Sunday, 17 August 2014

R.I.P. Eric Thorpe

Last Sunday my father in law died peacefully in our local hospital, aged ninety-five, from kidney failure.  Four days earlier he had slipped into deep unconsciousness and we knew he could no longer be treated.  From then on Ian and I, hugely supported by our son and daughter and their partners, who live reasonably locally, kept him company night and day. Our other adult children, who live far away, provided their own support by phone and text.  How does anyone manage these things without the loving support and care of adult children, I wonder?  When my mother died last year I felt it too: we were not alone, the next generation were with us, taking their share, looking after us in their turn.  It is a good feeling. 

I felt as I do now about blogging when my mother died. Partly I did not want to blog.  There are some things which need privacy.  But I also knew that if I did not mention something so important, if I blogged about gardens or lemon cake or walking on beaches, I would in a sort of way be lying.  This blog is not for baring my soul, for public self analysis or therapy.  Often it is for the things in life that give me pleasure: cooking and eating and books and gardens and making things and the very beautiful place in which I am lucky enough to live.  It marks out the year, follows the seasons, shares the celebrations that punctuate the year with family and friends.  Every now and then I have a bit of a rant about things I hate: bullying, unkindness, consumerism, our society's obsession with looks and celebrity.  It is a blog about my life and if I did not tell you about my father in law's death I would start to feel that the blog was a bit of a pretence, in fact I might just have to stop blogging altogether.

So while this blog is not a place to be sad in I would like to tell you a bit about my father in law.

Born in 1918 in the industrial North West of England, Eric was a Rochdale man to the soles of his feet.  He was the youngest of seven children and I suspect was indulged a little by the whole family.  He certainly grew taller and stronger than his elder brothers which they always claimed was because he got more food as a child.  His family were truly poor in that way we have all forgotten about now. There was no question at all that he could stay on at school beyond the age of 14.  All the children had to work.  Eric loved school and didn't want to leave.  He didn't necessarily have an academic sort of intelligence, although he was bright enough,  but he had a natural quickness of mind, an ability to make people laugh and a way of handling people which made him popular and well loved throughout his life.  He was easy to get on with, always ready to give people a hand, a lover of gambling who nevertheless never bet more than he could afford (which wasn't much!), a devoted father, a man totally incapable of doing anything other than looking on the bright side.  He was very profoundly of his time, growing up in the twenties and thirties and raising his family through the fifties, and of his place, a Lancashire milltown.

The only time he spent away from Rochdale was when he was posted to Orkney for the duration of the Second World War.  Somehow being sent to Orkney was very typical of Eric.  Yes, there were dangers undoubtedly and, despite being a soldier not a sailor, he served on the boats which supplied the many bases on the islands.  He was lucky that he did not suffer from seasickness.   But it was a dangerous place.   There were deaths in Orkney, in fact the first civilian to die in the war was killed on the islands.  The following is an extract from the website which documents the landscape and history of Scapa Flow in Orkney:

