rhododendrons – Page 5 – derrickjknight

Rewards

Snatching half an hour of occasional sunshine before the expected gloom set in for the day, I wandered around the garden with my camera.

Two retrained pink climbing roses are in bloom along the front garden trellis.

We have masses of geraniums palmatum. Jackie took cuttings last year, and distributed some in the front, where they are thriving and will soon replace the wind-blown crab apple blossom from above.

Similar division has been effected with libertia. My method is described in the linked post. I would have been happy to write that the libertia here frolicked solely with alliums and bluebells against the red Japanese maple. Unfortunately when I put this picture up on screen it revealed the clinging velcro strings of lady’s bedstraw, a pernicious weed we have spent two years eradicating. That put a halt to my proceedings while I assisted The Head Gardener in its immediate removal.

The maple’s red foliage appears to be extended by a rhododendron on the other side of the grass.

Snapdragons are now fully out, this one fortuitously planted within sight of one of the residents of the Dragon Bed.

Walking straight on past the dragon leads to the Shady Path, so named because of its original state.

Running roughly parallel to the right of this is the Gazebo Path.

This is the view through the gazebo across the grass patch.

Continuing along the Shady Path, red climbing roses now reward Jackie’s training.

When we arrived here, some very poorly looking slender red gladioli struggled in poor soil outside the kitchen door. Our resident expert lifted the bulbs and replanted them in the boxes she arranged at the head of the back drive. They are standing proud and coming into flower.

A mature rhododendron has been rescued from the choking jungle,

and nearby, similarly hued clematis Doctor Ruppel proliferates.

The hawthorn along the back drive has responded to pruning.

This evening we dined at Lal Quilla in Lymington. My main choice was Goan King Prawn, and Jackie’s sag chicken. We shared an egg paratha, special fried rice, and onion bahji; and both drank Kingfisher.

In The May Garden

My gardening task today was cutting the grass.

It is as well that I did carried that out before photographing this symphony in red provided by tellimas, rhododendron, pieris, mimuluses and petunias.

Another rhododendron that I photographed last week in a still closed and soggy state is now fully open and looking well refreshed;

as are the red and white tulips at the front of the house.

New arrivals are clematises

Niobe

and Marie Boisselot;

yet more Crane’s bill geraniums;

Pheasant’s eye, perhaps the last of the narcissi;

naturalised aquilegias;

and different alliums.

As has been noted before, the Hordle Chinese Take Away set meal for two can always be extended into the next day. So it was with yesterday’s, the seconds of which we enjoyed this evening, with profiteroles to follow. Jackie drank Hoegaarden, and I drank more of the Bordeaux.

Putting Readers In The Picture

Some of my more recent followers were rather shocked by yesterday’s post. Those who have read my offerings over a longer period will possibly have been prepared by ‘My Branch Of The Family Tree’. It may now be worth explaining that the production of ‘Becky’s Book of Seasons’ was one way of dealing with my grief. The whole piece is a metaphor for life’s ups and downs, and for the value of hope. This morning’s amble round the garden revealed a number of newcomers, such as;

cranesbill geraniums,

the first of the rhododendrons,

with its entourage of white daffodils,

and a new flowering cherry.

Some plants are now even more profuse. These include:

flourishing forget-me-nots,

undulating swathes of white onions that, until disillusioned by Jackie I thought were albino

Spanish bluebells springing from the soil.

Tough little violas, somewhat chewed, have nevertheless survived the winter,

and the transported azalea is now in full bloom.

This morning Jackie drove me to Hythe hospital for a physiotherapy appointment on my hand. A very careful, affable, and efficient young physiotherapist rejoicing in the name of Sapphire had the task of removing my plaster; examining the stitches; changing my dressing; writing down a couple of exercises for me; and altering the venue for my next appointment to Lymington which is much nearer. The stitches are not due to be removed for another week. Sapphire was pleasantly surprised by what she found, saying that I healed well, which was some consolation. One of the prescribed exercises involves making a fist with the injured hand. After three hours I could do so quite effectively. Bearing in mind that the top joint of the third finger has been incapable of bending ever since I broke it playing rugby about thirty five years ago, I think the next picture demonstrates this. It is to be hoped that the delicate shade of pink chosen for my nail varnish is appreciated.

Out of consideration for my more squeamish readers, almost foregoing the wordplay of the thumbnail option, I have published a medium image of the stitches. Those who wish to inspect the decorative needlework, may wish to click on the image to enlarge it.

