rudbeckia – Page 3 – derrickjknight

‘I Was Afraid You Were Going To Say That’

Early this morning I continued working my way through the backlog of e-mails.

I then finished clearing the section of overgrown shrubbery. This involved extracting more stubborn roots; dismantling the rock wall in the middle of it; using some of these to build up the border with the pergola path, and laying others as access stepping stones; finally digging over all the old soil and adding Jackie’s sifted compost.

When we settled down to our now customary lunchtime fix of the antiques programme, ‘Bargain Hunt’, we could receive no sound on the TV. We watched that with sub-titles, but the situation prompted me into action.

It is fairly obvious that maintenance of the garden takes priority over the house in our summers. But the telly was just one issue demanding of attention that has been put on the back burner.

Speaking of burners, we have not used our log burning stove, because we don’t trust it without having had it overhauled. So, a voicemail message was left for a chimney sweep.

We have Everest windows that don’t fit properly, and a Velux window that leaks. A message was left for a double-glazing expert.

The sound had disappeared from the television some months ago, and Ben from Milford Sound & Vision had come to fix it. He had at first thought the set was kaput, but managed to sort it out. This time it may not be so easy. We drove to Milford and after some discussion Ben sold us a new TV. This will be delivered and installed next Wednesday. I think we can live without sound for eight days, although it does mean I will be unable to enjoy ‘The Big Bang Theory’ just by listening to the dialogue which I enjoy from my corner chair whilst I am working on the pc.

We need a shower shield in the guest bathroom, and have a leak in the outside tap which services the garden. Having been unable to receive a reply on either of The Lady Plumber’s numbers, we drove on to her home the other side of Highcliffe. The said Sam was about to go on holiday and will contact us when she returns home. I had also left a message for another plumber, Mike, who texted me this evening saying he would call next week.

Although there wasn’t.as yet, anything to show for it, I felt I had at least achieved something, entitling me to a wander round the garden. While I was doing this, the windows man called and arranged to visit us on Thursday.

Rose Winchester Cathedral now displays its first object of veneration.

The blooms on this unidentified scarlet rose stand a good eight feet over the Oval Bed.

The rose garden is now visible down the Pergola Path.

We have a number of hibiscuses, one of which is in the front garden,

where a myrtle is beginning to ignite its star-bursts.

The Head Gardener went off to buy plants for the exposed bed, and we later planted

echinaceas, salvias, rudbeckias, and perovskia Blue Spires in the vacant space.

Soon after this the chimney sweep responded to my message. When I confirmed our address, Barrie, the tradesman, said ‘Crikey. I was afraid you were going to say that’. He had examined the stove for our predecessors, had told ‘the gentleman’ what a state it was in, and what needed to be done. He had heard no more. Nothing daunted, he will come again next week.

We dined this evening on Jackie’s delicious liver casserole, mashed potato and swede, and crisp carrots, followed by custard tarts. I finished the Italian red wine and Jackie drank Hoegaarden.

Javel

Seeking shade yesterday afternoon, a cleverly camouflaged cricket clung to the sitting room curtain draped over a table. Becoming curious, it turned to face the camera.

Based on Victor Hugo’s great novel, Bille August’s film of Les Miserables is a splendid 1998 version of the tale probably best known for the long-running musical production. But then no screened story starring Liam Neeson, Geoffrey Rush, Uma Thurman, and Claire Danes could be a flop. Neeson is his usual brooding, colossal self; Rush a suitably sinister, cynical, Javert; Thurman a convincing Fantine; and Danes a delectable Cosette. It was good to see Peter Vaughan in a cameo role when I enjoyed watching it yesterday evening.

This morning I walked to within sight of the Dutchman’s house in Ste Innocence, turned, and retraced my steps in order not to be late for the usual excellent Le Code Bar lunch. I sought a mobile phone signal since I haven’t received one for more than a day. High on a hill not far from Pertus, I found one and was able to call Jackie to let her know I was still alive. It was far in the distance on the road that runs through this hamlet that I was drawn by a rich golden glow lit up by the sunshine. As I neared it I realised it was a hedge of blooming rudbeckia. A garden on the outskirts of Sigoules sported some fine Canna lilies.

We began with a noodle and cheese soup so well flavoured with garlic that, had it been pictured in the Dandy and Beano comics of my childhood, would have had wavy lines radiating above it. Although not quite cow pie, the enormous steak and chips that was the main course would probably have satisfied Desperate Dan. I was honour bound to finish the chips, otherwise it would have been such a disappointment to Max, but it was touch and go.

As I walked down rue St Jacques from the bar, a strong caustic smell beset my nostrils. Approaching No 6 I saw that the cellar street door was open. The Renov Conseil 24 team had, wearing masks, entered the cellar and applied liberal quatities of Javel, a powerful cleanser, to the contents. I was masked up and Saufiene, once we had both bent double to get in, gave me a tour. Apart from these nether regions not having been opened for about eighteen months, the pump renewed after the flood does not appear to be working.

