July 2015 – Page 2 – derrickjknight

The Rose Garden Bench

Two tall roses in the Oval Bed have responded so well to nurturing that they needed more stakes. This morning, after embedding stout wooden poles and tying up the plants, we moved back into the rose garden the bench I had built last year using the cast iron sides we had found in the makeshift fence alongside our neighbour, North Breeze.

I then walked down to Roger’s fields, and across to the woodland at the far end, then along the footpath beside the trees. The day benefited from a strong breeze.

Seeding cow parsley applauded wispy clouds scudding across a bright blue sky;

submissive grasses bent in the hedgerows;

and golden barley billowed across the fields.

Beyond the first section of the footpath through Roger’s land lies a further stretch which has, until recently, been too overgrown for me to tackle in sandals. The kind farmer has now opened this out so ramblers can easily reach the woods and look back up the hill.

A Red Admiral butterfly flickered among the barley as a poppy in a cornfield;

and a tattered Dark Green Fritillary reflected shiny ferns.

What I think were damselflies, stately, never still, blunted my focus.

After lunch came the hard part of positioning the bench. This involved digging a shallow pit, lining it with a membrane, filling it with sand, embedding rows of bricks to form a platform, and finally adding stepping-bricks for access. Only then could the seat be sited.

This is the current view due south from the bench.

St John’s wort embellishes the bed by the entry arch;

and a potted clematis Florida Sieboldii ( Passion Flower) fronts the kitchen window.

This evening, Jackie enjoyed her Hoegaarden as a cooling aperitif to our dinner of succulent chicken marinaded in lemon and lime sauce served with her famous egg fried rice, carrots, green beans and corn on the cob. I finished the merlot with the meal.

London Reflections

We have begun to collect rose petals for confetti for Danni and Andy’s wedding next year. Last night Jackie researched methods of drying them, and began experimenting. So far it is a toss up between the microwave, and leaving them to crisp on kitchen roll. The problem with the microwave is timing. Anyone who has a dodgy toaster will know the extremes between under- and over- cooking that can be experienced.

My contribution to the garden maintenance today was a bout of weeding and another raking the gravel on the back drive. Among Jackie’s planting and other activities, she found time to front her shed with a kick board and a strip of gravel. Where was the gravel to be obtained? From the back drive. When? Just as I stood admiring my bowling green level shingle.

I helped a bit with the project, then got the rake out again.

In between my spells in the garden I scanned another dozen slides from my Streets of London series, all produced in April 2004.

I will begin with one shot that I can’t quite locate, and does not legitimately belong in the series, because the street sign is illegible. I have a feeling it is in the developed area near The Royal Opera House in Covent Garden. Maybe someone will recognise it. (On 21st July, Geoff Austin sent me this information in an e-mail: ‘Is the building opposite a restaurant? There’s something that looks as if it might be a menu on the wall. I ‘googled’ Teca, and found there was a Teca Restaurant in Brooks Mews W.1, some years ago but it seems to be closed now.’)

Whilst a young woman surveys an antiques shop window, an older gentleman avails himself of modern technology.

Glass on another scale, fronts so many newer, taller, buildings throughout London.

A massive structure on Euston Road offers a reflection of the Post Office Tower. When the tower was opened, by Harold Wilson, on 8th November 1965, it was, until 1980, the tallest building in the United Kingdom.

Still a major communications hub, the tower was officially opened to the public on 16 May 1966 by MP Tony Benn, and holiday camp entrepreneur Billy Butlin, who was to open an ill-fated enterprise. In addition to the communications equipment and office space, there were viewing galleries, a souvenir shop, and a rotating restaurant, the “Top of the Tower”, on the 34th floor. It made one revolution every 22 minutes.

A bomb, responsibility for which was claimed by the Provisional IRA, exploded in the roof of the men’s toilets at the restaurant on 31 October 1971. This eating place has never re-opened.

Sometimes, the glass-sided buildings can offer confusing information. Eleven years on, studying this print of Luxborough Street, W1, I thought I must have printed it in reverse.

