Tag: bee

Eggshells

Martin spent the morning tidying the back drive beds. He applied his painstaking effort to cutting back excessive growth and cleaning the brick edging. He chopped the refuse and added it to the compost.

Two robins who we think are a grandson of Nugget and his female partner have been attracted by the work. Longer term readers will be familiar with our late tame robin and the occasional challenges to find him. Hopefully we are starting a new “Where’s Nugget’s grandson?” with these two, the first being No. 1 and the other No. 2. You may need to enlarge the images.

While all this activity was going on a big bumble bee slept away the morning on a blooming bergenia.

Hellebores and violas are also in bloom.

Owls and burnished Lanarth White hydrangea basked in the warm sunlight.

Snowdrops are now in flower throughout the garden

and on the kitchen table.

Another flower arrangement of Jackie’s consisted of a clutch of hard boiled eggs which took us back to our youth when most eggshells were white. Even in our early adulthood it was the brown shell that was unusual. Until someone decided that brown ones were considered more healthy. It seems that Tesco is in the vanguard of reversing the trend.

At mid afternoon we purchased a few items at Ferndene Farm Shop then took a short forest drive.

Sunlight picked out distant slopes beyond Burley Road and its moorland. The ponies in these landscapes showed interest when I disembarked from the Modus, but turned their backs when they realised I was not carrying food for them.

On the approach to Bisterne Close a field horse looked wistfully across the lane at a pair of

pony cousins enjoying their freedom.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s wholesome cottage pie; crunchy carrots and cauliflower; firm Brussels sprouts; and tasty gravy, with which she drank Hoegaarden and I drank Azinhaga de Ouro Reserva 2019.

One Miniature Member

Early this afternoon I posted “A Knight’s Tale (9: Before The Coming Revolution)”.

Later, we shopped at Lidl and carried on for drive. Everywhere is becoming very crowded. Reaching Lymington was a lengthy process. We kept along Sowley Lane and St Leonard’s Road to the east, which doesn’t have too many visitors.

A family of mallards beside a temporary pool alongside St Leonard’s Road were possibly debating whether to settle on it.

Opposite, in sight of the Isle of Wight,

bees busily worked over the remaining blossom on nascent blackberries while they still had a chance.

Our familiar equine group of friends, with its one miniature member congregated outside St Leonard’s Grange, within reach of

their still liquid watering hole reflecting possibly aquatic plants.

Cattle on the moorland fronting houses between East End and East Boldre were happy to share pasturage rights with a few ponies.

This evening we dined on our second helpings of Red Chilli takeaway with which Jackie finished the Carricante and I drank more of the Fleurie, which involved opening another bottle.

Hoverflies Can Stand The Heat

This afternoon seemed even too hot for bees. Jackie continued her garden maintenance work. My contribution included trimming the edges of the lawn, a modicum of dead heading, and acting as the Head Gardener’s bagman, to and fro the compost bins.

We enjoyed, however, a host of hoverflies, seen here on For Your Eyes Only, Verbena Bonariensis, red carpet rose, Rosa Gallica, and a Marguerite.

One of the few bees in evidence took a rest on a somewhat chewed hemerocallis leaf.

Later this afternoon, I scanned the next four of Charles Keeping’s illustrations to Dickens’s David Copperfield.

Writhing as Dickens describes, ‘He sat, with that carved grin on his face, looking at the fire’.

‘Miss Murdstone marched us into breakfast as if it were a soldier’s funeral’. Keeping’s portrait is true to his earlier ones.

‘The street was not as desirable a one as I could have wished it to be’

‘Traddles cut the mutton into slices; Mr Micawber covered them with pepper, mustard, salt, and cayenne’

This evening we dined on tender roast beef; fried potatoes and onions; crisp Yorkshire pudding; firm carrots, broccoli, and runner beans, with which I finished the Shiraz and Jackie drank more of the Sauvignon Blanc.

