sweet peas – Page 5 – derrickjknight

Hammock And Hollyhock

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This morning we shopped at Lidl, mainly to load up the car with more of their large bags of compost. Quite a number of the on the heap outside the store were damaged and leaking. Some fell on stony ground.

So popular was the photograph of Sam in the hammock from yesterday’s post that I scanned the rest of the set of colour slides made in August 1981. Matthew was wonderful with his younger siblings.

Here, his and Sam’s enjoyment of time in the hammock at Meldreth is quite clear.

Mat’s friend Adrian was of similar ilk.

No, this hollyhock has not crept in from our current garden 35 years on. It was taken along with these others. Does its progeny still soar from the sunlit borders of ‘The Dumb Flea’? (the Drapers’ home where these shots were made).

Here in Downton we have experienced very strong winds for two or three days. These have dried up the hanging baskets and broken a few stems. Jackie therefore has been taking a few down. She continued this today, and I did some watering.

This evening we dined on a second helping of Hordle Chinese Take Away. We now know the proprietor’s name is Chan, which is a pity because Mister Chatty Man suits him so well. I finished the Carignan Vieilles Vignes and Jackie drank her Hoegaarden and Bavaria mix. Well, she had to do something with the non-alcoholic beer bought by mistake.

Baskets And Pots

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On an overcast day I alternated between watering hanging baskets and pots, dead heading, and watching the television coverage of the men’s semi-finals at Wimbledon. I would pop outside at what seemed reasonable intervals in the matches, fill a few cans, water a few containers, and return to the TV hoping I hadn’t missed anything too crucial. This proved rather more risky in the first event.

Here I present a small token selection of the recipients of the water:

Readers will find examples of petunia, lobelia, pansy, bidens, clematis, sweet pea, geranium, mimulus, diascia, and no doubt many more.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s delicious chicken jalfrezi and boiled rice, followed by Helen’ rich chocolate roulade. The Culinary Queen drank diet Pepsi and I began an intriguing wine curiosity. This was present from Helen and Bill; a label called Rare Vineyards; a red wine, Carignan vieilles vignes (old vines), 2015. It is enjoyable.

After The Rant

I have mentioned before that there had only been two books in my life that I have not finished reading. The first was James Joyce’s ‘Finnegan’s Wake’, because I couldn’t fathom it; the second was ‘Mort d’Arthur’ by Sir Thomas Mallory because it bored me. I have now managed a third for a combination of the two reasons.

‘Meditations’ by Rene Descartes was so difficult and boring that I did not continue with ‘& Other Writings’ in my Folio Society edition. What I did seem to understand was that this philosophical thinker trusted no perception other than his thought, except that he accepted God as a given. He didn’t trust his senses until he had done them to death inside his head. It did my head in. In fairness, better brains than mine have kept the work in print for almost 400 years. I finally abandoned it last night and began Jonathan Dimbleby’s ‘The Battle of The Atlantic’, which at least promises to flow.

I spent most of the morning trying to unravel my phone problems without becoming too twisted up myself. Do you know, I think Descartes is more comprehensible than our conglomerate corporations.

After going through all the usual hoops, my first call to O2 resulted in my being informed that my long term phone number had been transferred to my new SIM and superseded the temporary one I was given yesterday. The conversation ended abruptly. I cannot say why.

I couldn’t use the new phone which now bore the legend ‘Not registered in network’. I couldn’t even call O2 on it. I wondered if a fuse had blown. It had. Mine.

Using the landline I went through the hoops again and, of course, spoke to a second advisor. He told me that the transfer from business to personal account would take 48 hours. In the meantime I could use the old number on the new phone. I couldn’t. One of the comments this man had made was that if I could try my old SIM card in any phone that it would fit, it should work. I took that card out of the broken phone in order to try it in Jackie’s mobile. I dropped it on the floor. In attempting to pick it up, my lady shot it under the sofa. It’s amazing how much fluff you find when you have to shift a sofa bed.

It didn’t fit Jackie’s phone. I tried a third call to O2. This, once again new, advisor, when quoting my numbers, mentioned one I didn’t recognise. You’ve guessed it. My number had been transferred to the wrong account. This was quite different to either my old or my temporary numbers. Having reversed all this, he told me this would now take four hours to activate.

I will acknowledge that it was difficult to do so through gritted teeth, but I observed that I had been an O2 customer for 30 years and expected better expedition than that. He promised to call me back as soon as he could.

This rant over, I gathered a few more prospective prints for The First Gallery Exhibition. Here is a sample:

This table top illustrates The Head Gardener’s propensity for purchasing suitable item’s from Efford Recycling Centre.