It was still the early days of the war but already Goering’s Luftwaffe were wreaking havoc on the home fleet in Scapa Flow, and 16 March 1940 would be a date that the people of Orkney would never forget.
That evening at around 8pm, 15 Junkers 88 enemy aircraft were reported over Scapa Flow and a number of high explosive bombs were dropped causing a fair amount of damage and injuring seven Navy personnel. Anti-Aircraft guns opened fire as did ships' guns, but despite early reports of two aircraft being shot down, no losses were recorded by intelligence reports.
As the raiders fled the scene, the aircraft still with bombs flew inland and decided to jettison their bomb loads some four miles east of Stromness as they reached Brig o'Waithe.
On hearing the raiders overhead, Jim Isbister and his wife Lily rushed to the door and amidst the falling bombs, they pulled two passers-by - Mrs Burnett and Mrs Jane Muir - inside for shelter.
Just split seconds later, a bomb fell on Miss Isabela Macleod’s house across the road and as Jim rushed from his house to go and help, another bomb exploded killing him instantly. Miss Macleod although wounded, managed to crawl from the wrecked cottage and Mrs Muir was slightly injured by splinters. Fortunately Jim’s wife Lily and baby Neil survived uninjured.
In total, five people were killed and nine injured in the raid.  Jim Isbister became the first civilian to be killed by enemy action in World War II. A service was held for Jim at St Magnus Cathedral, conducted by his brother-in-law Rev. TG Tait, and Rev. J MacLeod of Stenness, after which he was buried in St Olaf’s cemetery.
But Eric came safe through the war.  He had plenty to eat, perhaps more than he had been used to as a working class boy in the industrial North West.  He loved Orkney.  As an older man he would trot out his stories of Orkney, worn smooth by the telling,  to make you smile or laugh but he would always at some point tell you "It was the land of milk and honey".  He loved the fact that he could send food home and had all sorts of stories of working out how to send eggs or, on one memorable occasion, a leg of lamb, home to his mother, sisters and wife-to-be.
Other than Orkney, his whole life was Rochdale until he came to live with us in December 2010 after his first ever spell in hospital.  He had very limited horizons in many ways.  He had no desire to travel, unlike his wife who chafed at the restrictions which hemmed her in as a working class woman whose health was poor.  Give him three meals a day and the chance to lay a bet on the horses, people to chat to, a bit of TV to watch and he was happy.  When he lived with us I used to find this narrowness of view both extraordinary and from time to time extraordinarily annoying.  How could he be so little interested in other lives, other people (except family), other countries, other foods, the whole glorious panoply of rich and complicated life?  It was as if, faced by a tapestry which covered an entire wall, he insisted on looking at one dark and dirty square inch in the bottom corner.  But perhaps that was the secret of his undoubted contentment with life.  He didn't want much but he knew what he did want and he took pleasure in it right until illness overshadowed the last weeks of his life.  How many people manage to live a truly happy life?  Eric did, in his small corner, and in it he did a great deal of good and very little harm.  He was a good father, a good grandfather, a loyal worker, a good friend, a good man.
Whenever I hear the quote "Bloom where you are planted" I think of Eric.  His roots were deep.  Perhaps you can't have deep roots and wide horizons.  Yet he took what might have seemed an unpromising start in life and he lived that life cheerfully, with energy and good humour and love.  He honoured his relationships with a deep and wordless loyalty, caring for his wife through her many illnesses, looking after his ailing brother in law, doing his best for his daughter, son and grandchildren.  It wasn't a financial best, he never had much money, although what he did have he was generous with.  It was an emotional best.  There was never any question at all that he loved you and gave you that love unstintingly.  He asked very little of you in return. 
Eric was one of nature's gentlemen.  I am glad to have known him and glad to be married to his son.  I will miss him.

Sunday, 3 August 2014


One day I will spend a whole summer by the sea.  I will lie on blankets on the sand and paddle with children and eat slightly sandy sandwiches.  I will walk along cliff tops.  I will watch the tide come in.  When I was a teenager I used to spend days on the beach with my best friend, Ruth.  If you spend enough time on a particular beach you come to know what is revealed when the tide goes out, the places where the water lingers and becomes sunwarmed pools.  You know how the sand behaves, where it ripples and where it hardens, where it goes soft suddenly underfoot.  When the tide comes in again you know where the water goes suddenly cold, where the sand holds out in little islands against the rising water.

I must go down to the sea.

Wednesday, 23 July 2014

Sarah Raven's Perch Hill Feast

Months ago Ian came in from his office, as we grandly call the overcrowded and chilly porch where the desktop computer lives, and said "Listen to this.  You would like this."  It was an email invitation to Perch Hill, home of Sarah Raven and Adam Nicolson, to a summer event, a feast, with names from the world of food such as Yotam Ottolenghi and Hugh Fearnley Whittingstall.  Visitors were to stay in tents.  It was to be a weekend for wandering around the garden and eating glorious food.

I would like it.  I would like it a lot.  Within an hour I had established that Ian was not bothered about going himself but happy for me to go, approached a friend who is always up for doing something new and interesting, even though she is not a gardener and much more interested in eating food than cooking it, and by ten past nine the next morning we were booked in.  The speed and decisiveness aren't too uncharacteristic but they don't usually get used on something which is essentially a big treat.  It is sort of a birthday present.  It is also a grand gesture towards looking after ourselves in a challenging year.

