The Croft. 8: From the Source

THE CROFT

FROM THE SOURCE THE CROFT. Issue 8 From the source

The Croft/Emily Fromant

Welcome to our final print edition of The Croft for this year.

We are so thankful for all the hard work our team, from writers to editors, photographers to models, have put in over the last 8 months to help develop The Croft into what it is today. It feels somewhat surreal to talk about signing off when it feels as though we are only just getting started.

We have explored a variety of themes, ideas, concepts and feelings this year, and so it seems only fitting that, in some way of harkening back to our first edition, rebirth, that we

Go back to our roots.

And so, we present ‘from the source, a deep dive into our most natuiral and organic thoughts, feelings and actions.

We’re looking backwards. Not as a means of longing for the past, but rather bringing to the surface our most instrinsic desires.

Once again, thank you- readers and writers alike, it’s been a pleasure Emily and Nicole x

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3. We were girls together 5. Glance 7. Body-con 9. Are we out of the Woods yet?

11. Running Wild 13. City of Impressions

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e r e w e W r e h t e g o T Girls

The Croft/Kirkland

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The Croft/Kirkland

The Croft/Emily Fromant The Croft/Kirkland

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5 The Croft/Kirkland

This world that I will travel in The lines I cross, the tracks I make The marks I’ll leave on her and him Each left or right, a new mistake They drop them a height you know?

The baby bird, so soft and fresh.

They cruelly throw them out of home.

To teach them how to fly no less.

And yet here I sit in morbid comfort, Yet to take my single step Is 1000 miles still worth the effort?

Who’s really here who won’t forget?

About the places that I said I’d go.

The things I swore I would have done.

When did my progress through the jungle slow?

To crawling pace through grass and mud.

‘Oh, but life is all about the journey’ Speaks only those with no direction, Live and die in a single city Or wander aimlessly with no infliction.

The Croft/Kirkland

Of course life is for the journey!

From your first and only sinless breath.

You only have the journey, The destination’s always death.

When your single city falls Or jungles torn down like all the rest, The only birds who’ll know to fly

Are those who were thrown from out the nest.

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T

he post pandemic pendulum has swung towards sex appeal embracing a newfound focus on the body.

Trackies and loungewear are taking a backseat as body consciousness is back - but with a twist.

The Body-conscious - AKA bodycon – trend originated with the 1980s King of Cling’s Azzedine Alaia’s ‘bandage dress’. Following the discovery of the super flexible fabric Lycra, the ‘Bandage dress’ was created from multiple thin strips of nylon and rayon that wrapped together – like a bandage- in order to hug curves into shapely perfection. In the early 2000s, bodycon was reintroduced as the The socialite sisters Paris and Nicky Hilton and Kim Kardashian were among the first to be papped wearing the incredibly tight socalled ‘Bandage dresses’. But how has the bodycon scene changed over time? In the SS23 shows, Manel Torres took bodycon-consciousfashion to the next level on the Coperni Catwalk. He became the first designer to create an instant dress with innovative technology. Model Bella Hadid walked half-naked onto the lit catwalk platform and let the Fabrikant team spray paint the shape of a skin-tight white dress onto her live. The performance took place at Salle des Textiles in Paris’ Musée des Arts et Métierson. The spray-on dress consisted of natural and synthetic fibres such as wool, cotton and nylon that when in contact with Hadid’s skin evaporated into a non-woven fabric. The skin-tight white dress accentuated her figure with a sexy sensual element to it but it focused more on the idea of elegance that roaring sexiness, there was a subtleness to it.