As we drove across the heathland on Beaulieu Road I felt like an Israelite following Moses across the Red Sea. On either side of the forest road waves of gorse billowed across the landscape sending golden spray crashing onto the division between them.

Stopping in Lymington on the way back, we sampled the set lunch menu at Lal Quilla. This was excellent. For £6.95 each we chose onion bhajis from a range of starters; prawn pasanda for Jackie, and prawn jalfrezi for me, each with pilau rice, from a choice of four main courses; and ice cream. The portions were the same quantity and as well cooked as we are accustomed to in the evenings. Jackie drank diet coke. My beverages were an interesting arrangement. The barrel ran out of Kingfisher whilst the waiter tried to pour me some. He held up a pint glass which was mostly filled with head, and offered me bottled Bangla or Cobra instead. I chose Bangla. Later, he brought me the Kingfisher, now settled to a good half pint. ‘Complimentary’, he said with a smile. This was more than I would have wished to drink, but it would have been churlish to refuse, so I didn’t.

I am not sure that I didn’t drop off to sleep this afternoon before Danni and Andy popped in for a visit, which was very welcome and enjoyable. Such are the geography and timetables of modern life that these casual social activities are generally a thing of the past, which is a shame.

This evening Jackie’s triple decker club sandwiches with sparkling water was more than ample sustenance.

The Kiss

Today I invite you to take the perimeter walk with me. When I did this three days ago, I undertook to repeat it in a photo shoot. This is it:

At first the path looks wide and safe enough.

The house can be seen through the occasional gap in the fence on our left.

To the right we can look down further into the forest.

Soon we reach the more precarious sections, where the fence makes a handy grab rail.

The animal tracks largely follow the contour lines.

Whilst clinging to the fence don’t forget to enjoy the forest views in the sunlight.

We have long shadows,

dappled fallen trees,

animal tracks,

and leafy banks.

We are getting near the dicey bit,

and managing to pass the slope I slid down until I reached that tree on the left.

That bird flitting about is a robin. It has come to rest. Can you see it now?

As we take a left bend alongside Running Hill, Eleanor’s abandoned den comes into view,

as does the house itself, seen through the rhododendrons in which she built it. Backtracking, I see there is a section of the fallen fence that we can step over.

So, taking a last look at the downward sloping bank outside,

let’s go inside, and grapple with the the ancient rhododendrons

until we return to the garden via John’s compost heaps.

After bidding you farewell the day continued with a drive to Nomansland , around which Jackie and I wandered for a while.

Wagtails waded in the car park puddles. What is it with wagtails and car parks? Even town car parks often host them. Certainly the one in Ringwood does.

Stretched out on the ground, breathing strongly, a possibly pregnant mare alarmed me a little. It is not a position in which ponies are often seen. We are supposed to report sick or injured animals. Was this one in trouble, or was she just having a siesta? How would I know? She had a companion who stood in the usual motionless stance not batting an eyelid. Until she, maybe the midwife, turned, bent her head, and nuzzled the prone animal. By the time Jackie and I had returned up the slope from the edge of the green, both creatures had disappeared. Their places had been taken by donkeys.

This evening Jackie fed us on lamb steaks with crisp vegetables, including cauliflower and broccoli in a gentle cheese sauce. I finished the Languedoc.

Confusing Exchange

Here is one I made earlier.

I forgot to post this Upper Drive shot yesterday. Trees in the New Forest don’t just fall down. They grow into all kinds of unusual shapes, such as this one forming a perfect arch through which one can glimpse the A31.

Last night I began reading Nathaniel Hawthorne’s novel ‘The House of the Seven Gables’.

After an early lunch today Jackie drove me to Donna-Marie’s in Poulner where I was given my quarterly haircut. Fortunately the weather is a little warmer at the moment. We then went on to Lidl in Totton for a shop. As is not unusual, although we had only gone there for milk, a trolley was requested. We managed to fill it.

As is well known a coin is required to free the supermarket trolley from its chain of companions. Inserting your £1 into the slot pushes out the locking key and you may take your wheeled contraption into the store. Having made your purchases and loaded your car you push your key into the last trolley in the line, out pops your £1, and the key remains in the other basket on wheels until someone else inserts another £1, and so on ad infinitum. Until, that is, one customer has difficulty understanding what he must do to obtain his trolley, consequently holds up the proceedings, and the person waiting to return his and collect £1, decides to confuse the issue even more, by suggesting that he swaps his trolley for the other gentleman’s £1.

