brick path – Page 3 – derrickjknight

A Virus

I am ailing. I am sneezing, I am coughing. I ache. I shiver.

This morning, I dozed over my laptop. Back in bed this afternoon, I vainly attempted to still the words wandering at will across the pages of Rumer Godden’s (Mr WordPress, Ms Godden may be regarded as a goddess by some, but that is not what I wrote.) ‘China Court’.

At noon I walked out to admire Aaron’s work on refurbishing the Brick Path. He has nearly completed the task.

After this I photographed a hoverfly on a clematis Natacha in the New Bed,

a rose Gloriana, now in bloom,

and Just Joey, now fully opened.

Finally, I imagined I saw an owl in the dead maple. Perhaps I was hallucinating.

This evening Jackie produced delicious pork chops cooked with mustard and almonds; mashed potato; and crisp carrots, green beans and cabbage. I thoroughly enjoyed it, but could only eat a small portion. Cherry crumble and custard was to follow.

Giant Jenga

Last night at sundown I took an amble down to Roger’s field and back. On Downton Lane the light glinted behind the secret garden gate. On a glorious morning, Jackie drove me down to the cashpoint in Milford on Sea, and left me at The Beach House so I could take my usual walk home. The bright blue Solent, tuned into a yachting marina, reflected the skies above; the sun shone; still streaks of salmon clouds had risen to the surface above the horizon; a white-haired jogger plodded, solitary walkers strode energetically, while those with dogs paused periodically for a sniff along the clean gravelled footpath; butterflies fluttered; crows and gulls flew overhead; a small shrew scuttled out of the undergrowth; and thrift and other wild flowers glistened in the sunlight on the clifftop. A passing woman greeted me with ‘it’s a lovely morning’. ‘It is, said I, and I’ve left my camera battery at home’. ‘Oh, no’, she replied, reflecting my own feeling when I discovered I had left the energy supplier on charge overnight. Families leaving Shorefield teemed down to West Road. Younger joggers were out in force. Two small boys, in their eagerness to reach the sea, ran down the slope, the larger lad leaving the smaller panting in his wake. The breasts of another, sadly overweight, wobbled beneath his mesh-fronted T-shirt as he painfully waddled along. In the Country Park itself, basking holidaymakers breakfasted or read on their chalet balconies. A barking dog protected its temporary residence. On Downton Lane, speeding cyclists played chicken with cars, many open-topped, preventing them from travelling at their own preferred speed. In a recent post, Geoff , thebikinggardener #can i eat nasturtiums wrote of his ambivalent relationship with these plants. As we watered the front garden we were presented, in the form of hairy black and yellow chomping caterpillars, with ample evidence of what he was saying. The older section of our brick path, set almost 100 years ago, has, with the passage of time, soil movement and the incursion of tree roots, become uneven, and dangerous for visitors ending the support of walking sticks; although the bricks themselves remain sound. During the morning Aaron and Lee have made excellent progress in the task of lifting and levelling them. The original, fiddly, pattern has been lost, but that is a small price to pay. Before setting off to Shelley and Ron’s home in Walkford for a barbecue lunch we drove to Everton Nurseries to buy an aluminium bench for the south west corner of the rose garden, and put it in place on bricks we have yet properly to embed. The barbecue was also attended by Helen and Bill, Neil, Donna, and Anthony. We had a splendid afternoon of convivial conversation, superb sausages, lamb and chicken satay kebabs, salads, followed later by fruit salad, strawberries, lemon cake, and cheesecake according to choice. Red and white wine, coke, cider, and beer were all on offer. A surprisingly long section of the mid-afternoon was occupied by a game of Giant Jenga. It didn’t seem possible to me that this precarious pastime could last any longer than a few minutes. A tower of long wooden blocks is built to begin with. Each player must remove one block without upsetting the structure, and place it on the top. Gradually the lower levels are depleted, but the height remains the same, until the increasingly tottering tower finally collapses. The person who made the last successful placement is the winner.

After a few early extractions, Bill is seen here making another.

Quite early on Neil appeared to go to sleep on the job,

but recovered to make a flamboyant removal later on, when wobbling was under way.

Ron, with a flourish, applied his structural engineering skills to the task,

while Shelley undertook careful all-round investigation

and slid one out from the bottom, starting another top layer.