Other windows hold different attractions. Ann Summers, Wikipedia tells us, ‘is a British multinational retailer company specialising in sex toys and lingerie, with over 140 high street stores in the UK, Ireland, the Channel Islands and Spain.^[1] In 2000, Ann Summers acquired the Knickerbox brand,^[2] a label with an emphasis on more comfortable and feminine underwear, while the Ann Summers-labelled products tend to be more erotic in style. The chain had an annual turnover of £117.3 million in 2007-2008.’

Naturally, there is one in Soho’s Wardour Street. I wonder what the smiling woman thought I was doing.

Most gentlemen looked the other way, while one woman examined the hem-lines displayed in Bruton Street.

A book shop in Dean Street was undergoing a face-lift.

Another stands at the corner of Brewer Street near the entrance to Raymond’s Revue Bar, which closed later that year. A signed 1951 photograph of the Festival of Erotica’s proprietor features in http://derrickjknight.com/2014/04/12/the-three-scrubbers/

New plantings of London planes were to be seen in

Fitzroy Street,

and on the corner of Warren Street.

Bronze statues of Franklin D. Roosevelt and Sir Winston Churchill sit conversing on a bench in Mayfair, where Old Bond Street meets New Bond Street. Called ‘Allies’ this artwork was a gift from the Bond Street Association (the shops and businesses of Bond Street) to the City of Westminster to commemorate 50 years of peace. Lawrence Holofcener, a sculptor with dual nationality created this landmark which was unveiled by Princess Margaret on 2 May 1995.

The flower seller at the corner of Clifford Street has a less comfortable perch. This must have been one of the very rare occasions on which I have passed this spot when no tourist was posing between the great wartime leaders.

For this evening’s dinner, Jackie created a delicious new dish she termed Downton Hotpot. This consisted of lean minced beef baked with a topping of sliced potatoes and a later addition of peppers and onions. Cabbage, cauliflower, and carrots completed the menu. I drank more of the merlot, while Jackie quaffed her beloved Belgian Hoegaarden beer.

P.S. My friend, Michael Watts, made this comment on Facebook: ‘Derrick I thought you might like to know that ‘The Post Office Tower ‘ restaurant is opening on the 25th July for two weeks, to celebrate 50 years of communications. Entree is by ballot, which unfortunately I have missed !!
Be interesting to know if it still has the same decor.’

The Butterfly Net

Jackie and I spent the morning weeding whilst Aaron and Robin continued refining their paving. This involves finishing of the ends with brick cut to shape with an angle iron. There are only the central joins left to be completed. We are so fortunate that the proprietor of A.P. Maintenance is such a perfectionist.

We now have several crocosmia blooming.

According to my research, this one is Xcrocosmiiflora. Jackie says it’s ‘common or garden monbretia’;

about Lucifer, there is no doubt.

Jackie grew these marigolds from seed.

‘When did you take that?’ bemoaned The Head Gardener. ‘I dead-headed those this morning’.

The air was positively aflutter with butterflies this afternoon.

Commas abound. Here one seeks camouflage on an echinacea;

as did this Peacock on a dead stump. It kept me waiting, back bent, lens poised, before opening its wings. With these closed, the creature looked just like a crack in the bark.

I think this, on a verbena bonarensis, is a Green-veined White.

Is this poor, battered, Red Admiral a reincarnation of February’s Battle-Scarred example?

I have written before of the penchant of Chris and I, when we were very little boys, for collecting various insects. Between us, my brother and I did not possess a camera, but we did have a butterfly net. Many happy hours were spent, mostly unsuccessfully, dashing around what were, to us, head-high fields, gleefully waving this weapon in the vague direction of the adult versions of the caterpillars that had so horrified our grandmother. What we actually did with the unfortunates we did manage to snare was not meant to be unkind. After all, when we stuffed them into jam jars, we did insert a few leaves and bits of grass, and punctured the lids so that they could breathe. I don’t imagine that these imagos lived out their, albeit brief, natural span. My current collecting is done with a camera.