And so it was that on Friday 12th July I set off on the train down to London with a rucksack on wheels, catching the fast train from Holyhead that rumbles along the North Wales coast before picking up speed and whizzing down through England to Euston.  It was strange, a blast from the past when this was the train that took me to work in London in my business clothes, carrying a briefcase and laptop.

I had plenty of time so I walked from Euston to Charing Cross.  This, and a little further East into Fleet Street and the City, is my part of London.  I know it.  I know its squares to the North and its byways and alleys around the Aldwych and the Strand.  The noise and the traffic buffeted me but I enjoyed the anonymity London gives you, a middle aged woman with a pull along bag, invisible through Gordon Square and down Kingsway, anonymous along the Strand and darting down to Embankment gardens.

I caught a slow stopping train which puttered down through Kent and Sussex and arrived at Stonegate station, the only passenger to emerge onto a silent platform.  Amazingly all our long distance arrangements had worked and there was Erica, all the way by car from Dorset.  "Did you have a plan b?" she said when we met and hugged.  The answer was no.  Had she not been there to meet me I would have had to have a sit down and a think.

It was grey and softly raining on Friday evening, the view hidden in misty cloud.  What seemed like hordes of young people swarmed cheerfully about, arriving with wheelbarrows to move our bags from the car, smiling and chatting with the charming, easy enthusiasm of loved and loving youth. We were sleeping in bell tents set along the edges of a couple of fields, the tents looking hard for the flatter places in a land of soft hills and gentle slopes.  Our slope was side to side, not head to toe, so every morning I woke up just a little closer to the tent wall.  But the airbeds were deep and comfortable and it was a relief to have a duvet and a proper pillow instead of being tied up in a sleeping bag.

Here we are, just to the right of the post.

Unpacking was putting my pajamas under my pillow and then we set off up the slope to the marquee, which served as a dining room and gathering place, and the greenhouse and classroom, which provided sitting space and much more plush and acceptable loos than the portaloos in the field.

I suffered from serious greenhouse envy.  It was a fabulous structure with tomatoes and herbs at one end and big tables and pots of succulents and scented leaf geraniums at the other.

I wonder why we bother with houses at all.  I think I could happily live in a greenhouse.

Dinner was at nine, an Ottolenghi inspired, many flavoured and luscious meal, a real feast.  When Ottolenghi talked, his confident, passionate delight in food and its capacity for infusing life with pleasure and good company spoke to something at the very heart of my life's experience.  Many of the great memories of my life involve cooking in company with my mother, who loved a full table, and with my sister and my daughters, and latterly my niece, producing food to be lingered over.  It made me smile to feel the connection running so strongly between a forty odd year old, male,  Israeli born, academic and journalist turned restauranteur and my English, eighty year old mother who died last year, but it leapt across age and background like an electrical charge: the same generosity, the same adventurousness, a pleasure in food which is both deeply serious and utterly relaxed, about as far from Puritanism as it is possible to be.  Mum would have loved it.  Lovely meal, lovely man.

And that generosity was the running undercurrent of the weekend.  Ottolenghi and his partner and little boy stayed the weekend in a tent and, like all the speakers and participants, wandered about and were as much part of the event as the rest of us.  The gardens were open and accessible all weekend long and, while there was the opportunity to go round the garden with Sarah as part of an organised talk, it was also fine to wander in on your own and mooch about amongst the dahlias and sweetpeas.

There was abundance everywhere, in the food and the flowers and the company.

On Saturday morning I woke with no sense at all of what time it could be.  The sun through the cream canvas made me feel I was sleeping in a bubble of light.  I felt around for my watch and eventually made sense of what it said: half past four.  I rolled over, pulling myself back from the approaching tent wall, and went back to sleep.