The end of September 2015 was quite wet, as shown by these raindrops on sweet peas.

On 19th January this year, a brief freeze gave an abstract quality to the Waterboy’s pool.

Sunrises, like this on 6th April 2015, are often wonderfully dramatic.

By 27th September 2014, The Head Gardener’s Rest had been installed;

on 29th June, when taking this photograph, she had set these poppy seed heads against the red Japanese maple.

Here a furry little bee plunders a cosmos.

Despite the O2 representative’s promise, and the fact that he knew we were leaving for the weekend after his call, he didn”t make it. I therefore made a fourth call and spoke to yet another advisor. Hee had to confer with someone on the other side of the business, and put me on hold for a while. I was put through to a young lady who explained that they were working on it at the moment, and it should be resolved shortly. I would receive a call when it was done. I could safely take the new mobile with me. I said this was the second such promise I had received today and asked whether I could trust it. She assured me that I could and that it had been a pleasure talking to me.

Later this afternoon, Jackie will drive us to Leatherhead for the annual family evening watching her cousin Pat O’Connell’s direction of Gilbert and Sullivan. This evening’s choice is ‘The Grand Duke’.

All I can tell you about dinner is that it will be taken at an Italian restaurant before the performance.

Officially Autumn

Although she does tidy up much of her refuse, when the Head Gardener has been about with the loppers and secateurs, it falls upon me, the Under Under Gardener, to clear the heaps of clippings; to transfer them to the compost and wood-burning piles; to sort them; and to cut them into manageable sections. This I did this morning after Jackie had driven off for one of her sorority lunches with Helen and Shelly.

Judging by the scent pervading this pile, the marauding cat that we hope keeps the rodents down, had liberally sprayed it with a peculiar pungency.

The rambling rose, Wedding Day, having outgrown the Agriframes arch and dared to festoon the two Japanese maples and frolic over a hebe, was given a particularly severe haircut. I console myself in the knowledge that, like mine, it will grow again.

This is all part of the autumn clear-up. It is, after all, the first official day of autumn. We are, nevertheless, still treated to the sights of summer, like

bees burrowing into crinkly poppies;

Small White butterflies fluttering everywhere and perching on verbena bonarensis;

petunias, pink striped dahlias, and geraniums;

and raindrops on sweet peas.

The rose garden is flourishing. We have left two peep-holes in the fence so our neighbours can enjoy it too.

Carpet roses, like the white Kent, are spreading nicely.

We have red hot pokers everywhere. Either they are proliferating at will, or there was too much undergrowth last year for us to notice. These are surveyed by the owl at home in the dead Snake Bark maple.

We moved the furniture and potted plants from the decking for Aaron to refurbish it. This colourful table top had held a floral display.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s lively chilli con carne and tasty mixed vegetable rice. I finished the malbec, and The Cook drank Hoegaarden.

After The Rain 1

SPOILER ALERT! Don’t read to the end if you are watching the rugby recorded.

This morning Jackie weeded and planted chrysanthemums in the front garden, whilst I dug out the remaining roots of the ficus in preparation for planting the pansies.

In the event, a heavy thunderstorm ruled out putting the pansies to bed. They were therefore plonked in their trays. Even though the rain ceased, enabling us to finalise the preparation and wander round the garden, the soil was far too muddy.

The sun emerged for a while. The rain ceased, but continued to drip from the trees and the shrubbery. Battered blooms bore watery blisters.

These included geraniums;

Ginger lilies;

roses unknown,

Altissimo,

and the leaves of Deep Secret;

dahlia Bishop of Llandaff;

sweet peas;

and verbena to name a few.

Echinaceas and chrysanthemums, and others in Elizabeth’s Bed have been well watered.

Here are views down the Dead End Path;

across the New Bed to the Brick Path;

and across the Heligan Path.

Our dinner this evening, consisting of Jackie’s superb chicken jalfrezi and pilau rice, was taken on trays on our knees, as we watched the opening match in the rugby World Cup, in which England beat Fiji by 35 points to 11. I drank more of the malbec while Jackie drank Hoegaarden. I didn’t spill too much curry down my sweatshirt.

Should I Be Concerned?

The garden was refreshed by early morning rain.

This failed to dampen the ardour of the passion flowers eyeing the red hot honeysuckle,

and gave sweet peas a welcome drink.

The rich red climbing rose Aloha,and the pale pastel bush Margaret Merrill are both in full bloom.