Because the street entry has to remain at least half open for airing, in order to prevent unauthorised ingress Benoit applied enough heavy bags to the trapdoor to ensure that no-one, except perhaps Liam Neeson in yesterday’s role as Jean Valjean, or maybe Ron Crabbe, to raise it from beneath. Ron Crabbe was Dad’s young removal colleague and friend of fifty years ago, of phenomenal strength, whose renowned feat was to crawl under a piano and lift it unaided. Dad and I could shift one between us, not always, as reported on 29th August last year, with total success, but Ron’s prize turn was off the scale.

Marevna

On learning of my penchant for history, our friend Margery lent me ‘The Crusades’ by Thomas Asbridge. I began reading it yesterday evening.

As I took a series of photographs in January 1965, at the ripe old age of 22, I thought: ‘these will be an historical record one day’. Now, nigh on 49 years later, they are. I did not start illustrating these posts until June last year, so when I mentioned on 22nd May that I still had the colour slides I took of the queues for the lying in state of Sir Winston Churchill, I did not add them to the post. I rectified that this morning, by adding five.

After this a deer made its quite slow, elegant, way across the lawn, until, disturbed by our attention, it fled into its bolt hole.

I then walked the two underpasses route, starting at the Malwood Farm end. A summer’s usage by pedestrians and ponies has produced such reasonably clear footpaths as to make my earlier errant efforts at this trip during the waterlogged spring seem somewhat meandering. The farm’s gravel heap is higher, harmonising even better with the pipes upon, and logs beside, it. I reached the Rufus Stone car park in very quick time, just as Bob and Lyndon were preparing to move on. These two friendly men were volunteers for the Forestry Commission, engaged in litter picking. I wondered if the family decanting from a car behind them might render some of their work in vain. I spoke with them for a while, and told them I had seen their equivalent in Morden Hall Park last year. They knew of the National Trust’s similar system.

Outside Shovel Cottage in Minstead four apples placed on the verge of the road seemed to be harbingers of the season when local residents put out food for the struggling ponies.

At mid-day we set off, Jackie driving, to Athelhampton Hall in Dorset to visit the privately owned house and gardens. It was a dull day and late in the year, but we saw enough of the splendidly designed gardens to know that they will look stunning in spring and summer, when we vowed to return. First built in 1485, the house has undergone various embellishments over the centuries, yet remains beautifully integrated.

The garden has been so well designed that wherever you are positioned, as in an open plan house, you are led to another living area. There almost seem to be more rooms in the garden than in the grand house, each one offering an invitation to another. There are more walls than in an open plan house, though. Fountains abound. Through one you can usually see another. Dahlias, Rudbeckia, sunflowers, Hydrangea were blooming. Some roses were still at their best, usually with their companions’ petals carpeting the earth beneath them. Sweet chestnut shells are developing to protect the nuts they nurture.

A thirty year old eucalyptus, in gentle pastel colours, sheds its bark and its leaves onto the brick paths around its base, two long roots stretching out like symmetrical tentacles. There are a number of pleached lime colonnades.

The delightful boy with his dog was just one of the many sculptures enjoying the flowers.

A bridge in the grounds crosses the River Piddle. (That just had to be done, didn’t it?)

At the entrance to the house I was intrigued by the dates of some of the graffiti. Once inside, we were permitted to take photographs; could roam freely without having to follow a prescribed route; and could, it seemed, sit anywhere.

There were bathrooms of different periods, one containing a magnificent polished copper bath. It had me wondering about the term ‘copper’ for a tub for washing clothes. The state bedroom had what must have been a rather early en suite.

Staircases were from very different periods, and always intriguing. One, an Elizabethan ammonite, led to the gallery where I discovered Marevna. Marevna was a Russian painter who lived in the house from 1948 -1957. She worked with all the great earlier twentieth century painters, her style embracing various forms, such as cubism and pointillism, to name just two I recognised. Obviously a favourite model, her daughter Marika, was her child with Mexican artist Diego Rivera who, incidentally, numbered the brilliant Frida Kahlo among his many lovers. At the top of the spiral staircase lies the entrance to the gallery, through the door of which can be seen part of her ‘Homage to Friends from Montparnasse’ of 1961. Her painting of The Great Court hangs on a wall adjacent to one framing a window through which can be seen the real thing.

When, like father bear, I tested a very comfortable chair, and Jackie decided to photograph me in situ, she found herself at the head of a queue of would-be David Baileys.

After an uneventful drive back Jackie produced a meal of lamb and mint sausages, potato croquettes, onions, mushrooms, cauliflower, cabbage and peas. It only needs a second’s power cut, to which we are prone, for the electric cooker to be thrown out. By this, I mean, its operation is upset. Mind you, it sometimes is at serious risk of being ejected through the kitchen window. The instruction manual has to be consulted, and much fiddling undergone if the food is ever to burn. We had one a couple of days ago. However, it was sorted, otherwise we wouldn’t have had our sausages. Mine went down well with the rest of yesterday’s Sicilian wine, and Jackie’s with her Belgian beer.