After spraying the shape of a dress onto Hadid’s body, Coperni cut and altered the dress, shortening it’s length and draping the straps off Hadid’s shoulders before she roamed around the room. Torres was soon dubbed ‘the chemist tailor’ for combining the futuristic fusion of science with bodycon to enhance the female form. In a fashion scene where most brands consistantly reminisce the past, it’s nice to see the future of clothing. It’s of no doubt that in the first forty-eight hours of coverage alone, Coperni and Bella Hadid’s viral moment generated 26.3 million dollars, with 20.9 million dollars coming from social media and 5.4 million dollars from websites. Coperni later confirmed spray-on fabric can be used to make innovative clothes that can be washed, re-worn, and even integrated with diagnostic devices that can monitor the health of the wearer. Bodycon is not just on the runway but taking the high street by storm. The up-and-coming London fashion brand Nihai has created a range of figure-hugging bodycon dresses and tops that can be bought at Urban Outfitters which can be seen all over Bristol’s night scene. The bright and bold bodycon dresses take a rather modern ironic take on Alaia’s original bandage dress, the cut out’s add a tougher grungier take on femininity and look almost cyber-esque and creatures-like, an ultimate reference to punk rock. DIY versions are popping up too, with people punking up their tights/ slashing jerseys too. Whether it’s a retro sexy look or more modern takes bodycon is back.

Body Con Is Back

Words By Mia Flook

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STYLE.

Editor: Molly Grogan Deputy Editor: Mia Flook Digital Editor: Amy Marshall

The Croft/Emily Fromant

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FOOD.

Editor: Saiba Haque Deputy Editor: Maya Glantz Digital Editor: Emma Witham

Words By Anya Dixon Wild foraging has been around for centuries as an act of survival and self-preservation, but with modern society and its evolution of simplifying our continued existence, this act of survival had died down. However, with the rising concern for the environment we have noticed a revival in people reconnecting with nature and a resurgence of foraging. Now a modern green trend, foraging has taken its place in society as an act of leisure, or for most of us, survival with the current cost of living. With the spring season now upon us, a wide variety of plants can be foraged to add a flavourful flair to your meals, and at the same time, providing you with essential nutrients. Here is your very own Bristol-style guide to foraging as a beginner.

First on the list is Wild Garlic , otherwise known as ramsons.

These are delectable leafy greens, best picked from April to June, and can be found in woodland areas – in particular, on the banks of rivers and streams. The young leaves can be picked from March onwards, and small white flowers can be found growing on the wild garlic later in the season, as of which are also edible.

Wild garlic is distinctive in its long, smooth and oval shaped leaves growing in clusters. The safest way to check is to crush a leaf – when crushed the leaf should emit a strong smell of garlic and slight onion. Wild garlic has a delightful taste and can be a flavourful addition to roast potatoes and soups – a popular take is a wild garlic pesto or garlic butter.

ARE WE...

Another spring-time addition in the list of forgeable goods is white dead nettles. Commonly found in woodland areas and alongside hedgerows, this curious plant is almost identical to stinging nettles just from looking at the leaf – although, small white flowers tend to blossom from April onwards on white dead nettles. If in doubt though, one sure way to distinguish the two is a close-up of the leaf – dead nettles will have short, fine hairs on the leaf, whereas, stinging nettles have longer hairs. White dead nettle leaves have a mild but pleasant taste and can be treated as a substitute for spinach – they can be boiled to add to dishes such as quiche or pasta. Alternatively, white dead nettle soup can be made with the flowers, which gives off a succulent honey-like Last on the list is the cuckooflower, a long stem that grows small pale pink flowers. This forgeable spring flower grows in damp meadows and woodland areas, or on riverbanks. Its flowers bloom from April to June and can be easily identified by their pale pink colour. All parts of this plant are edible, although the leaves and stem tend to be eaten raw or cooked due to their richness in vitamins. With a strong cress-like flavour, this plant makes a great addition to salads or as a unique spring seasoning

The Croft/ Saiba Haque

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As a beginner forager, a general rule of thumb is to avoid eating or touching plants you are unsure about as many plants tend to have poisonous lookalikes - the plants mentioned in this guide are the safest and easiest options for beginners. It is recommended to bring a pair of kitchen scissors (to avoid pulling plants from the root) and an assortment of containers to keep your foraged goods in. Although, if you plan to collect brambles or stinging nettles then a pair of thick gloves is recommended.

