erigeron – Page 4 – derrickjknight

Before The Thunderstorm

AS ALWAYS, CLICKING ON THE IMAGES WILL ENLARGE THEM. REPEAT IF REQUIRED

For the best part of the day there were two consistencies in the weather: it was very warm and it was dry. This meant the overnight rain soon evaporated. The sun, however, vied for dominance with the clouds.

Stopping on the way to buy a necessary sack barrow from Milford Supplies, we drove to Molly’s Den in search of two more stone urns for the rose garden. We were successful and installed them into position.

We also bought a red-painted wrought iron planter.

Early on, in the front garden,

tulips’ in-built umbrellas protected their stamens.

Bees preferred the pollen from the clematis Montana. If you can’t spot this insect filling its thigh sacs, you may choose to enlarge the image,

or opt for this one instead.

Pearly drops slipped from aquilegias.

The viburnum plicatum had benefited from the warmth and the rain.

Two years ago, outside the utility room door, stood the stump of a wisteria that had clearly been heavily pruned, we imagine to make way for the plumbing for the en-suite bathroom above. It has responded to nurturing the first year, and training the next, to produce a fine drapery which should increase even more next year.

Another stump, this time on the grass patch, has recovered to produce a pieris that now shows signs of feeling crowded by the Castle Bench.

Offspring of the erigeron, outside the French windows to the sitting room, have been adopted by various other parts of the garden.

Just before the thunderstorm hit at 4.30, after Jackie had planted up the urns, I joined her for cold drinks and a rest in the rose garden.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s prize chicken jalfrezi, now nicely maturing; meat samosas, egg fried rice, onion bhajis, and parathas. I drank more of the Cotes du Rhone, while The Cook abstained.

Out On Their Feet Amid The Confetti

Yesterday I forgot to mention the outcome of my visit to Simon Richards, the hand surgeon. That can only be a good sign. He has discharged me, but physiotherapy will continue for some time. The middle joint on the little finger remains bent rigid. He has advised me to practice straightening it with brute force from my right hand. That’s painful. And scary. Rather like holding a newborn baby, I don’t want to break it. But it seems to be working.

Wind still gusts around the garden, but we do have sunshine and showers.

A new rhododendron is in bloom;

an ant perches on the first of our colourful alliums to arrive;

the thymes I rescued from the blue sinks last year have thrived;

as has the heavily Corokia cotoneaster outside the back door;

and the clematis Niobe enlivens the kitchen wall.

The rain, reinforced by a fierce fusillade of hailstones, soon returned and watered my charges for me.

These mimuluses, hosta, heuchera, and cosmos have yet to be planted up.

I returned to the task of identifying and scanning the prints retrieved from Elizabeth.

Here, Michael and Sam are seated in the garden of Gracedale Road in June 1983.

Later that year, Sam tucks into refreshments after completing the Furzedown mini-marathon.

This was a fund-raising event for the children’s nursery school. Clearly the professional-looking number tags had been donated by the organisers of the Farnham Castle Marathon, sponsored by Kentucky Fried Chicken. I made a complete black and white portfolio of the occasion for the school. Some parents bought copies. If I ever find the negatives, I think the pictures would warrant their own post.

(I did find the negatives. This post and the next two feature the pictures)

Sometime in 1984, Michael appears to be watching telly in the lounge of Gracedale Road. Probably an Arsenal football match.

Also in 1984 we attended Tony and Liz’s wedding. Here is a portrait of Becky taken there.

That was the period in which I was converting colour negatives to black and white prints, using an enlarger and chemicals. Goodness knows how, I certainly don’t remember. Now I can do it at the touch of a mouse, so who cares?

This, from the same set, was scanned from a 10″ x 8″ print.

Louisa was there too. Here, putting me in mind of the bridesmaid from 1970, she, too, seems to be out on her feet, and contemplating whether the confetti would soften the paving stones sufficiently to provide a feather bed.

There was more than enough of Jackie’s delicious beef stew for my meal this evening. I also finished the Madiran wine.

New Arrivals

IMAGES MAY BE ENLARGED BY CLICKING ON THEM, TWICE IF NECESSARY

This morning we all joined the other customers in the cafe. Poppy did actually eat most of what was on her plate.