Today, I was that helpful stranger. It seemed quite straightforward to me. But not to the struggling newcomer. He grasped my trolley, clearly wondering what was in the transaction for my benefit. Perhaps this was because he was more than reluctant to hand over his coin. There he was, one fist wrapped around the trolley handle, and the fingers and thumb of his other hand gripping £1 as if he had a wrench attached to his arm.

His companion, who had readily agreed to the exchange, tactfully informed me that he would not be happy until I tried to put the £1 he had given me into the slot occupied by my original coin. Of course it wouldn’t budge. I think it then became clear to him that what we were actually doing was swapping coins and when he had finished shopping, he would be able to receive his part of the bargain and collect my £1. Whether or not this was so, he released the coin he had been hanging on to, and allowed me to dash off with it before he changed his mind.

Just writing this out is doing my head in. Goodness knows what the encounter did to his. Or the reading to yours.

On our return down Upper Drive we witnessed the unusual sight of three donkeys foraging where I had wandered yesterday. Even ponies and deer are rare visitors to this small section of forest, so it was quite a surprise to see donkeys there.

Early this evening I took a clamber around the outside perimeter of the grounds. I have written before that the garden is surrounded by its own trees and shrubbery merged into the forest and bounded by a strong wire fence. The house having been built high up on the site of an Iron Age hill fort, the land beyond the fence drops sharply. I followed a path trodden by surer footed creatures than me, who did not have to travel hand over hand clinging to the fence on the left or leaning on a tree to the right taking a clockwise direction. Only once did I slither, slide, and career down the bank coming to an abrupt halt as my outstretched palms eagerly slapped into a welcome forest giant.

Reaching a point from which I could progress no further, I discovered where the deer gain ingress and egress. Overgrown rhododendrons and fallen trees have brought the boundary wire down to a level which perhaps I could, in my distant days as a second row forward, have leapt. When we next enjoy a clear morning light, I will make a photo shoot. Finishing by circumperambulating the lawns I watched the sun sink behind the building. The first daffodils are coming into bloom.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s delicious chicken jalfrezi (recipe), with spicy wild rice (turmeric, green cardamoms, cloves, cinnamon and garam masala added to the boiled version). I drank Wolf Blass cabernet sauvignon 2013 and the chef didn’t.

Invasive Species

The strong winds are back. Although the skies are a fairly uniform dull grey, where there are differences in nuances, wispy streaks rush over their lighter neighbours like smoke from a bonfire, or what was soon to emanate from the car bonnet. The rain was not heavy, but the gusts blew Jackie and me up and down the gravel slopes crossing the heath on which we walked at Frogham where she had driven us this morning.
On Roger Penny Way there were two sets of temporary traffic lights marking spots where trees had presumably fallen across the road. One root mass circumference was quite the largest either of us has seen. For a short stretch around Godshill, vehicles, and the inevitable Sunday cyclists, had to share the road with runners as they strung out along the tarmac before disappearing through the car park into Ashley Walk which winds across the heath.
That resting place for cars was bone dry compared with the one at Abbot’s Well where Jackie normally parks when we go to that part of the forest. The road up to the second car park is normally pitted and can be muddy. Today the pock marks had widened and deepened and were filled with ochre liquid, some of which may have come from the glaucous lake which was even now lapping at the fenders alongside it. Fortunately we managed to leave the car in the lower section.
The poster visible by the lake in the picture above explains that work is under way to control New Zealand pygmyweed which is threatening native New Forest plants. This perennial species of succulent, the Crassula helmsii, otherwise known as the swamp stonecrop, that has been introduced from the Antipodes, likes aquatic or semiterrestrial conditions. Given the amount of water that has lain on the forest terrain for the last two years it is hardly surprising that this invader is enjoying itself.
The John Tradescants, father and son, were seventeenth century travellers and gardeners who imported many new species of plant, some of which, named after them, are welcome additions to our flora. Others have, for various reasons, introduced both flora and fauna, some of which have come to be less than welcome.
A warning about Himalayan balsam is posted on the Castleman Trailway near Ringwood. ‘Himalayan balsam (Impatiens glandulifera) is a relative of the busy Lizzie, but reaches well over head height, and is a major weed problem, especially on riverbanks and waste land, but can also invade gardens. It grows rapidly and spreads quickly, smothering other vegetation as it goes’ (RHS). I’m sure I’ve seen and, unknowingly admired it.
There are more than 1,000 species of rhododendron, many of which were introduced to England, I believe from China, in the 18th Century. Their splendour is evident in Furzey Gardens and in ours. Unfortunately ‘some types are now a pest in Britain, because they out-compete many native plants and, because their leaves contain toxins that some animals find inedible’.
In 17th Century, Canada Geese were introduced to supplement King James II’s waterfowl collection in St James’s Park. Just like any other living creature, the young of these large birds, as I found in Cannon Hill Common on 28th September 2012, are intriguing and attractive. They do, however grow up, and are now a menace on our lakes and rivers. Their excreta is rather copious and can clog up the land around the waterways preventing grass from growing.
Another menace, thought to have been eradicated by 1989, is the coypu, introduced from South America in 1929. This was kept in East Anglia for its fur. Some escaped, went forth, and multiplied. These creatures are extremely destructive. Was the ‘giant rat’ killed in County Durham in 2012, a survivor of the slaughter? If so, how many more are there?
When we came back to the car at Abbot’s Well today, it would not start. The water with which we had filled the tank yesterday was all gone. We had just enough left in a bottle to enable us to limp home, but we have a problem. The car didn’t smell too good and steam clouds rose from outside the front.
We had thought the lack of transport would mean that we would be unable to attend Helen’s birthday party this afternoon, but Ron collected us and took us to Poulner, and Shelly drove us home afterwards. Stretching into the evening we had an enjoyable time with friends and family involving much reminiscing and a certain amount of alcohol. My choice was red wine. There were plenty of well-filled and inventive canapés, and Helen kept warm snacks such as sausage rolls, and pastry filled with pork and apricots, flowing from the kitchen.