I Closed The Book

On another warm overcast day of humid atmosphere brightened by the end of the morning, most of which Jackie spent in her customary garden maintenance – this time in the Rose Garden , where I joined her in bagging up and transporting to the compost bin some of her debris. I carried out more dead heading, then made a photographic record.

Here Jackie sweeps the paths. The first image displays her clearance of the last set of footpaths; the second is now (8) in the “Where’s Jackie?” series. Bigifying is recommended.

Bees and hoverflies abounded. There are many self-seeded poppies in evidence.

A bejewelled Lady Emma Hamilton clearly hasn’t minded being exposed to the overnight rain.

Here is a view looking towards the Rose Garden from the lawn bed, and another taking the eye across to North Breeze.

White foxgloves speak to the Erigeron in the redesigned Pond Bed.

Now, I must pose a question to my readers.

Delightful as are the sun-dappled pages of David Copperfield, when you have finished gardening for the day and sit on a bench distracted by that very light and shade; by a myriad of insects flitting and descending rose petals floating in and out of dazzling beams; by the sweet scents of the fragrant flowers; by the bright burbling of the water feature, the symphonic notes of a host of birds, the busy buzzing of the bees, the swishing of your lady’s broom, and the drag of her filled trug across the swept paving; broken only by the chimes of a passing ambulance, what do you do?

I closed the book and enjoyed the views before me, occasionally carting weeds to the compost bin.

This evening we dined on a takeaway meal from Red Chilli. We started with prawn purees; followed by Chicken Saag for Jackie and very hot Naga Chilli lamb for me. We shared a plain paratha and special fried rice. The very well cooked and packaged food was ready on time, and, as before far too plentiful for one session. There will be ample to carry over tomorrow. Jackie finished the Sauvignon Blanc, while I did the same with the red Cabernet Sauvignon.

Antipodean Arboreal Delights

I began the day by reading three more of Anton Chekhov’s short stories and scanning one illustration.

In her introduction to ‘Kashtanka’ (1887) Elisaveta Fen quotes a letter from Chekhov’s friend, the poet Polonsky, who wrote ‘the ending is not only unexpected but also significant, and this is most important. The colour of the language fully corresponds to the place, time and character of your protagonists.’

I will say no more about this finely crafted tale except that it is told from the, especially olfactory, perspective of a mongrel dog; and that the significance of the unexpected ending is, to me, that early attachment, despite abuse, is often paramount – in humans as well.

The next two tales benefit from the author’s medical qualification and practice.

‘The Enemies’ (1887) features a scene in which someone has just died as described by one who, as a physician, knows just how it could be. Fen says ‘Its atmosphere is conveyed with economy of detail, the impact of which on the reader’s imagination is the greater for this.’ Chekhov conveys the immediate impact of grief, with an understanding of psychology, whilst allowing that this will subside over time. The mutual hatred of the enemies, each from a different class, is ultimately extended to all other members of their respective classes. Such divisions still hold good today.

‘Varka steals up to the cradle and bends over the baby’ illustrates ‘Sleep. . . sleep’ (1888), which Chekhov himself apparently did not rate too highly.

I have to agree with the translator that ‘the story is a remarkable example of ability to identify with a young peasant girl, driven half-insane by deprivation of sleep, and to describe the visions that drift through her mind – visions and memories which, in a few sentences, paint the whole of her background, making this story a minor masterpiece.’ The effects of mental exhaustion are conveyed with personal and professional insight giving the author a highly developed capacity for empathy. I imagine there will be many, confined by Covid lockdowns to high-rise flats with no gardens, who identify with this.

This afternoon, while Jackie watered thirsty plants, I, accompanied by the soothing burble of the water feature, weeded

the final arm of the Rose Garden Brick Paving,

leaving three sets of stepping stones still to be cleared. I left the broom propped on the wooden chair in the shady corner.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s delicious lamb jalfrezi and savoury rice, with which she drank more of the Salento Rosato and I finished the Fleurie.