An hour or so later, Jackie and I set off back home, reaching there early in the afternoon.

Aaron had moved a clump of ornamental grass further back in the Palm Bed,

and removed rust from most of the furniture in the rose garden and painted it with Hammerite. Here we have a reclaimed armchair seated under the arch with a church candlestick behind it.

Pansies are flourishing;

the Snake’s Head fritillaries proliferate;

our numerous heucheras now have flowers;

and cowslips,

geranium Phaeums,

and grape hyacinths are new arrivals.

This evening we dined on a Chinese takeaway from Happy Days in Pennington, and, between us, finished the Broadwood’s Folly English white wine.

The White Garden

Hunting through our house purchase documents for some clarity about responsibility for the huge amount of fencing in various stages of health that borders our property, I was unsuccessful in that, but I did discover the names of the houses in our little hamlet. We are one of four on our side of Downton Lane. In order, progressing along Christchurch Road towards that lane there stand Mistletoe Cottage, Old Post House, North Breeze (the empty bungalow), and Smallacres (now residential care). I will use the correct nomenclature in future. The sum total of my morning’s work on the back drive was the scalping (see yesterday) of just one tree stump. The fencing between us and Smallacres is in not much better condition than that we share with North Breeze. The hitherto unseen rear view of the residential establishment is now exposed. Much of our thick ivy stems and brambles grows through the flimsy wooden structure, so pulling and hoping for the best is out. Surgical skill is required to cut the growth from our side at the point of entry. This afternoon I made a bit more progress. Once I had cut off enough of the thick ivy branches cascading over the stumps, I pulled away the stems adhering to the dead wood. This would produce a shower of decidedly dry brown dust inducing a coughing fit that lingered over lunch. When I had had enough, I wandered over to Roger’s fields, and was most impressed with the work of the ploughman who had now produced acres of fine cross-hatching on what had been full of forage maize barely a week ago. As I walked along admiring the precision I noticed four tussocks lying on the land. They spoiled the man’s artistry so much that I felt inclined to remove them, but didn’t like to put my footprints on the soil. As the tractor hove into view, it was stopped alongside these blemishes. Out stepped Roger Cobb, who walked across and picked them up. This man is a perfectionist. We spoke for a while during which he told me of a forthcoming vintage ploughing match similar to the one I had photographed in Southwell twenty two years ago. I feel another set of pictures coming on. ‘I must get on’, said my informant, and took his tractor into the dusk, against the lowering skies. I was slightly puzzled, on this short trip, to notice that my camera battery needed charging rather sooner than I had anticipated. All became clear when Jackie informed me that she had been so impressed with all the white flowers still blooming in the garden that she had borrowed the Canon S100. Here is a selection of the photographs she took earlier:

Begonias

Smaller begonias

Alyssum

Erigeron

Cyclamen

Diasca

Pansy

Camomile

Gladiolus

Lobelia

Impatiens

Japanese anemone

Sweet pea.

Given how incensed some people become when supermarkets begin stacking their shelves for Christmas in August, I hesitate to repeat Jackie’s quip; when she served up a roast chicken dinner tonight, complete with homemade sage and onion stuffing, Yorkshire pudding, roast potatoes and parsnips, brussels sprouts, cabbage, carrots and gravy, followed by profiteroles; that she was practising for that festive occasion. But she was only joking, and it was delicious. She drank Hoegaarden whilst I consumed more of the rioja.

A Rookery

It is not a good idea to venture into a Tesco superstore on Good Friday morning. We learned that today. When we carry out such a shop I usually trot off in search of some items and return to Jackie who is loading the trolley in some other part of the store. It is normally not difficult to spot her in a crowd, but this one rivalled Trafalgar Square on New Year’s Eve.
For those of you who think that I could not select the wrong kind of long-life milk or apple juice I have to disillusion you. It is even possible for me to fight my way back to the shopper-in-chief with unacceptable apple juice twice. It gets a bit wearing carting several cartons backwards and forwards when you haven’t bothered to pick up a basket.
The majority of people guiding their trolleys through such crowds steadfastly refuse to make eye contact as they thrust forward. Some of my bruises will never come off. I thanked the one gentleman who did catch my eye with a smile.
Back home there were the inevitable items either forgotten or sold out in the mega-store. I therefore walked down to try out the Spar shop who did have coleslaw and Hellmann’s mayonnaise.