Helen couldn’t believe her luck.

As the tower began to sway, I didn’t really fancy my chances,

even after the withdrawal the tower was likely to topple.

Bill’s penultimate attempt warranted considerable contemplation,

as did Anthony’s final one.

I always followed Bill, and each time increasingly prayed that he would upset the structure.

Finally my luck was in. This was just as well, because Bill almost managed to withdraw the last block that would have been at all possible.

For the second evening running, we had no need of dinner.

Aesthetics Did Not Come Into The Equation

An ‘invisible shed’ has scooped the top prize in the ‘Shed of the Year’ competitiion at RHS Tatton.

Manchester School of Art were joint winners of the ‘Shed of the Year’ prize with their ‘Invisibility Tardis Shed of Navel Contemplation.’

As well as a mirrored exterior, the shed has mirrored walls on the inside reflecting any visitor back on themselves infinitely.

As a finishing touch, the artists added a mirror ball, turning the humble garden shed into a miniature disco.’

We think that is going a bit too far.

After yesterday’s searing heat, much of the morning was spent watering the hundreds (I do not exaggerate) of containers and the recently planted flowers.

Those readers who have read earlier posts about the work done inside the house will know that our predecessors appeared to be DIY enthusiasts. If there were enough ill-fitting materials to make something work, aesthetics did not come into the equation. If it were at all possible to position objects unaligned, crooked, or not matching, there would be no problem in finding a way.

So it was with the industrial strength hinge plate screwed halfway up the wooden arch into the rose garden. Set somewhat askew, and too wide for its post, with one empty eye socket,and a sagging cheek, it pleaded with us each time we entered that area. The Head Gardener decided it had to go. I knew at the outset that this would be a hack-saw job, but in order to avoid that, I initially, rather less than hopefully, tried screwdrivers, and even a bolt cutter.

Whilst labouring with the saw, I glanced down and spotted another plate at the foot of the post, thus confirming my suspicions that there would once have been a gate attached. Though why the structure had to be so strong was a mystery. The Head Gardener, of course, knew that the lower plate was there. She had hoped I would take that one off as well. My initial reaction was that no way was that going to happen. I couldn’t get down there for a start. But, on reflection that seemed rather churlish. So, using Jackie’s kneeler as a seat, I did the job.

Roses

Love Knot

and Festive Jewel

are both comparatively short climbers we have placed within small obelisks.

A clematis Warsaw Nike has taken to the Ace Reclaim Arch,

and fuchsia Frosted Flame, suspended from the dead Snake Bark maple overlooks the Brick Path.

I took a short walk into Downton Lane, sat on a wall, and waited for a shot. Two children entering a ‘tree tunnel’, obliged.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s luscious liver and bacon casserole (recipe) served with creamy mashed swede and potato, and crisp carrots and cauliflower, followed by apple and cherry pie and cream. The Cook supped Hoegaarden whilst I quaffed Teroldego Rotaliano superiore 2011.

