, their hands cracked and sore and backs aching. Even so I would be surprised if they didn’t stop occasionally, to watch the wind make flags of those sheets and shirts. There is nothing quite like a perfect drying day.
I still have to remind myself to wipe down the line first so that I avoid a grimy mark across the duvet cover, even though I’ve been doing this long enough to have needed new supplies of pegs both wooden and plastic. Some of the wooden ones have taken on the silvery hue of age. We’re not sure where pegs disappear to. Some end up keeping bags of flour safe from invasion. Plastic ones disintegrate with heavy use. Quite a few end up in the lawn. We now have enough experience to seek out more durable pegs in nicer colours.
Occasionally a bird scores a direct hit but it is a small price to pay for the pleasure I get from line drying. If I’m lucky, that mark will be washed off and the item dry again within the hour, courtesy of the sun and wind.
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