Anyone driving to us for the first time, is likely to miss the existing sign on the front wall facing directly out onto the road. Jackie has therefore made another that she has fixed to the angled wall so that at least people coming from the direction of Christchurch, can’t miss

If you aren’t interested in cricket, you may prefer to skip the next paragraph. If you are an English cricket fan, you may prefer to skip the next paragraph. If you are an Australian, whether interested in cricket or not, you probably wouldn’t want to skip the next paragraph.

I made the mistake of watching the TV highlights of the second Test match at Lords. Australia had, in their first innings, scored 566 runs for eight wickets. They then bowled England out for 312. Before lunch today, the visitors had taken their overnight second innings score to 254 for 2, at which point they declared their innings closed, leaving England 509 to make in more than a day and a half. Less than five hours later, England were all out for 103. It was nothing short of slaughter.

This evening, Jackie and I shared our hob in producing fried egg, bacon, tomatoes, and mushrooms, baked beans, and toast. We enjoyed the rest of Shelly’s apple pie and cream, with half each of a chocolate mint brought back from the Veranda last night. Jackie drank Hoegaarden, and, despite it not being the most suitable accompaniment for a fry-up, I drank Louis de Camponac merlot 2014.

‘I Want Light’

I forgot to mention watching the cricket highlights yesterday. I’m sure that had nothing whatever to do with the fact that Australia declared their innings closed at 566 runs for 8 wickets, and England followed with 85 for 4.

In order to bid good morning to the horses in the Yeatton Cottage paddock, I took a walk along Hordle Lane to the house and back. A grass stem that had escaped the mowing of the field to the west bowed in unison with the solitary bent oak.

Many car drivers on this winding lane seem oblivious of the 40 mph speed limit. Following the normal rule of facing the oncoming traffic on such roads which lack walkways is not always possible because I cannot be seen. I therefore often cross over so I have my back to vehicles approaching on the left. Of necessity, I have developed my own set of signals for these following motorists. Flattened against the hedgerow, arms akimbo, fingers outstretched, with a nod, indicates that there is nothing approaching them round the blind bend. My right palm up, and wide open, suggests they should hang about because something is coming. This, fortunately, is generally understood, and they come to a standstill until the coast is clear.

Only one of the horses in the paddock now wears a fly mask. They all twitch their natural whisks.

On my return I finished the watering of the front garden that Jackie had begun earlier I then gathered up masses of pruning in which she was engaged. ‘I want light’ she cried, as she applied long loppers to the copper beech, the still reverting myrtle, and other overgrown shrubs. In order not to be faced with cutting up these branches when it came to burning them. I chopped them up into manageable pieces before adding them to the ever-increasing pile for the next pyre.

Butterflies fluttering around me were various whites, numerous commas,

a Red Admiral on a gladiolus,

and, trying to hide, a Gatekeeper on a cosmos.

This afternoon was spent visiting. First, Jackie drove us to Mum’s at West End. Among other subjects, we discussed this 92 year old’s plans for refurbishing her kitchen.

From Mum’s we went on to Elizabeth’s, with whom we proceeded to Margery and Paul’s. These latter two were hosting an art exhibition. Ostensibly we went to see the show, but in reality we wanted our usual enjoyable conversation with our friends.

Next stop was The Veranda Indian restaurant in Wickham. Elizabeth did the driving. The ambiance and service there is, in our experience, second to none, and the food is excellent. My choice was Lamb Lal Maas and special fried rice with a paratha. We shared an onion bhaji, and all three drank Kingfisher. My sister drove us back to her house where we boarded the Modus in which Jackie drove us home.

Bunting

This morning’s garden maintenance including more pruning, weeding, and digging up of brambles.

Comma butterflies are still transfixed by the verbena bonarensis.