We began our drinks on the patio where, while we watched a preening wood pigeon, we were joined by the lonely collared dove which lost its mate to a predator earlier in the year.

We could also see that three of our Antipodean Arboreal Delights are now blooming simultaneously. The cordyline Australis has a heady honeyed scent that pervades the garden; the yellow bottle brush plant attracts bees, one of which, with a filled sac, is homing in in the picture; and the eucalyptus flowers take on the guise of little furry creatures.

Sweet Summer Wine

Today was even hotter than yesterday, so we began gardening early once more.

The sweet smelling rose Summer Wine shares the entrance arch to the Rose Garden with the white Madame Alfred Carriere.

One of the casualties of the recent gales was that a number of stems of the sturdy climber were ripped from their ties, and fell across the bed beneath it, seeming to form part of Festive Jewel. Although it then enhanced the bed, our task today was to prise it from its resting place and encourage it to rejoin its thornless French partner.

I was, of course, definitely the under-gardener in this project, essentially employed to hold the ladder and keep stems in place until secured. Not only that – someone had to record the event.

This is the final result. The Head Gardener assures me that all will soon fall into the proper place.

Naturally I took the opportunity to photograph other blooms such as Mum in a Million, gladioli Byzantium, feverfew, foxgloves, and Erigeron in the first of these images; bright red Love Knot and more muted Alan Titchmarsh in the second. The rose named for our popular gardening expert also appears in the final picture in the gallery.

Here is another foxglove for which species it has been a good year. Lidl name their plants quite simply – the second picture is called a white climber.

Special Anniversary appears in the background behind Absolutely Fabulous and a few aquilegias.

Other white roses include Jacqueline du Pré and Winchester Cathedral.

We inherited this pink climber towering above the Rose Garden Arbour, and Paul’s Scarlet which shares the Wisteria Arbour. Jackie planted the blue solanum.

Peach Abundance is in the Oval Bed just outside the Rose Garden.

A wood pigeon silently lurked in the shadows,

while the buzzing bee’s activities somewhat impeded the pruning operation.

The healthy buds of stems either broken or sacrificed to the secateurs found their way to the accident pot.

I had intended to continue weeding the brick paving later, but decided it was too hot and watch England’s football match against Croatia instead.

This evening we dined on oven fish and chips with onion rings and peas, to which Jackie added a pickled onion and I, cornichons with chillis. We both drank Salento Rosato 2019.

Today The Sun Came Out To Play

Individual picture titles will be found on the gallery, otherwise I will leave the title and the sun in charge.

This evening we dined on roast chicken thighs; chipolata sausages; crisp roast potatoes, parsnips and Yorkshire pudding; sage and onion stuffing; flavoursome Brussels sprouts and carrots, with tasty gravy. Jackie drank Hoegaarden and I drank Cotes de Gascogne Merlot Tannat 2019.

On The Brink Of December

On a bright and sunny morning I wandered round the garden in my shirtsleeves.

Individual titles of these views can be found when accessing the gallery with a click on any image. The last two pictures show a Japanese maple before and after it had been pruned by Aaron and his A.P. Maintenance team who also

tidied up some of the beds.

Even a sleepy bee on a cobea scandens didn’t seem to realise that we are on the brink of December.

‘So enchanting was the vision of a stateless society, without government, without law, without ownership of property, in which, corrupt institutions having been swept away, man would be free to be good as God intended him, that six heads of state were assassinated for its sake in the twenty years before 1914. They were President Carnot of France in 1894, President Canovas of Spain in 1897, Empress Elizabeth of Austria in 1898, King Humbert of Italy in 1900, President McKinley of the United States in 1901, and another Premier of Spain, Canalejas, in 1912. Not one could qualify as a tyrant. Their deaths were the gestures of desperate or deluded men to call attention to the Anarchist idea.’ So begins the second chapter of my Folio Society edition of Barbara W. Tuchman’s ‘The Proud Tower’, namely The Idea and the Deed – The Anarchists: 1890-1914′.