Breakfast too was generous, with fresh rolls and bacon and home made jam, yoghurt and granola and sweet cherries and lots of tea and coffee.  Afterwards I chose to walk with a group going round the farm with Adam Nicolson, rather than those going round the garden with Sarah.  If you have been reading this blog for a while you will know that my relationship with my garden has been derailed this year by my wish and need to spend time with my father and with my father in law, both failing in different ways, one at one end of the country and one at the other.  There is neither time nor energy for my usual obsessive thinking and dreaming and working in the garden.  Right now the garden would be like a half finished embroidery or an abandoned manuscript, set aside for another day, were it not for the fact that it keeps on growing, disappearing under a welter of weeds, not a love affair but a vast reproach of outside housework.  And walking is one of my great pleasures anyway so I thought it would be safer to walk with Adam Nicolson.

What a great thing to do!  I knew him as a writer.  I particularly enjoyed "Sea Room", about the Shiant Islands in the Outer Hebrides.  His writing is thoughtful, moving, passionate, knowledgeable.  What I didn't know was that the man himself is funny, one of those charismatic, witty raconteurs who make you laugh with every second sentence even while they are telling you serious stuff about how often you have to move your sheep from field to field.  Every two or three weeks.  Who knew?  So we walked across sheep filled fields, along muddy paths, down under trees, past Batemans, where Rudyard Kipling lived and back up a long slow hill and it was good.

Lunch was another plateful of total deliciousness.  There were various options in the afternoon but I decided I was not going to open a restaurant in this life so chose instead to wander about the garden and to retire to the tent for a snooze.  I had made a pact with Erica that while we were at Perch Hill we would not talk about illness and decline.  I would simply be where I was, in a field in Sussex in summer.

Before dinner Jackson Boxer talked to us about making cocktails.  Like all the speakers he was deeply knowledgeable and passionate about his subject.  I don't even drink cocktails but I came away convinced I needed some Fernet Branca.

The cider tasting the following morning converted me to cider.  The bread making session, where I thought I knew a great deal, taught me even more.  We have been making all our own bread for twenty years or more but I didn't know what I didn't know.

More demonstrations from  Gill Meller and Hugh Fearnley Whittingstall from River Cottage and another feast-like meal in the evening.  This is Gill in the tent showing us how to make salads to accompany mackerel with gooseberries.  I loved the mackerel but this for me was the least successful meal, judged against the astonshingly high standard of the weekend, principally because I was unpersuaded by the use of strawberries rather than tomatoes in a panzanella.  Too sweet, too mushy with none of the tang that tomatoes bring.  The meal did however include probably the best dish of the whole feasting, a starter made with fresh lamb's liver.  I had no idea a lamb's liver in its whole state was so big nor that it could produce a starter of such extraordinary, savoury creaminess.

We chatted to people at our table, all brought together by a love of food or gardening or both (and the not so little matter of having the time and the money to spare to be there).  I had wondered if those attending would be predominantly the privileged: middle aged and middle class women from the Home Counties.  The audience though was more mixed than that, men as well as women, younger people as well as the middle aged, and from all over the UK and beyond.  I talked to a woman from Switzerland who had very enterprisingly come on her own and we drifted across to the bar,  bought another glass of wine and sat by a fire pit, listening to live music which led to probably my favourite moment of the whole evening, when one of the young men serving at the bar proved to know all the words to "American Pie" and the whole bar sang along.

By Sunday morning we had got into the rhythm of things.  A question and answer session, chaired by Adam and involving Sarah, Yotam, Valentine Warner and Hugh Fearnley Whittingstall, was funny and inspiring and challenging by turns.  One of my absolute favourite sessions of the weekend, the bread making session led by Elizabeth Weisburg of the Lighthouse bakery went by far too quickly.

Here is Elizabeth, deftly, wryly, amusingly, making me feel I should branch out with our bread.

Valentine Warner demonstrated some dishes before lunch and was so unaffectedly funny, passionate and expert that I surprised myself by deciding to buy his latest book, "What to Eat Next", from the many possibilities in the shop, having originally intended to buy an Ottolenghi.  I also bought Adam's "The Mighty Dead:Why Homer Matters".  I have been reading this every night since I came home, torn between wanting to keep reading and gobble it all up and wanting it to last, not wanting it to finish. It is part literary commentary, part history, part archaeology, part philosophy, part personal treatise.  It is years since I read the Iliad and the Odyssey and then only in translation.  I remember loving them, particularly the Odyssey, as a teenager but I would have been hard put to remember why.  Will I go back and read them again?  Probably, particularly the Fagle translation which I am pretty sure I have never seen, but it is also likely that I will read Margaret Atwood's "The Penelopiad".  As a woman I am ready for a change from all that rampaging violent masculinity in Homer.