Here are two views of the work in progress in the rose garden:

The reason for the hose is that each new plant requires four gallons of water daily, and we are not getting any rain. Jackie’s stepping stones can be seen; and also, in the second picture, the first of her brick pillars on which stands a pot including white cosmos under the apple tree.The two bricks in the foreground are the start of another. Four further views are from corners of the Phantom Path.

The first, through Margery’s hollyhocks takes us across the grass patch to the Brick Path;

shifting slightly to the right at this western end gives a different perspective;

from the other end, we have two different views looking north, towards the house,

then the shed, over the door of which Jackie has hung cloth bunting.

As I set out for another session this afternoon, I was reprieved by a long and enjoyable phone call from Sam, who did his best to maintain a poker voice, as he was also watching the cricket in Perth, Australia, and knew I didn’t want to know what happened until I watched the highlights this evening. My second respite came when Shelly popped in for a visit. Early this evening I attempted an aerial photograph of the garden. We have Everest windows throughout the house. They are not meant to be fully opened, so it is impossible from upstairs to take in the whole picture. This is the best I could manage from our dressing room: As always, clicking on this image, once, then a second time will enlarge the picture to reveal much more detail. For example the little chair in the rose garden will locate that feature.

After this Jackie and I relaid stone edging in a small bed leading to the rose garden.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s tasty cottage pie, carrots, peas, and cabbage. Dessert was apple pie and cream brought to us by Shelly. Jackie drank sparkling water whilst I finished the malbec.

The Name Of The Rose

Substituting scissors for secateurs, the Head Gardener began the day by cutting my hair. We settled the dispute about how long ago she last performed this pruning, by referring to our customary aide-memoire – this blog. It was 14th March. There were no pestiferous flies to eradicate.

It seemed only fair for me to cut the grass.

Before that, in the dim light penetrating the complete cloud cover, I photographed three of yesterday’s rose purchases.

Mum in a Million, yet to be planted, is positioned in front of Love Knot, already ascending its obelisk, as does Laura Ford, named after the contemporary sculptor, seen here on Wikipedia which tells us that the artist ‘[grew] up in a travelling fairground family to the age of sixteen and attended Stonar School in Wiltshire. [She studied] at Bath Academy of Art (1978–82), whilst spending a term at the Cooper Union School of Art in New York City. She was invited to take part in the annual New Contemporaries at Institute of Contemporary Arts(1982). Ford has lived and worked in London since 1982 since studying at Chelsea School of Art (1982–83).’ She is photographed working on China Cats, commissioned by Shanghai Sculpture Park in 2012.

On the former compost bed

the gladioli have opened out; the echinaceas have taken on their natural pink hue; and pollinating bees vie for position, plundering the remaining poppies.

By this afternoon blooms had appeared on the roses

Summer Wine, already slaking the thirst of a hoverfly,and Jacqueline du Pré, named after the great cellist.

Wikipedia, featuring this photograph of du Pre with her Davidov Stradivarius of 1712, and her husband Daniel Barenboim, has this to say about her:

‘Jacqueline Mary du Pré, OBE (26 January 1945 – 19 October 1987) was an English cellist. At a young age, she achieved enduring mainstream popularity unusual for a classical performer. Despite her short career, she is regarded as one of the more uniquely talented cellists of the second half of the twentieth century.

Du Pré is most famous for her iconic recording of Elgar‘s Cello Concerto in E Minor, her interpretation of which has been described as “definitive” and “legendary”.^[1]

Her career was cut short by multiple sclerosis, which forced her to stop performing at the age of 28. She battled the illness for many years, which ultimately resulted in an untimely death.’

Everyone of my generation will remember her well.

We completed more planting.

Jackie moved the Mum in a Million, and, in honour of her late, beloved mother, flanked it by two Veronicas. Then came the turn of Hot Chocolate, and Rose Gaujard, known until yesterday as lost label. This bears the name of its mid-twentieth century breeder, Jean Gaujard. It was slightly disappointing to learn that there was no-one called Rose for whom the plant was named.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s sublime cottage pie, enhanced by the inclusion of ground cumin and coriander leaves; peas, cabbage, and carrots; followed by profiteroles. My accompaniment was more of the merlot. Jackie had already finished her Hoegaarden.

