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Today, I have been mostly watering plants.
Nicotiana now soars aloft.
Several of our clematises, such as Diversifolia Hendersonii
and Queen Mother in the front garden,
and Duchess of Albany on the Rose Garden pergola bear hats of invisible pixies frolicking and turning somersaults in the sunshine.
This lily has taken two years to bloom.
Many, like this one, live just one day.
Bees are drawn to our nasturtiums.
The kniphofias have poked their way up through the soil,
as have the red hot dahlias in the New Bed. The first is Bishop of Llandaff. I’m not sure about the others.
This view from the Shady Path encompasses
Margery’s hollyhocks.
While I was watering, Ronan was fixing our boiler, not that we will need heating any time soon.
This is the blurb on the back cover of
which I finished reading this evening.
When my blogging friend, Lisa learned that I was embarking on this novel she remembered that when she had read it, a long time ago, she had found it sad. I would trust Lisa’s judgement ahead of the book’s publicists.
If this is a story of adolescent love in the thirties, I am glad my teenage years were in the fifties. In my view it was more a tale of isolation and loneliness. I agree with the ‘Passion, misunderstanding…..’ paragraph above, but if this an example of ‘sublime sense of comedy’ it is so black as to be invisible to me. Remind me not to try The Orchid Trilogy.
Having said all this, I must concede that Bowen ‘is a major writer’. The book is well constructed; the prose is elegant; she has a keen eye for detail; and she develops character well. But does she like any of her creations?
Finally, Augustus John’s model has far more spirit about her than the unfortunate Portia.
This evening Jackie enjoyed a meal out with her friend, Pauline (not our NZ one); and I dined sumptuously on scrambled egg on toast and Doom Bar.