Attracted by wallflowers growing by our back entrance I noticed we have a largely obscured sign designed to prevent uninquisitive parkers blocking our driveway. We may benefit from a little repositioning of this. There I met our neighbour Beverley who was painting her new fence. Unfortunately, as we introduced ourselves, and before I realised what she was engaged in, I rested my hand on top of the newly painted surface. She confirmed that the country park shop was a good resource.

The right hand side of Downton Lane offers extensive views across fields.

Raucous cries from the right hand side of Shorefield Road led me down a tarmacked track to a crowded rookery. Most nests had an attentive parent on guard, whilst other cawers flew noisily to and fro. Across a bridge over a stream lay timbered holiday homes to which a couple were making their way. They hoped to see chicks in the nests before they returned to their permanent abode.

Rhododendron time is coming to our garden. Erigeron also does well.

When we dined at The Elephant Walk in Highcliffe three days ago, the meals were so plentiful that Becky took away a doggy bag. Unfortunately for her, but fortunately for me, she left it in Jackie’s car. I had the benefit this evening, for its contents went down quite well with my Isla Negra cabernet sauvignon 2013. The feast Jackie had bought at the Hordle Chinese Takeaway two days ago was still able to provide her and Flo with their dinner tonight. Jackie’s choice of beverage was Hoegaarden.

The Stockpot

Last night Elizabeth told us she had found a golf ball on her bedroom floor (see post of 8th. September).

It was a pretty drizzly day today. Michael came down and spent the morning with us, after which Jackie drove me to Winchester to collect the plants left behind yesterday. As she was on holiday she thought she would like an ice cream, which she consumed with a superb chocolate eclair whilst I drank a double espresso in two mouthfuls. A boy in his first year or so at school, with his finger up his nose, kept asking, at full decibels, what was his father’s favourite colour. Being unable to quieten his son the man offered the opinion that perhaps his teacher should be asked to focus on his behaviour.

A young, very tanned, man sat cross-legged in a doorway. We wondered whether he was the owner of the bicycle bearing a placard asking people to ‘SAVE TIBET’. A rather older gentleman carrying a folding white stick told us, as he put up his rain hood and tightly buttoned his coat, that the weather was going to deteriorate from tonight. We thanked him for the information. The young man seemed unconcerned.

We wandered down the High Street and into the Cathedral precincts. There was such a wealth of history in the buildings that a piece of Roman pavement in a corner of the Deanery could seem to have been forgotten and almost buried in what is now a second-hand bookshop, selling what look like donated books in order raise funds for the cathedral. I delighted the custodian by selecting a P. D. James novel. We held a mutual belief that it is the depth of her characterisation that marks her out as an author. Jackie was interested in my other choice, a book on Elizabethan England by A.L. Rowse.

Following the signs to the Water Meadows we found ourselves by what we took to be the river Itchen, and strolled along it for a while. At one point we were intrigued by

a conversation between a grasshopper and a snail perched on either side of a bent umbellifer stem.

For our evening meal, Jackie fried another couple of sausages and added them to the still plentiful left over sausage and bacon casserole. A Firs Mess (see 2nd. September) completed the meal, which, for Elizabeth and me was complemented by Villapani 2011, and for Jackie by Buddweiser. The now very tasty stock from my original casserole turned the conversation to stockpots. The only person I know who now keeps a traditional stockpot is my friend Norman. This is a continuing pan of juices from cooked dishes which is constantly reused and added to over a period of time. In the old days this never left the kitchen stove. Because Norman doesn’t have the old kitchen range, and doesn’t cook every day, he keeps his pot in the fridge. I can assure you it is put to good use. Ann, the late wife of my friend Don (see 10th. August), told me she knew of a woman in Cerrigydrudion, where they had their Welsh home, who had kept a stockpot going for fifty years. A small chain of restaurants in the very heart of Central London is one of Norman’s favourite haunts. Given their situation, these establishments offer an incredibly cheap, very well cooked, range of basic, tasty meals. Norman is something of a gourmet, and his recommendation is not to be discounted. I know, I’ve followed it. The chain is called The Stockpot. As the founder has retired they are all on a franchise now.