This chapter deals with the Anarchism that swept Europe during this period leading to WWI – the theory of the intellectuals and the actions of those prepared to carry out ‘The Deed’ with which it was hoped the populace would be terrified into changing the orders of society. As always in such events, more ordinary people were killed than those for whom bombs or bullets were intended. Interestingly, it seems that Germany, who used the terror tactics espoused by their military theorists to suppress the Belgian people in August 1914, was the major European country least affected by the Anarchists.

Tuchman’s descriptions of the avowed terrorism bears alarming similarity to that technique practiced today. Unfortunately modern bombs are far more destructive than those that were available more than a century ago. Perpetrators are prepared now, as they were then, to sacrifice their own lives for their espoused cause.

The fluid writing in this work is far more literary than that permitted by the requirements of ‘The Guns of August’.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s succulent shepherd’s pie; a leak and pork sausage; roast potatoes; moist ratatouille; and firm cauliflower, carrots and Brussels sprouts with which she drank Hoegaarden and I drank more of the Coonawarra.

Is It Really Autumn?

We began early this morning watering, dead heading, clearing debris and adding to the compost bins before attending Milford on Sea GP Surgery for flu jab appointments. A large number of patients were vaccinated smoothly at one minute intervals. We queued 2 metres apart for no time at all and were directed to our colour-coded injection chamber. All was extremely efficient except for the jam of jabbed individuals swapping details of their experience and other age-related ailments causing something of a bottle-neck at the rear exit. This was a bit of a slalom with no opportunity for the correct social distancing; however, everyone wore masks, and we were back in the car after five minutes, giving us time for a brief drive in our rather Saturday-crowded environment.

Seasonal confusion was first evidenced in our own garden with windburn to Japanese maples and Summer Wine pouring down the entrance arch to the Rose Garden. More was displayed in

Sandy Down with pink roses,

rhododendrons,

and cyclamen lining the verges; and

the leaves of a silver birch beginning to display the Midas touch.

This afternoon after some more chopping and composting of refuse I wandered around the garden with my camera.

Dahlias and begonias, some sharing beds, are in no doubt that it is their season.

Nasturtiums, gauras, and diascias are still going strong.

Small White butterflies and hard working bees are not conceding that their time is over.

Clematises, like this lost label purple one and Dr Ruppel, sharing the Gothic arch with red Super Elfin and pale pink Penny Lane roses, linger on,

as does a rather ragged Shropshire Lad, swaying in the Rose Garden to

a white symphony of begonias, nicotiana sylvestris, and Hawkshead fuchsias.

The eucalyptus still suspends filled hanging baskets flanked by pelargoniums and rudbeckias. Is it really autumn?

This evening we dined on poached smoked haddock; Jackie’s piquant cauliflower cheese; creamy mashed potatoes; firm carrots; and tender runner beans, with which we both drank Awatere Valley Sauvignon Blanc 2019 – a crisp, aromatic, white wine from New Zealand.

Sweated Labour

On another sweltering, humid day we made short trips into the garden largely for the purposes of watering, mainly plants in hanging baskets.

Speaking for myself, I needed to wait until I had stopped soaking my T-shirt and recovered from my efforts before I was almost fit enough to wander around to admire our work and produce a few photographs.

As usual the images are titled in the gallery which can be accessed by clicking on any one. They include various petunias; a golden sunflower; a variety of dahlias; a bee on a geranium Rozanne; a bunch of begonias; mauve Japanese anemones purple and red fuchsia Mrs Popple; roses Margaret Merrill, Special Anniversary, For Your Eyes Only, Lady Emma Hamilton, Mamma Mia; and pelargoniums.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s luscious liver and bacon casserole; boiled potatoes; and crunchy carrots and cauliflower, with which the Culinary Queen drank Hop House Lager and I drank more of the Carles.