The Perch Hill feast wound to a close at about three o' clock in the afternoon.  We packed the car and said our goodbyes and made ready for the drive to Dorset where Erica was kindly giving me a bed for the night before I carried on to Devon to see my father.  The whole weekend had seemed a very long way from North Wales where I live.  Perhaps that sense of being away had been what I needed.  It reminded me of the fact that I too am passionate about things other than my family, even if family is my core and for now family fills most of my view.  Gardens, food, literature are all things which make up who I am.  If all I do with that reminder immediately is to commit to cooking a different thing in a different way for the lovely jolt of the new I will have taken a lasting benefit away, along with the reminder that it is possible to snooze in the afternoon and to make a floral headdress.  So thank you to Perch Hill, to Adam and to Sarah and all the presenters and all the other guests I talked to and wandered about with. Thank you to all the people who worked so hard to make the feasting happen.   Thank you to Erica for her cheerful, open minded witty company and hospitality.  Thank you to Ian whose idea it was.  I had a great time.

Monday, 7 July 2014

Doing nothing

"What are you going to do today?" Ian asks.

"Nuffin" I reply.  "Except something will probably sneak in and derail it."

Ian goes out to look at the brakes of the Subaru and I sit in bed with my cup of tea, musing.  We rarely do nothing.  I was joking.  At the best of times our lives are full of lists and jobs.  Living with two acres of garden and a house and a holiday cottage to run there are always things waiting to be done, both inside and outside.  Just now with my father and my father in law both struggling with their health, life is dominated by visiting, and by the driving up and down the country that is necessary to make some of that visiting possible so the garden lies neglected while we keep our heads above water.  Last week we also made a flying visit to Oxford to older daughter and her family who are moving to Wales, providing a bit of help with childcare (me) and taking down shelves and moving things from the allotment (Ian).  There is the cottage changeover, other adult children and grandchildren to see and to support and tiny bits of gardening to do so that the whole garden does not completely disappear under a welter of nettles and bindweed.  I have so much to do all the time that I run blindly from one thing to another, starting things without finishing them, or I find I cannot bring myself to engage with things because I know I have not got time to do them properly.

So doing "nuffin" was not a serious suggestion for a moment.  But I sit there musing about the idea of nothing and suddenly I wonder if it can be done.  I come downstairs, deliberately putting aside the list of "what next" in my head and make scrambled eggs for breakfast.  I read a bit of the weekend paper while I eat my eggs.  Going back upstairs to get dressed I resist the urge to throw my gardening clothes on and get out of the bedroom in less than a minute.  I shower (yes, of course I shower normally but I shower in less time than it takes most people to turn the shower on) and shave my legs and stay in long enough (all of five minutes) for the mirror to steam up.

Out of the shower I decide to put my yoga clothes on.  In the last few months I have committed silently to getting back to yoga.  Physically I feel better for making demands on my body that it stretch and move.  Mentally a session calms me and lifts me and puts me in touch with myself.  Sometimes yoga opens me up in a way that is almost painful.  I stopped for a while after  my mother died because it made me cry unexpectedly and publicly.  Sometimes I do not go when a part of me knows that I most need to because it is easier and less challenging to sit in the chair and watch the TV and potter about the internet.  In fact the more I need to go the less likely I am to make it happen.  But I have recognised that and have been trying in the last two or three months to turn up, week after week, whether I feel like it or not.