‘You Know What You’ve Got’

My sinus pain was so acute this morning that I hadn’t much idea of doing anything that required getting out of a chair. After all, I’d already got out of bed. Jackie, however, visited the GP surgery for advice and medication. A combination of this and another glowing autumn day made me think I really ought to get outside.

She bought me a copy of New Forest Post, a newspaper that is sold for 20p, which reminded me of an ‘Independent’ cryptic crossword clue that I had rather liked. The subsidiary indication for the letter i was ‘what you can buy for 20p’. That is the price of the truncated version of the newspaper which is named ‘i’.

Far more significant for today, however, was an advertisement for Exbury Gardens which is staying open another week and boasts considerable autumn colour. So Jackie drove us off after lunch in search of splendid foliage. We didn’t have far to go to find it, because now is the time for John to gather up the leaves in our garden. Next week’s sweepings stubbornly clung to the trees above his head.

On the way to Exbury, where the house we short-listed is still for sale, we passed through Beaulieu, the river of which was reported by the newspaper to have overflown its banks. We wondered whether this would have caused any traffic problems. Although the surrounding forest is now being swamped by its winter pools, the river seems to have subsided. We were, however, held up on the way back by tree clearances necessitated by the storm of a fortnight ago.

Exbury Gardens seemed to be devoid of arboreal corpses, although we could hear machinery operating in parts we didn’t visit. Two days ago I spoke of the lack of red trees in the forest. Now I know where they all are. Created in the 1920s, the gardens extend over 200 acres of natural beauty, and are world-famous for their collections of rhododendrons, azaleas, camellias, rare trees, and shrubs. The colours of these latter plants were quite spectacular, whether seen individually or laid side by side as in a painter’s palette.

Many of the trees here I have never seen before. It is helpful that they have labels attached for our information. That describing the mahogany barked cherry tree was suspended by a copper wire complementing the stripes around the fresher sections of bark which hosted bright green lichen.

No Persian carpet could rival those provided by the maples and the pines.

Some of the shrubs, for example the Clerodendrum trichotomums, are clearly grown for their fascinating berries.

In the Five Arrows Gallery was a fine display of Nerines, of which the gardens have a splendid selection for sale.

Whether it was the air, the exercise, or the combination of Sudofed and Ibuprofen, I did feel somewhat better by the time we returned home. It doesn’t really matter which it was, does it? Notoriously resistant to taking anything for a headache, I am mellowing somewhat in my old age. This would please my one-time Deputy, Carol Elstub, who once tried to persuade me to take paracetamol. I said I didn’t like to take anything because if it made me better I wouldn’t know whether I still had whatever it was. ‘You see’, I said, ‘I like to know what I’ve got’. ‘You know what you’ve got’, she replied, ‘you’ve got a headache’. There was no answer to that really.

This evening Jackie fed us on her Moroccan pork, couscous, runner beans and cauliflower; followed by bread pudding and custard. And very good it all was, too.