A comment on Houzz GardenWeb forum, posted in July 2007 states that ‘the Margaret Merrill rose was named [in 1977] after a fictitious character in British advertising, but Harkness had to track down various Margaret Merrills for permission to complete naming the rose’. Margaret Merrill was the nom de plume of a beauty advisor who helped Oil of Ulay (now Olay) sell its beauty products. If you wanted cosmetic advice you wrote to this woman.

This afternoon Jackie drove us to Chandlers Ford for her physiotherapy. I settled down to an hour with Primo Levi’s ‘The Periodic Table’, but I didn’t get very far in my hoped-for completion of this, my current book. Jackie soon emerged with a happy face. She had been told she was doing brilliantly and didn’t need to go again.

On our return we stopped for a visit to Patrick’s Patch in Beaulieu.

This is the community garden’s peak time. Marigolds, dahlias, gladioli, sunflowers and lavender are just a few of the flowers we observed as we wandered along the paths, where various imaginative scarecrows were drafted into service.

The Annual Border, with its Painted Lady runner beans, was particularly stunning and, as Jackie discovered, sweet pea scented. We didn’t see a weed anywhere.

Produce like apples and courgettes looked ripe and plump.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s delicious chilli con carne, egg fried rice, and green beans, followed by chocolate eclairs. I finished the bordeaux, whilst Jackie drank Hoegaarden, this last of which, whilst I completed my post, she took up to the rose garden for what has become a nightly drink with Alan Titchmarsh. Like many women of a certain age she is in love with the man. Should I be concerned?

High Maintenance

In a recent exchange with my Facebook friend Kanan Buta, who had, from afar, been admiring the garden in pictures, I commented that because this was our first year it was full of surprises. ‘Pleasant ones, I hope?’, she replied. ‘Not always’, was my answer. One of the less pleasant ones, as my readers may know, is the amount of rubble including chunks of concrete and broken tiles we have been bagging up and taking to the municipal dump. Today, I found a use for the next batch for disposal. The untended garden next door lies at a somewhat lower level than ours. This means the path I have been clearing between the two properties, in parts, drops away steeply, leaving an uneven trench. Several bags of rubble filled the holes and helped to keep the last sections of the IKEA wardrobe fence, added this morning, in place. The whole is not the most beautiful example of garden design, but at least it will help to keep the triffids at bay. That reminds me – the morning’s efforts included cutting down an adolescent bay tree.
As I spent the best part of the afternoon hoeing, raking, and sweeping the gravel paths, whilst Jackie dripped around with her watering can, I reflected on the fact that, at an age when many of our friends are turning to low maintenance gardening, we have done exactly the opposite. I can, of course, comfort myself with the fact that most of the really heavy projects that have occupied the last three months will not require repetition. But a myriad of potted plants will always need water in hot weather, and weeds will need to be removed. I learned today, too, that the bamboo removed from the oval path will continue to crop up in the middle of it. The hoe was inadequate to deal with that. Brute force to pull up the trailing root, and a pair of loppers to cut it off where it joined the main plant were required.

The New Zealand hebe identified by Tess is now full of blooms.

Readers will have gleaned that we do not intend to go in for kitchen gardening. Jackie has, however planted sweet peas and tomatoes, probably as token gestures.

Seriously, sweet peas are among our favourite flowers.

I don’t know whether the chef at Hordle Chinese Take Away felt like cooking tonight, but we didn’t, so, thanks to Jackie and her Modus, he provided us with our dinner. This was the usual excellent melange from this establishment, accompanied by T’Sing Tao beer.