Bed-making

Jackie and I were up and out in the garden at The Firs before seven this morning. It was a beautiful day, and we were determined to enjoy the fruits of our work over the last year and a quarter. We shared the garden with early morning bees. Whilst I have been in France Elizabeth and Jackie have continued to plant, weed, prune, and generally maintain what has been done. Some of the wilder parts have been opened up a bit. Unfortunately, Elizabeth has decided she would like a scented bed. Nothing wrong with that in principle. In fact it is a very good idea. She and Jackie have decided where it should go, and have assembled a mail-order bench and chair which has been sited so that there is a wonderful view through the pergola. Elizabeth spent some time today painting a couple of occasional tables to complete the viewing area. So what is unfortunate about the idea? Well, whose task is it to dig new beds and compost them in preparation for planting? Exactly.

Surveying the bedroom area I could see that I would need to mark out the undulating line which we prefer; dig up some grass; take out a number of weeds; prune some shrubs; remove most of an overgrown honeysuckle from next door; dig it all over again; compost it all; dig that in; then put the tools away. ‘That’ll be my weekend’s task’, I said. Ah, well. Nice idea. But if I finish it tomorrow, I’ll eat the horse manure.

Marking out the line was comparatively straightforward. I actually have a good eye for a curvy shape. This garden has parts which are very stony. In fact we have made a virtue of this by planting Erigeron where there is not much else but stone. Jackie and I had seen it placed to grow through brick paths and steps at Hinton Ampner, a country house at West Meon. We thought it just the job for The Firs. It has thrived. The stones, however, made it a little difficult to cut a clean edge.

Naturally, the first part of the new bed, this morning consisting of mown couch grass millions of years old, lay on stones. Persuading the tufts of grass to leave their fakir-style resting place, was difficult enough. As much earth, a very rare commodity, as possible had to be shaken off. The turves were than transported by wheelbarrow to the compost heap. The fledgling robin that had sat on Jackie’s lap in June was quite interested. It was extremely humid, and the dry earth on my arms soon had the consistency of mud. A salad lunch was a welcome respite.

Raring to go, after a meal and a rest, I hit the first obstacle. There seemed to be a solid, immovable, square of concrete. ‘Ah’, said Elizabeth, ‘that will be the base for the brick pillar which was a continuation of the arbour’. ‘There’s another on the other side.’ Well, that can stay there. Most of the area I was then working was covered in rampant honeysuckle. As I cleared this, all sorts of other goodies emerged. Such as small trees which at some time had been cut down. Their roots had been left, and they were sprouting. There were suckers from the damson tree in the garden at the back. Some of the trees bore thorns. Some pricked me.

I had brought out quite a number of tools when I began, I hadn’t thought I might need an axe. I did. So I went and got one. For those who’ve never tried it, there follows an instruction in digging out small trees. First you must clear the area of brambles, couch grass, dog roses, and geraniums. The geraniums, of course, you must preserve most carefully. Wiping your brow occasionally, being careful not to get soil in your eye, you must apply a garden fork to loosen the earth. You then dig out as much as you can, stick it somewhere else on the bed, and have a go at moving the stump. Naturally it won’t move, so you have to dig a bit more. By this time you will have struck thick roots stretching across areas you haven’t dug and didn’t want to. Then you have the pleasure of wielding the axe. By this time, any thoughts of gentle care will have evaporated. Cut through the stubborn roots; pull up the tree; and try not to fall backwards into a pergola post as it suddenly becomes free.

After that, if you are lucky, someone brings you a beer and you have an excuse to sit down. Even though your back is aching you may claim that this is the only reason you have stopped. And if they weren’t having one too you would not have sat down whilst drinking it. Actually, Elizabeth did provide me with one respite during the above process. She asked me to sand one of the tables she was painting. I was only too ready. In fact the previously described mud on my arms, mixed with blood from the scratches, took on an even more interesting consistency when mixed with sawdust.

Jackie’s paprika pork went down well and Elizabeth produced a merangue mess which was eaten. I’ve had too much of the rather nice French red wine to remember what it was.