‘I’m Not An Olympic Cyclist’

Before lunch, which consisted of a vast amount of yesterday’s food with the addition of more cold meats, pies, and cheeses, Jackie drove Don and me to Bank where we sampled the beers and sussed out the food, which looked very tempting, in The Oak Inn. The beamed pub was very full and catered for numerous families. Don and I drank Gale’s Seafarers Ale and Jackie had Staropramen. This naturally led to a rather soporific afternoon until Don returned to Bungay early in the evening.

I had to rather force myself to walk the Shave Wood loop after this, but it was a beautifully clear evening, which was encouraging.

Jackie was talking recently about escapees from Victorian gardens, which is her term for the ubiquitous purple variety of rhododendron. In the past week I have learned that there are far more varieties of this Chinese import in the gardens of The New Forest than I had previously imagined to exist (see those featured in posts of 2nd, 3rd, and 4th of this month). Those loose in the forest all seem to be standard sized and shaped purple. Apparently they have periodically to be culled because they take over and ruin the ecology. Some years ago notices were put up whilst the work was going on, in order to explain to dismayed visitors why this was necessary. Stapleford Woods near Newark had an even greater problem with this invader. It is fascinating how one’s attitude towards nature varies according to one’s perspective. Town dwellers encourage the foxes that countryfolk regard as a menace. Everyone knows that squirrels, deer, and rabbits are sweet little creatures. Until they begin to steal your bird food or devastate your flowers and vegetables. Jackie battles against the first of these and does her best to keep the others away. Suddenly they are not so endearing after all.

Cycling families were out in force this evening. As I walked up the road from Football Green to Shave Wood a couple of young teenagers pedalled past me from behind, chatting away. A short while afterwards, I turned at the squeak of a brake and the slap of a foot upon the tarmac. A middle-aged man, silhouetted against the background of sunlit trees, white hair glowing, looked behind him, as if waiting for someone. I continued on my way. He then called ‘put some effort into it’. I continued without turning round. Soon he came past me, followed in his wake by a little older teenager who, as she struggled to catch up, said ‘I’m so glad I’m not an Olympic cyclist’. It seemed to me that she may have benefitted from a bike that was big enough for her. Further on, the other two stopped and waited for the man and girl to catch up. The last I saw was tail end Charlie wobbling into the sunshine.

Don had, this morning, identified for me the cry of a buzzard which circled over our garden. He had been familiar with this from his Gaeddren years in North Wales. In the forest I looked up as I heard the same sound and watched one of these raptors swoop across the clear sky, settle for a while at the top a tall oak tree, and take off in the opposite direction. I heard others I did not see.

Furzey Gardens

Early this morning I walked down to the village shop, returning via the church footpath and The Splash. The snowdrops, crocuses, and daffodils have made way in the churchyard for cow parsley.

On my return I had a chat with Gladys and Dave in the garden. John, otherwise known as Sisyphus (see 19th March post), was just arriving for his day’s gardening. Nodding in the direction of Jackie who was sitting outside our kitchen door, Dave said she was about to be upset because John would start the day’s lawn mowing. ‘Oh no’, said I, ‘she loves it. We are going to Furzey Gardens this afternoon. She cannot go out in the morning he visits because she gives him coffee at eleven o’clock’. Gladys responded that she provides his one o’clock cup of tea. ‘He also brings his own flask’, added Dave. I was still laughing when I returned to our flat and told Jackie this. She quipped that he was like Six Dinner Sid. Sid is a cat, the hero of a story told by Inga Moore (2004). He visits six homes in turn, all of which provide him with a dinner.

It is just as well there are no cats, either resident or visiting, in our building, because we are really getting to know our nuthatch family. Dad has been visiting the feeding station for some time now; having a scoff and a few words with Jackie; then, sated, flying off with some food in his beak. Now he just feeds himself. Mum has presumably been sitting on a nest somewhere nearby, but definitely not in the tree to which Dad has been flying as a decoy. The eggs must have hatched and the juveniles grown up a bit, for she has now emerged and taken her place on the finial of the pole, surveying her offspring’s fearless adventures.

The younger bird has not learned to be afraid, and consequently skips around beneath our feet. He nipped up the steps as Jackie stood watching amazed, and, skirting her trainers, explored the stonework, no doubt seeking insects.

In order for John to prune the hedges around Jackie’s hanging baskets and bird feeders, she has had to move them inside for the day. The fliers zooming in for nosh were somewhat confused by this. They swooped, they saw, they scarpered. ‘Where’, you could see them thinking, ‘has it gone? I know I left it here’.