The Day Of The Triffids

Yesterday evening, the head gardener put me right on red hot pokers. As she read my post for that day she pointed out that the plants I had erroneously given this term are actually Lords and Ladies, which are the berries of an insignificant variety of arum lily. We have both emerging in the garden. I think I can now tell the difference.
We both spent much of the day gardening. It is a truism that whatever we plan to do on our never ending project is subject to delay through diversion. Thus, when intending to plant out seedlings of sunflowers from seeds my sister in law, Frances, had, along with a magnificent hoe, sent us for a housewarming present, she found herself embarking upon what she termed heavy landscaping. In building up the soil in front of the pruned prunus, she had discovered that the brick path we had excavated some while back was wider than we had thought. The bordering row of bricks had been covered with stone. She moved the tablets back and set them in an upright position; filled the earth triangles with gravel; and planted and watered the sunflowers.
My task was continuing to do battle with the invasive plants along the path by the neighbouring empty house, in preparation for extending the IKEA wardrobe fence. As I did so, carefully avoiding brambles desirous of poking me in the eye, I was grateful that these and the lonicera, privet, and ivy, were neither, like triffids, ambulant, nor, as far as I know, capable of communicating with each other in order to assist in tracking down their prey. I had no wish to emulate Bill Masen, blinded by triffid-juice. Our neighbours’ invading plants certainly stretched out their tendrils and forced them through windows in the ramshackle fence which is our only rampart.
Now I have reached the corner occupied by the compost heap, I only have to turn right down the back drive and tackle the even less defined boundary between that and the back of the untended jungle. I am not sure I have the stomach for that this year.
According to Wikipedia, ”The Day of the Triffids’ is a 1951 post-apocalyptic novel about a plague of blindness which befalls the entire world, allowing the rise of an aggressive species of plant. It was written by the English science fiction author John Wyndham Parkes Lucas Beynon Harris, under the pen name John Wyndham. Although Wyndham had already published other novels using other pen-name combinations drawn from his real name, this was the first novel that was published as John Wyndham. It established him as an important writer, and remains his best known novel. The story has been made into the 1962 feature film of the same name, three radio drama series in 1957, 1968 and 2008, and two TV series in 1981 and 2009. In 2003 the novel was listed on the BBC’s survey The Big Read.The protagonist is Bill Masen, a biologist who has made his living working with triffids – tall, venomous carnivorous plants capable of locomotion and communication”.
Early this evening Barrie called in to return my copy of Kilvert’s Diaries, and the three of us had a pleasant chat for a while. Afterwards Jackie and I dined at The Plough Inn, Tiptoe. With my pint of Doom Bar and Jackie’s Becks we enjoyed, as usual, the best pub food we have found since arriving in The New Forest. I managed to finish the mixed grill as Jackie did her half rack of pork ribs. No mean feats. Creme brulee was Jackie’s choice of dessert, mine being lemon meringue pie and ice cream.

One For Barrie

Sometimes underground, sometimes stuck among the branches of shrubs, a hosepipe trail snakes across the garden.

It began coiled up behind a water butt outside the back door. Today Jackie tried attaching it to the outside tap, and followed its path. This was not an easy process, and would have been impossible without the amount of undergrowth clearance we have carried out.
Beside the butt, the yellow pipe disappears under paving stones. Between two of these we catch a glimpse of what appears to be white piping. Only a sixth sense prevented Jackie from hacking this out when she was weeding between the stones.

This was just as well, because, almost certainly, this is part of the first piece of plastic hose that emerges in a shrubbery some way across the garden. From the now exposed earth, continuing by attachment to a green hosepipe, it climbs into a now much reduced vibernum. Until I cleared that area, the lengthy irrigation system was entwined among weighty brambles whence it dropped down to weave between plants and shrubs flowing over the brick path that it now runs alongside. The compost heap lies beside a dead tree at the end of this path. The green hose was looped around a branch perhaps seven feet above the soil, and had been flattened before vanishing into the heap. Jackie unhooked the pipe and puffed it out. With the aid of a fork and gardening gloves we extricated it from the pile, the tap was turned on, and, hey presto:

the far end of the garden has a water supply.

Actually, I jest. I emptied the bath today. First I had rather a shock because I couldn’t move it. This was because a thick root of something or other had grown through the plug hole and was clinging on. When, on the 28th June, I had begun to clear out the soil, first Jackie, then Paul, on our visit to The First Gallery, quipped:

‘Just pull out the plug’. How right they turned out to be. Having done so, it was reasonably easy to lift the bath over the box hedge and carry it down the garden. Jackie and I then sorted out a temporary resting place for it on the ever diminishing skip pile. This involved beginning to transport the IKEA wardrobe sections across to the boundary between us and the empty property, so I can use them to make a more substantial cobbled up fence. That will probably be a winter job.

In the still hot and humid early evening, I ambled through Shorefield, passing the now silent rookery and Alice’s rabbits which have grown a bit, to Hordle Cliff top and back.

I stretched out on my back among the grasses and thrift to take some shots of the Isle of Wight and The Needles for Barrie who missed them during his and Vicki’s years in Lincolnshire. I know our friend will appreciate the effort required to get down for the angle of these images, and even more so to turn over and clamber back onto my feet.

Sparkling water was the perfect accompaniment for Jackie’s chilli con carne (recipe) with wild rice and peas that we enjoyed for our dinner.

Tag: brick path

A Virus

Giant Jenga

Aesthetics Did Not Come Into The Equation

‘A place for reflection: ‘invisible’ shed wins top prize

The Day Of The Triffids

One For Barrie