We still have not sorted out the room that was my father in law's.  His bed has gone to someone else who will use it.  Many of his things have gone with him and even more remain.  This is not a big house.  We know that it would be a good thing to find a use for the room that works for us and in theory we have agreed:  a crafts room, a sewing room, a music room.  But this kind of change takes time and energy and both are squeezed just now.  But without doing anything which takes time or organisation or the blurry edged decision making which resonates emotionally and uncomfortably and feels too soon, too harsh, here is a space, with a red rug, open and empty, without much furniture and with light coming in through the deeply recessed window.  We don't have a lot of space here inside.  Here is a space where you can lie and  stretch without bumping into furniture.  When you sit back on your heels and then stretch forward, hands on the ground, folding yourself in two, the only thing which prevents your movement is your own stiffness, not bumping into an armchair or a sofa.

So I sit cross legged and move and stretch and try and inevitably fail to touch my toes.  I am not flexible.  My ham strings are as tight as a bow.  But the trying and the sitting and the focussing on my body and how it works slows me right down and shuts out for a brief moment the incessant chatter of what needs to be done.

Afterwards I change my yoga pants for my jeans and make a cup of tea.  I wash up and put clothes away and take Ian a cup of coffee as he finishes mending the car brakes.  Weirdly, perhaps as a result of deciding to do nothing, I feel focussed and energetic. I sort out clothes and toiletries of my own and bits of detritus in my father in law's room: tissues and old newspapers which somehow I have not noticed before as if I had not been allowing myself to look.  I read for a few minutes, only a few pages but I never read in the day and it feels oddly like being on holiday.  Then I make some pastry, put it in the fridge to chill and go out into the garden to pick gooseberries.

And by the end of the day have I done nothing?  Of course not.  Perhaps the day started more slowly but it picked up speed and between us Ian and I have picked and topped and tailed six kilos of gooseberries and have the scratched and battered hands to prove it.  We have visited his father and collected a bed to be delivered to older daughter from younger daughter.  I have made a quiche and a gooseberry tart and done all the small domestic things that you need to do to make the day go.  But somehow that quieter start, that stepping back and looking at the idea, however askance, of "nuffin" has slowed me down and stilled the incessant rumbling demands of what has to be done. It has made things go quiet for a brief time.   Maybe I will try it again.

Sunday, 22 June 2014

Night in the shepherd's hut

June 21st, midsummer's evening.  We decide to sleep in the shepherd's hut,  a night away for the sake of walking across the field.  Inevitably there is some football on the television so for much of the evening we are in the house as Ian watches while I potter about the internet.  Then at around ten o' clock I gather up my reading glasses and my book.  I am rereading, for perhaps the fourth or fifth time, "Notes from Walnut Tree Farm" by Roger Deakin.  It is a book full of snippets of Deakin's writing, notes and diary entries, some several pages, some only a couple of sentences long.  Some are musings about writing or nature. He walks, he works on the land, he writes about what he sees.

I put my boots on as the grass is already wet with midsummer dew and close the house door behind me.  I should be bathing my face in this dew according to folklore, not padding through it in my wellies.  The sky is still light and the swallows are still flying although the shadows under the trees are dark. Night is starting to seep into the day.  I climb the steps and open the door of the hut.  Inside the air is warm with the day's sun.  I open a window and the top half of the stable door to let the air move gently through, a tiny breeze which just stirs the flowered curtains.  I look out across the field, over the valley and up to the skyline.  There is still sun on Moel Arthur although it fades even as I look at it.  The sky moves from pearly blue to soft grey.

In the holly trees behind the hut a bird is singing.  A solitary crow flaps slowly up the valley, out late.  The bird falls silent.  It is very quiet.  There is a whispering as the breeze stirs the leaves of the rowan tree.  From the farm next door I hear a dog bark, once, twice, then quiet.  Across the valley a car moves on the lane but it is too far away for me to hear the engine.  There is no noise, no hum from a fridge or a laptop, no central heating boiler or the sound of water running into the tank, none of the familiar background sounds of home.  Our house is quiet, with no traffic noise and very little noise from our only neighbours at the farm.  Visitors always comment about the quiet and the dark.  But the hut is silent, gloriously, deeply silent with no sounds other than the natural, the rustle in the hedge, the scurry by the step.  I hear a quiet tread and Ian arrives and pulls off his boots.