Lastly, as a foraging guideline it is always best to minimise damage to plants and only take what you plan to consume.All the plants mentioned here can be found at Conham River Park, a short bus ride from the city centre. However, other notable areas to forage in Bristol include; the grounds/surrounding woodland area of Kings Weston House, Nightingale Valley in Brislington, and Westbury wildlife park. Happy foraging!

Spring special recipe: garlic sautéed dead nettles and chicken : This can be made by heating a pan of oil and finely diced wild garlic until slightly browned, then sauté the dead nettles until wilted. Season with salt, lemon juice and chilli flakes (optional), then add pieces of pre-cooked chicken and cook until browned.

This is best served over spaghetti/pasta or rice.

...OUT OF THE WOODS?

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WELLBEING.

Editor: Sophia Smith Deputy Editor: Ursula GlendinningDigital Editor: Helen March Sub-Editor: Zara Whistler

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E

arlier this year, I took up running again. Setting off through Bristol, I experienced the ever-familiar early stages of a run. First, a wall of cold air through which I aimed to emerge; if I continued for just a little further, I might meet a warm spring breeze. Next, a (probably deluded) confidence in my ability to maintain the speed at which I had begun. Clifton was flying by until, a couple of minutes in, it wasn’t. God, I wish I could just get to the end of this road. I thought of the check point I could begin walking at. It was a familiar sequence of feelings, and ones I had grown accustomed to over the summer of 2020.

Every day, from mid-March to September of 2020, I ran along the country road I had grown up on, and then circled back over the moorland. I was startled by the heavy silence that had descended since the world came to a standstill. It was periodically broken by one or two cars. Frequently, bird songs reverberated through the valley, chorusing with the trains.

The duo-tonal great tit and songful blackbird overtook sonorous political babble from the radio. Although my road had never previously been susceptible to heavy traffic, I had been warned away from it as a child, for people travelled along it fairly frequently and often at a dangerous speed. But during the pandemic, the volume of cars slowed down to a trickle, and we were engulfed in a country calm we hadn’t experienced for years. For the first time I was able to run on the road without fear of a misstep leading me into the path of an oncoming vehicles.

The moorland also became somewhat transformed by the international standstill. My headphones came off, and I was alert. A pheasant, disturbed by my heavy foot fall, launched itself from thickets, unapologetic in its voice. The heather was a royal purple in the spring. Sometimes it was raining.

The catch, which ran alongside the path, was thick with reeds and frogspawn. I can remember long expeditions through these streams as a child, pretending I was braving a river, up to my waist in cold, perishing water. In reality, the stream was slow and sometimes dried up. There were some days when I needn’t have even taken off my boots to wade through it. The banks rose in flanks around my head; all that I could see was the stream ahead and the fern that unfurled, emerald and startling.

When traversing my home valley, an acquired myopia is necessary. It is easy to become overwhelmed by the scale of the hills and the quaint imagery of abandoned farmhouses slumbering against giant inclines. One’s ambition is at risk of being overcome with the prospect of reaching precipices, over which one might suddenly find an epiphany. This will presumably happen by seeing the toy houses of the local village and people paragliding off the cliffs of the Peak District. But it was through noticing the finer things, the things that I could put a name to, that made me truly feel part of something bigger than just myself. The fairness of mortality or mastery over what is inevitable never crossed my mind when I realised there was something reciprocal accessible here.

My runs became a source of solace, and when I look back on that summer, I remember running above everything.

Maybe because of the intense physicality of the activity, in that moment, I was grounded. It’s harder to remember the other things: waiting, hospitals, the news. My liminal existence was briefly but wonderfully interrupted by heather. I would stop for bilberries along the way and stand still for twenty minutes with my hands shading my eyes, watching as a buzzard circled up ahead. Running hurt; I felt aches deep in my calves and developed stitches from eating handfuls of raisins beforehand. But I wasn’t thinking about anything else. The grief I held in my hands was, in that moment, walking alongside me with the earth. With each step I left a small part of that heaviness on the path.

