Going Vintage from a Virgin

Well, I am a virgin when it comes to vintage. I don't know my vintage from my retro and what people call vintage I would call timeless, good design for me is something that still has a use today. That is maybe why I like old boxes. You can never go wrong with a box. Last weekend I was coaxed by my wife, Carol, to go to the Vintage Guild Weekend in Preston. Here is my day in images with some thoughts, ramblings and dreams of pie.

The test card crafted on a rockery wall

There is plenty to be said about vintage china but my wife says it better on her blog. All I can say about it is that each time I hear Carol pack the stuff I squirm when I hear the plates knock against each other. Are they broken? Will I be sent to the stock room to find more? Will I come back with the wrong one? How many shades of pink are there? Still this display is lovely and just shows that china is better and more unique than getting a cup from a well known Swedish store. Their latest offering will have some ridiculous name like KURDLE or GOUT.

A display of vintage cups. Stay back, I'm clumsy.

Cake stands but no cake?

Now we're in my territory, drink carafe but no wine?

My concerns about knocking over china displays or worst still Little D breaking loose into a china display were put to rest by the promise of a sojourn up to the food festival. However, my concerns sky rocketed when I saw this man....

Never trust a man who knits...

...an old adage told to me by my grandparents came ringing back. 'Never trust a man who knits his own beard in the morning'. I don't know how they felt about men with knitted eyebrows but Little D was not impressed by him or the way he pointed at him. The knitted man played accordion but at no point did he play for us. What did I say? Never trust a man....


Saxy chef?

...unless he can actually play....

Little D dances

....and make your child do this. Little D by this point had sat in the mud but was still up for dancing. The vintage stuff beckoned and though I got excited by this car I couldn't get near it for a man in a knitted beige 40s suit. Again, the knitted theme runs true. I have never met a man in a knitted suit before; not a man in a knitted beige suit. I can now say I have, I can now avoid the temptation to ever wear a knitted suit. I wondered if his aunt or another aged relative had given it to him for Christmas? 


What a car!

With classic cars come classic caravans. Though this wasn't exactly classic, it was a bog standard caravan that has been altered and shaped into something that even made me want to sit down and read. It showed that with love and imagination you can reuse, mend and repair anything.

Books and a cup of tea, wonderful

Sit down and rest

No tea just tea candles

It is inevitable in any vintage show that suitcases will appear. No one has brought them to the event, they are not props, they are merely interdimensional beings who gravitate to these locations. Unlike Indiana Jones and the Crystal Skull, they are not made of crystal; they are made of cardboard or on the odd occasion, toughened leather. They do not get out much. I feel they are kindred spirits. In some universe somewhere they too must have a toddler.

You never see the toddlers

We then went into a camera obscura. I got excited, I thought about the one that featured in the beautiful film, A Matter of Life and Death featuring the late David Niven. This was not on the same grand scale, but the colour was pure techni.


Weary, loaded down with an excited toddler who had climbed up me several times with muddy feet; who had experienced his first kiss with another toddler called Lily and was still over the moon about this or it could have been down to the ice cream he'd just consumed? We made our way to the River Ribble and the car park. 


Ice cream toddler

Carol had bought china, I had window shopped my way through a series of interesting wooden boxes, which were left behind after careful consideration and the realisation that there are only so many vintage, useful wooden boxes a man can have. In the final moments before we got to the car, happy and tired, the heavens opened on what was one of the most beautiful teasels we had every seen, naturalised by the river and adorned with ripening seed heads. I may still not know my vintage from my retro, I may still mistake Meakin for Myson, I may have been cheated out of a glorious looking pie for a bland paella but I know that nothing humans have ever made can compare to the beauty, and simplicity of a teasel.


That tease of a teasel