The trip to Furzey Gardens was the culmination of three consecutive days of horticultural feasting. Aviemore provided breathtaking beauty in a compact, packed, area; MacPenny’s offered maturity in a large space; Furzey is endlessly stunning in acres of rolling woodland. Berry had told me this was the time to come because of the rhododendrons. We have magnificent species in our garden, but nothing could have prepared me for this dazzling array set off at its best on a gloriously sunny day.

Created in 1922 the house and garden remained in the Dalrymple family until the 1960s when it was bought by the charity that now runs it in partnership with the Minstead Training project.

Numerous paths take the visitor on a magical tour of shrubberies filled with the most unusual bushes, trees, and plants, collected from all over the world. There are thatched buildings dotted about, many of which have liitle doors set for fairies. A child’s note accompanied by a wilting bunch of wild flowers lay on a spar of wood. A play area contains climbing structures, swings, and even a disused rowing boat that looks as if it had been stranded when the waters of the winter subsided. A number of plants such as the enormous gunnera or the abundant, healthy, candelabra primulas, provide evidence of the boggy nature of some of the forest soil. There is a substantial pond. A wisteria Elizabeth would be proud of, festoons a rustic pergola and seat. The alpacas featured on the 30th March can be seen in the distance in a meadow of wild flowers accessible only to staff and students. There is still much to be done to restore parts of this amazing treasure to its former glory, and inroads are definitely being made. I am not sure how much of the uncultivated area is to remain wild, but I hope a reasonable amount. The original house is now a place of retreat.

At Chelsea in 2012, the Minstead Training Project carried off gold for the Show Garden. It is in the process of being brought back to its roots in Furzey Gardens.

This evening we dined on belly of pork roasted long and slow by Jackie. I drank half a bottle of the Blason des Papes Chateauneuf du Pape 2011, a really excellent wine she bought me for Christmas.

Cock Of The Walk

The Scrabble controversy featured on 29th May continues apace. A multinational petition has been embarked upon on Facebook. Old stagers are leaving in droves. The UK’s Daily Mail has even taken up the cause. Mattel don’t seem to be able to sell their advertising space, because the only ads that do currently feature are those inviting players to ‘play without interruption’ by buying ad-free packages. How cynical can you get?

For some time now Jackie has been feeding not only the garden’s bird population, but also a fattening bushy tailed rodent. Consequently she has placed a squirrel baffle on the feeder post. The idea is that he shins up the post, bangs his head on the concave perspex dome, drops down again, staggers to his feet, shakes his head like a silent movie character, and shoots across the garden to his refuge in a distant silver birch. This morning he did seem somewhat confused as he sat on the doorstep scratching his head and eyeing his chomping rivals with the longing expression of a Tiny Tim gazing into a butcher’s shop window at Christmastime; his empty paws then going through the motions of clutching at the food.

MacPenny’s garden nursery in Bransgore has a much longer history than that of Aviemore which I featured yesterday. The small outlet bought from Marcia Ashley-Corbett by Douglas Lowndes in 1934 has been developed and stayed in his family ever since. The exhausted gravel pit added in 1951 has become a magnificent eight acre mature garden, dubbed by Jackie ‘a garden down a hole’. With eight acres and a team of staff you can do so much more than in Aviemore, and the Lowndes have. The rhododendron and Azelia season was a good time to visit. Numerous other plants abounded and many trees towered above us on our trip today. Shade-loving varieties were in their element. Rustic footpaths and steps made out of logs take visitors through what is another National Gardens Scheme attraction, this one open all the year round. No doubt the prolific plant nursery that hosts this feature has a reciprocal arrangement with the reclaimed gravel pit. The stock looked good enough to have possibly supplied Aviemore.

A couple of gardeners working in the lower level shrubberies, pruning and resetting edging, told us that during the winter we would have been up to our waists in water. The area still looked magnificent, with more, in the shape of normally marginal yellow irises, to come. The soaking they must have had was clearly beneficial.

On our departure those leaving the car park were treated to a strutting performance by the resident faverolles cockerel as he led his harem across the gravel, past the potted plants, to the safety of a scratching area.

He made sure his hens had a clear passage as he signalled to all visitors to keep their distance. He must have known what we were having for dinner.

Jackie produced chicken jalfrezi and a milder curried chicken with savoury rice followed by sticky toffee pudding for our evening meal. I finished the Chateauneuf du Pape.