A picture worth a thousand words?

Picture books are so tempting. In Foyles today to choose a new treat, I paused longingly on Emily Gravett's Rabbit Problem, skipped through a tale by Margaret Atwood (not a patch on Handmaid's Tale, though quicker to read), yearned for Pippi Longstocking illustrated by Lauren Child*.

But it's not enough to have beautiful illustrations. I've learned to my cost that a picture isn't worth a thousand words. They're important, but it's the words you're going to have to read time and again, and a lot of children's books are sadly lacking on that front. The rabbits were exquisite, the text witty, and the climactic popup fantastic - but the narrative drive comes from calendar entries, so I can't see it becoming a new classic in our library.

In the end, we turned to our old favourites - and still the best - the killer combination of Julia Donaldson and Axel Scheffler. It's her words that just make it, and his pictures which bring them to life.

Their latest, Tabby McTat, includes opportunity for singing: how could I resist?

Little a: 'Can I see the robber again?'

In Edinburgh for our wedding anniversary this bank holiday weekend, we saw the very grownup storyteller Rachel Rose Reid, weaving her own tales with the life story and tales of Hans Christian Andersen. No pictures, no children, just her words (and the wonderful lyrics of Joni Mitchell) and a spellbound audience. For me, the magic of storytelling will never be something you outgrow.




*When little a is just that bit older, and up for investing in words without pictures, we'll be back for that Pippi Longstocking. Can't think of a better combination of illustrator with storyteller. But in the meantime, our lovely neighbours brought back the original Pippi picturebook from Sweden. Completely surreal, but little a loves the tales of the strongest girl in the world, who cooks for herself and carries her pet horse.

Piggy Tales

I have such mixed feelings about my yearning to be a storyteller. I find those thick woollen cardis deeply itchy, I just don't think comfortable shoes are attractive, and I can see from the puzzlement in my friends' eyes when I confess my secret dream that the word storyteller is somehow fusty and earnest, whatever the Independent may have claimed this weekend [http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/theatre-dance/features/tall-tales-meet-the-storytellers-spinning-edgy-new-yarns-for-the-digital-age-2055972.html]

Over time though I've come to see it's the perfect medium for me. And there's something incredibly immediate, breathtakingly scary but liberating, about having nothing but words to bind an audience to you.

Admittedly, not many professional storytellers ply their art with a four-and-a-half-year-old trying to sit on their head. But then I'm not a professional.

So, last weekend, I had my first storytelling gig. We were camping with pigs - yes, literally sleeping in pig arcs, with piglets in the neighbouring fields (come to think of it, my friends got the same you're totally insane look at that as a weekend pursuit) - and I plucked up courage to offer my storytelling services.

Day one, huddled in straw as the elements lashed at the mud outside, we found Edward Lear's piggy-wig, and huffed and puffed and blew the house down. I unearthed a lesser-known Hans Christian Andersen tale, of the princess and the swineherd, and went on a limb with a story little a and I had invented the night before. And without a script, I could spin the tales just long enough for the rain to end.

Day two, we took refuge in the pub (the fabulous Royal Oak in Bishopstone http://www.royaloakbishopstone.co.uk/) as the heavens continued to pelt us. And without little a clambering on me, we had a much more focused group round the table, for the pig who cried wolf, and a story we all made up together.

I loved it. My favourite moment was in the pub. Two boys who'd mainly spent the weekend terrorising piglets, and who were waiting for the tractor-taxi, not even listening to the stories, were drawn in closer and closer. And the fear in their eyes: the belief that there really was a wolf stalking the table.

The Independent piece today talks about storytelling not just being for children under six, and I agree. I think it's timeless, that people of any age will be drawn in by the picture you weave with words. But children are the most exacting, and satisfying audience: if they don't like it, or are bored, they'll tell you. And if they love it, you don't just make them happy: their parents love it too.

I've definitely got the bug. Now I just need to pluck up the courage to do it again. Watch this space ...

Cautionary Tale

Tomorrow night, I must get home in time to make a cake for my ungodson's Christening. So it's exceptionally good timing that little a's favourite bedtime read at the moment is THE DUCHESS BAKES A CAKE. My husband has read it ten nights in a row now (he claims: though since he was off gallivanting round Liverpool at the weekend that has to be taken with a large dash of tabasco). So I'm in the good books for making it back in time for bedtime tonight.

And good book it certainly is. What other tales outside the Pilgrim's Progress could get away with rhyming leaven with Heaven? And this without a thinly veiled religious message, even.

I love everything about it: the simple but cute illustrations (the Duchess's daughters in little red caps, adorable), the pacy rhyme ('You'll all be delighted, for I'm going to make/A lovely light luscious delectable cake) and best of all the moral of the tale: baking's a dangerous game best left to your cook. Stick to the reading and writing ...

Asked little a what was her favourite thing about it.
Answer: 'The rising'

In a nutshell: Duchess, more accustomed to bluestockinged pursuits, sends cook on holiday and determines to bake said lovely light luscious delectable cake - only to find an improper proportion of leaven takes her right up to Heaven. Call the cavalry, but not even a shower of arrows can bring her down ('All that they hit was a couple of sparrows').

Then Gunhilde, the youngest, she howled and she wailed,
And their every attempt to quiet her failed.
"Don't cry, dear," the Duke said, "about your poor mother.
I'm sure, if you wish, I can find you another."

Turns out little G is nothing more than hungry - and can you guess how they rescue the Duchess from the top of her cake?

It is tales like this that make me glad to be in the modern world, one of civilised ingredients such as self-raising flour.

A book as lovely as a tree

One of my husband's favourite pastimes, when he's not diving into the undergrowth hunting out mushrooms, is tree speculation. This consists of striding through the countryside confidently pointing out nearby Ash - or maybe Elder, or it could be oak ... He's a carpenter. If he didn't undermine his first declaration, I'd happily take him at his word. But I guess they look different with their leaves still on.

So you can imagine my pleasure to find A LITTLE GUIDE TO TREES nestled amongst a really lovely selection of books* in a giftshop in Walburswick. It's an Eden Project publication, written and charmingly illustrated in Edward Ardizzone-style by Charlotte Voake, and it's an absolute treat.

Each spread is dedicated to a different type of tree, with the distinctive leaf-shape easy to spot in the top right-hand corner, and tips on what to look out for in each season, along with titbits of knowledge. Did you know Alder is used to make clogs? Or that birch twigs make good broomsticks?

We spent a happy afternoon, measuring the height of a tree using nothing more than a friend and a pencil, and identifying - really, truly identifying, no more speculation for us, thank you - the trees we saw on our pre-lunch walk. Ever the Eden-minded naturalists, we took note of the book's advice to take the book to the tree, not the tree to the book, and didn't pick leaves. But the book is a little large for carrying on walks, so here's a tip: take photos while you're on your walk, return to pub carpark, get book out of car, and then happily occupy small offspring with matching pics to illustrations while you sup your pint of good local ale ...




*Snapped up two other treasures in the giftshop: for boat-building husband, Kipling's THE SHIPWRIGHT'S TRADE stirringly illustrated with woodcuts by James Dodds (a former boat-builder: perfect!) and KATIE MORAG DELIVERS THE MAIL. Little a captivated by both. A succesful book-hunting trip all round, and icing on the cake of a picture-perfect day at the seaside.