Afterwards, I made the mistake of watching the highlights of the first day of the Lords Ashes Test Match in which Australia scored 337 runs for 1 wicket. That’s good news if you are an Aussie.

In Cold Blood

Jackie, now recovered, drove me to and from New Milton,so that I could travel by train to Waterloo and back, for lunch with Norman.

Many people seemed to prefer lobbing their rubbish over the railway bridge or the chain link fence onto the embankment, to using the bin provided. Those responsible for the planters on the station platforms, however, clearly take pride in their appearance.

Isla, aged ten months, has been walking for a month. Not all the time. Able to stand on her mother’s lap, with ‘one shoe off, and one shoe on’, she took pleasure in repeatedly chucking one at my feet all they way from New Milton to Winchester. Her delight gave her the opportunity to display her two front teeth every time I picked up the missile. I couldn’t resist telling the child’s mother the story of Becky’s milestones.

Having arrived at Waterloo, I was to meet Norman at Tas Turkish restaurant in The Cut, a short walk from the station.

On a wall on the taxis’ Approach Road opposite the station, a few mosaic panels have been fixed. I rather like the Escher one. A set of steps brings you down to Lower Marsh. From there, passing La Cubana restaurant with its enticing mural, I continued to the Cut, on the corner of which stands The Old Vic, and proceeded to my rendezvous with my friend.

We began with falafel and garlic sausage starters. Our main course was the Tas special, a tender lamb dish. The house red wine was very quaffable, as was the coffee to follow. The prices were reasonable and the service good.

Jackie had not been idle whilst I was thus engaged. She bought two obelisks for roses and four more plants. At Redcliffe Nurseries she at last identified the lost label rose shown yesterday. It is the hybrid tea, Rose Gaujard.

On the train, and back at home, I finished reading Truman Capote’s ‘In Cold Blood’. I believe the term faction would adequately describe this work, based on the apparently random murder of a family of four in 1959. Capote thoroughly researched the event, the period leading up to it, and the eventual trial and execution of the perpetrators. That I take as fact. Obviously the victims could not be interviewed, but a number of the main characters were, not necessarily by Capote himself. It is therefore difficult to be sure what fiction the author has woven into his narrative.

The writing is clear, flowing, insightful, and descriptive. We can believe that Capote’s imaginative sections are true to the characters he is dissecting. Even on publication of this best-seller, readers knew who had committed the murder, and what was their fate. Capote’s skill has been, by moving backwards and forwards in time and place, to give us a gripping and credible detective story, not marred by the fact that the horrific events actually happened.

Whether or not it was the writer’s intention to point up the effects of childhood and mental ill-health on psychopathic behaviour, he certainly makes a case for them.

After more than half a century we still read of apparently random gun killings. Has anything been learned?

My Folio Society edition is illustrated by contemporary and earlier photographs, one of which adorns the front cover board.

Reversion

This afternoon I tackled sports. Now, please don’t imagine that that means my knee is miraculously fully recovered. I speak of reversion; not of myself, but of the horticultural variety. Variegated plants are generally selected from a sport, or mutation, of a pure green plant. The sport is then propagated by cuttings, grafting or division to retain its features. However, the mutations within these plants are not always stable and can be prone to reverting back to pure green shoots. Reversion is the name given when a cultivar known for a particular leaf shape, colour, or other striking characteristic returns to a different form found in the plant’s parentage. The term is often used to describe a variegated shrub or tree that produces non-variegated shoots.

This euonymus is a case in point. Jackie cut it right back last year, but it continues to revert. I took out the new, much stronger, green stems. This exercise left a few gaps.

It was a much hotter, equally humid, afternoon when I wandered around the garden and down to Roger’s fields and back.

Perhaps it was natural for a minute, black spotted, yellow bug to seek refuge on this snapdragon.