It is properly dark now.  The shapes of the trees on the field boundary show up against the pale grey sky, their silhouettes revealing who they are: the great domes of oaks, the shaggy upward fling of ash, the piling cumulus cloud of the sycamore.  We light a couple of tea light lanterns and switch off the lamp.  There is not enough light to read by, just enough for a tiny glow to reflect a pinprick of light in the dark glass of the window.

It is very quiet and very dark.  We sleep.  I wake briefly at dawn to find the hut aglow with sunlight and birds singing from the hedge.  I lie listening for a few moments and then drift back to sleep again.

Friday, 13 June 2014

Following my rowan tree towards midsummer

My little rowan tree took a long time to get going in spring but now it is full of leaf and going-over flower.  It stands protectively just behind the shepherd's hut.

There it is, just behind the chimney, growing up out of the hedge.  To the left of the hut the boundary is holly trees, somehow with an elder growing amongst them.  You can just see the white of the elder flowers in the tree.

The tree is multistemmed.  I imagine that might be as a result of the young tree being cut down with the rest of the hedge when it was smaller so that it has branched out like coppiced hazel. There are two other rowans in the field but the others are single stemmed.  They are graceful trees like that but I also like the gently spreading shape of the multi stemmed one.  If anything for me that increases the protective nature of its presence.

Look up into the canopy between the two largest trunks and you can see why rowan leaves appear in designs for fabric or wallpaper.  Their delicate, perfect symmetry is a pleasure for the eye.

The rowan rises out of the hedge now and the hedge itself is full of leaf and flower.  The lushness of a native hedge in summer always amazes me.  Dog roses climb through the hawthorn.

A month or so ago bluebells washed at the foot of hedge.  Now it is foxgloves.  Bees climb in and out of the bells.

The badger track which leads round the tree and out under the fence into the next field is even clearer to see now that the grass is growing long.

We cut back some of the smaller branches of the tree when the shepherd's hut went in to stop them rubbing against it.  The new growth from where they were cut seems to leap straight from the trunks.

Wherever I look, up, down or alongside, I love this tree.  It is a companion tree.  I am getting to know it so much better as a result of following it every month.  Thanks to Lucy  at Loose and Leafy for the idea.  Have a look at her blog for links to people all over the world following their favourite trees.

Wednesday, 4 June 2014

It all depends on how you look at it

We are not on top of the garden.  The garden is firmly and cheerfully on top of us, like a toddler giggling and sitting on your face.  I have decided that this will just have to be the way it is this year. When I look at our diaries and see how much of this spring and last autumn I have been in Devon and how much Ian has been either totally committed to looking after his father or in Manchester working or building a kitchen it seems fairly extraordinary that there is anything out there looking even faintly like a garden.  This much land gardened in this way needs time and it has not had that sort of time.  But it is June and things are flowering and growing and glowing with life so we are going to choose where and how to look.

Look this way at the glory of the chives and the mint garden, where spearmint, applemint, basil mint, common mint, lime mint and peppermint jostle for space.  The more vigorous mints, the common mint and the basil mint being the worst culprits, are bursting out of their slate boxes and invading other mints, looking for lebensraum.  I must go through and intervene.

Don't look this way, where the raised beds cleared by the teenage son of a friend a couple of months ago have already been taken back by a tide of opium poppies, grass and dandelions.  There is stuff waiting in the greenhouse to come out here so this will have to go to make room for that.

Don't look this way where a bramble and some goosegrass are fighting for space by the lemon balm.

Look into the tumbling spires of fennel, already higher than my head, holding the raindrops in its feathery foliage.

I was going to move these lupins.   They are so vigorous in the cutting garden that they are overpowering the new box hedge.  They are also so huge, another plant higher than my head, that they are not really suitable as cut flowers.  But never mind, look at them, reaching for the sky behind the Euphorbia Oblongata.  They may be in the wrong place, but they are beautiful.

And the poppies are beginning to come out.  For a few precious days these flowers are perfection.
I could live in them, drown in them, wrap the petals round me and sleep in them.

The bindweed might be trumping the jasmine in front of the house.

But the meadow is full of buttercup and sorrel and plantain and the alliums are singing out against the glossy deep green of the acanthus leaves.  It all depends on where and how you look.