On The Line

 

From Facebook archives and memories of home

4 March 2015 at 07:48 ·

Yesterday evening Ferretfingers and I brought in the washing that had been blowing outdoors all day.  It wasn't bone dry so I put the hand towels and a single fitted sheet on the hall radiator.   

Went down this morning and the hall smells so lovely - the smell of cold fresh air.

FifiD My favourite smell.  Miss that... Living in a flat xx

 

The back garden is on the North side of the house so is mostly shady between the Autumn and Spring Equinox.  My washing line runs almost the length of the garden and there is that wonderful moment each Spring when I can start putting the washing out again.  Whatever fabric conditioner or detergent you use it can never equal the smell of line dried washing.  Or that midwinter moment when you bring clean bedlinen, that you haven’t used for a while, out of the airing cupboard and it smells of summer sunshine.

 

The garden at home was very big, with washing lines that ran the length and almost the width of it in a T shape.  The end of the leg was an ancient apple tree, until it rotted and was replaced with a post.  The arms ended on one side in the oak tree in the hedge, and on the other in the beech arch behind the house.  There were another two posts, one at the junction of the arms and leg, the other half way down.  I strongly suspect they were once railway telegraph poles.  There were ancient saucepans rammed on the top, presumably to protect them from rotting.  The joy of a T shaped line is that whatever way the wind blows you can hang your wet washing up so it blows through, drying more efficiently and with fewer creases. 

 

Before central heating was installed in 1973, Mum had nowhere to dry washing except out on the line.  With four children to keep clean and smart Mum took pains to hang things the best way possible, maximising blow through and minimising peg use.  

Bigger items, like shirts and trousers, were pegged up individually.   

Smaller items, like underwear or pillowcases, shared a peg where they met each other;  that way they could be got off the line quickly if it started raining.   

Sometimes she would let the washing stay out in the soft Welsh rain for an extra rinse.   

Sometimes it stayed out over frosty nights and was brought in in the morning literally frozen stiff … and the living room was filled with the scent of cold fresh air.

Dad in the garden at home, under the washing line.   

On the back, in his handwriting "Aug 1995 Taking a 'marrow' view."   

So many childhood memories tumbled out by this picture.