A verbascum towers at the eastern end of the Phantom Path;

in the former compost bed a gladiolus tangoes with a viburnum bonarensis, beyond which

lurk echinaceas.

Our lost label rose proves not to be an Aloha. We still don’t know what it is. Any ideas?

Roger’s hay bales were better lit.

I am not an expert on butterflies, but my research suggests that this very small one that, with its companions, flitted about the footpath hedgerow, tantalising me for some time before it settled, is a Small Skipper.

This evening we dined on rack of pork rib coated with barbecue sauce, and Jackie’s egg fried rice. I started on a fine bottle of Catena malbec 2013 given to me by Shelly and Ron for my birthday.

Face Painting

Jackie is a little better today, and managed to insert in the softened ground by the new roses labels she had made yesterday.

On another wet, still humid, overcast day I ambled down to Roger’s footpath and back. A pair of intrepid ramblers togged up from the boot of their car and set off ahead of me. I wondered whether they were wearing the Gore Tex featured yesterday.

Even the bees had stayed at home in their hives.

Somehow, St John’s wort sparkled along the back drive.I scanned more photographic prints from the 1985 garden fete where Sam ate his apple whilst watching a Punch and Judy show. Because of the amount of retouching required this took much of the day, which it certainly brightened up.

Jessica’s cousin, the local vet, was in charge of balloons. He seemed to have run out of hands to ensure they did not blow away

like the bubbles Jessica, Louisa, and Sam watched.

Soon the track for the running race was roped across the grass,

and a little boy eavesdropped on Louisa’s coaching session.

Her Mum led her to the start line, and

soon she was off in pursuit

of her brother and another lad. As a long distance runner, I learned that if you cannot talk you are going too fast. The opposite, of course, is true of sprinting, but no-one seems to have mentioned that to these two boys.

The Punch and Judy show, as it always would, enraptured all the children;

one of whom, as her emotions fluctuated, became excited enough to make her mascara run. The little chap behind her wasn’t exactly happy. Perhaps Mr Punch was becoming violent. The girl was one of a number who had subjected themselves to the art of the beautician before the show:

Sam’s turn came later:

Mr Pink provided fish and chips for Jackie and me this evening. I drank the bottle of Hepworth’s Prospect Ale that Ian had given me yesterday. It proved to be the perfect accompaniment.

Gore Tex

The promised rain arrived today. Aaron and Robin came to finish the rose garden paving, but the weather defeated them.

I took a brief amble down to Roger’s field, where he has baled up his hay. This gloomy day demonstrates the value of sunlight in photography.

There are always a few pigeon quills, fashioned in Gore Tex, scattered on the verges of Downton Lane. According to the maker’s advertising, ‘Gore–Tex is a waterproof, breathable fabric membrane and registered trademark of W. L. Gore and Associates. Invented in 1969, Gore–Tex is able to repel liquid water while allowing water vapour to pass through, and is designed to be a lightweight, waterproof fabric for all-weather use.’

In my running days I was most grateful to Mr Gore, for this clothing afforded my sweat an egress, yet kept out the rain; although it didn’t prove to be a good idea to put his product through the washing machine.

This afternoon, on TV, I watched the clash of the titans that was the Wimbledon men’s final. The first two sets occupied two hours, each going to tie breaks, and one to each player. Just after the start of the third, our rain reached SW19, and a short interval ensued, during which I wandered out into the garden, where plants, such as

day lilies

and begonias welcomed water slipping down their throats;

and every poppy kept its head down.

That was the enforced intermission that heralded a change in the momentum of the match. Djokovic ran away with the next two sets to beat Federer 3-1.

Jackie has been unwell today, so we were unable to attend Helen and Bill’s family party. Becky and Ian popped in afterwards, bringing birthday presents for each of us from themselves, from the party hosts, and from Shelley and Ron.

After this my catering task was quite simple really. All I had to do was defrost and heat up Jackie’s chicken jalfrezi, egg fried rice, and a naan, with my share of which I finished the cabernet sauvignon.