In retrospect, running 5km a day was gruelling, punishing even. Now, I run every couple of days, and rarely over 3km. Although this certainly will not leave a particularly strong impression of my athleticism on my reader, I want to highlight that connections don’t need to be assumed in extremes. In those moments where I was running, or even dragging myself along, barely walking, I was - and am - present. Contrary to the idea that nature was a place of isolation and escape, in those days I was coming to myself, away from whatever craze was sweeping the internet.

These moments were not of flight but rather instances of being brought back to the earth; instances of embodiment.

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Paris: City of Impressions There seem to be only two possible opinions to have on Paris. Either it is the archetype of sophistication, the city of romance and culture, or a rat-infested, overblown dump that erupts into a wild inferno of tear gas and smoke if the government so much as breathes.

As a tourist, sympathizing with the former impression feels impossibly naïve. There is even a name for an extreme form of culture shock that occurs here: Paris Syndrome. A psychological condition, where tourists arriving in the city are so disappointed by what they see that they have a nervous breakdown. In this instance, expectations that fail to live up to your starry-eyed fantasies of nights spent watching the lights of the Eiffel Tower shimmering the Seine can quite literally drive you insane.

When living somewhere for an extended period of time, your experience is a little different.

It is as if there is an invisible barrier separat-

TRAVEL.

Editor: Finnuala Brett Deputy Editor: Grace Burton Digital Editor: Isobel Edmonson Sub-Editor: Eve Baird

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ing you from the outside world. You are never quite a part of it all, but you also get a taste of the trials of bureaucracy and routine irritations that the average citizen must contend with.

There is also a fierce beauty, not only in the physical surroundings of the city itself, but in the mundane and unexceptional, because everything is new to you.

There is beauty in the way that Parisian commuters will studiously ignore the many eager musicians who clamber onto the metro – anything from a single guitar player to a twenty-piece brass band – with contempt etched onto every line of their faces. Or the way that there is always a hive of activity around brasseries and cafés, no matter what time of the day or night. Wandering down cobbled streets, these strange, picturesque scenes increasingly take on an air of familiarity, even as the very bones of this place seem to hum with possi-

bility, a moment in time suspended while a single word, a glance, could set it ticking into motion.

Once, on strike day, the metro flew past three of the stops that I needed to get home and I went on foot from Place Denfert-Rochereau. I passed through a line of policemen carrying riot shields to be greeted by a heaving mass of protestors, meticulously organised, marching with the sense that they were fighting for something bigger. Even coming from Bristol, collective action on this scale felt like nothing I had seen before, and here it was, in real time, on a grey Tuesday afternoon in October.

However, first impressions like these are not formed in a vacuum, but are inevitably based on various subconscious biases.

Recently, an American student wrote a viral article about the negative experiences she had while spending a semester in Florence.

While I shared the annoyance of readers who derided her depiction of the enormous privilege of being able to travel solo around the world as an act of martyrdom and, more broadly, her efforts to disdain a culture which she felt had rejected her, I also felt a pang of empathy for the author. How many of us, lonely and in a place that feels unwelcoming, would not inevitably start to project their resentment onto the region as a whole?

Paris has its own problems with crime and poverty, just as every major city does, and intense culture shocks à la Paris Syndrome occur because the foreign media consistently romanticises or turns a blind eye to these societal issues, or else solely consigns

them to the suburb of Saint-Denis. Perhaps I regard it with more with more than a fair share of sentimentality because it is one of the first places I have lived where I have not found myself dreaming of escape.

While discussing my impressions of Paris with another person from the UK, we agreed that because we have experienced a different culture, the atmosphere of despondency back home has become particularly noticeable. Here in France, there is a tangible sense of passion, a population that has not yet been ground down by years of declining standards of living and bills that cannot be paid. On the other hand, the controversy around the retirement reforms has once again revealed a country that is exceptionalist, willing to fight for its rights but less sure of how to do it in a constructive way.

First impressions can be deceptive, and it is difficult to say whether you can truly experience a culture, in all of its extravagance and its ugliness, without leaving your cultural biases at the door.

WORDS BY MADISON JAMES

The Croft / Madison James

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