The Pizza

10th July 2014
Yesterday evening I finished reading Cicero’s Orations. The two final pieces are not forensic. The first, ‘Pro Marcello’, is a panegyric, and the second ‘Phillipics II’ an invective. Marcellus is not really the subject of For Marcellus. It is a document of forthright praise for Caesar, whose generosity in pardoning one of his most implacable enemies had astounded and delighted the writer. The far more lengthy tirade, Phillipics II, astounds this reader. In his response to Mark Antony’s verbal attack on him in the senate, Cicero pulls no punches. His language is florid, accusatory, insulting, and unequivocal. If ever there was an character assassination speech, this is it. In my view, it was also suicidal. He closes by stating that he welcomes death if it makes the state more secure. It did bring about his brutal murder.
This morning I walked up the D17 to the lofty village of Pomport, and back down the narrow, steep, winding, road that passes Chateau La Gironie and links back to the major route in the refurbished leisure centre now termed ‘Pomport Beach’. Given that this complex is, I believe, further from the sea than is anywhere in England, that would seem to be a rather misleading name, especially as it is posted in English. When I arrived in Sigoules, late in 2008, the financial crash had just hit the world. This burgeoning French village did not escape the consequences. A number of local developments ground to a halt. One of these was the Pomport leisure centre which has only this year seen what looks like completion.
Wild sweet peas illuminated the verges, as did cornflowers the fields. I even encountered a sweep of mare’s tails.Vines were being sprayed by a purpose-built vehicle that moved between them quite quickly.
The only pedestrian I met was a woman pegging out her washing. There were, however, a number of cars on the D17, one of which, for a second time, was driven by Lydie, who stopped and greeted me as warmly as ever.
Having begun it yesterday evening, I finished Michel Benoit’s novel ‘The Thirteenth Apostle’. This was a captivating and thoroughly researched historical thriller telling of the murder of a monk who ‘possessed proof of the existence of a thirteenth apostle and an epistle stating that Jesus was….and inspired prophet, not the Son of God’, and another who, under grave threat, conducts his own investigation. The Vatican, Mossad, and Fatah all wish to keep this secret, and will stop at nothing to prevent its exposure. It is well written enough for me to have read 360 pages in two sessions. I was reminded of the difference between the religious reactions to this imaginary novel and that of Salman Rushdie’s ‘Satanic Verses’ which earned him a Fatwa.
As I closed the book, Saufiene and his wife Carole arrived to collect me for dinner at their home in Saint Medard de Mussidan. This was the day before their daughter Eya’s birthday, and was a family affair. Other daughters Cleya and Xena, son Geoffrey, nephew Johannathan, and Jerome, were all present. It was good to meet Geoffrey again after a couple of years, and to spend the evening with a likeable and convivial French family. We managed pretty well with Franglais, and found this blog a useful medium for introducing photographs of my family, home, and garden.
Saufiene prepared an excellent Tunisian meal which was too much for me to eat. I only regret that I did not try the wonderfully piquant salad before I had reached satiation. I enjoyed the meal and the company very much. The host, who drove me back, did not drink alcohol, but I relished a superb Saint Emilion and the others drank rose.
Unfortunately Carole’s pizza was no longer available because it had already been eaten by the neighbourhood cats. Saufiene, who we saw last year can be kind to cats, thinking the pizza was a little old, had jettisoned it in their direction. One white and two grey felines tucked in rapidly, forcibly excluding the black one which gazed plaintively up at the watchers on the second floor balcony, who, with great hilarity, demanded a photograph be taken for my blog.

The Eye Patch

Jackie’s nasturtium leaves are being eaten by minute caterpillars hatched from little yellow butterfly eggs. The sneaky parents laying the eggs on the underside reckon without our eagle-eyed head gardener.

Yesterday’s bee was harvesting a marigold. Today’s perched on a sunflower, confirming my suspicion that these creatures are more attracted to yellow flowers than to anything else.

Jackie drove us to The Firs for a gardening session. On an absolutely sweltering day this was a difficult task. The garden has suffered from months of cold rain, delaying everything; followed by several weeks heatwave making it rather too hot to work and forcing all the tardy growth at once. A Madonna lily that has just about survived these extremes appeared alongside a dried out pot the contents of which, pansies and tulips, haven’t.

Jackie managed a decent amount of potting up whilst I concentrated on weeding, which at times meant grappling with brambles which had a tendency to get their own back. The compost heaps created last year are beginning to look rather inadequate, as the newest one, despite its walls having been raised a bit a week or so ago, is now looking rather mountainous. The pruned brambles are piled up separately for burning.

I have already recorded that Jackie planted more than 100 sweet pea plants. Elizabeth was able to cut a rather good scented display purely for the pleasure of Maureen Allen.

Drinks breaks were welcome. On one, Paul Clarke joined us and, among other things we discussed the open studio planned for later this month, to which his mother will be contributing some items. In discussing the widening of the theme from drums to music in general, and the fact that nostalgia is quite popular at the moment, I suddenly remembered a slide I had taken of Chris about fifty years ago. Complete with Hank Marvin specs, my brother is playing a guitar. That has to be printed for the exhibition.

Fortunately my slide library has assisted my memory. On our return to Minstead I couldn’t wait to retrieve the picture. Under the specs Chris is wearing an eye patch. I cannot remember why this was necessary. It is unlikely he fancied himself as a pirate. The photograph was taken in February 1966, on the day of Jacqueline’s marriage to John Clancy, whose cigarette lights up the background of our parents’ living room at 18 Bernard Gardens, Wimbledon.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s chicken jalfrezi and savoury rice, with trifle to follow. She drank Hoegaarden whilst I began a bottle of Maipo reserva Merlot 2012.

I Had Just Won The Lottery

Today it was time for a big shop. In this instance that meant a trip to Totton for Lidl and Asda. On the way we diverted to Copythorne to recce a house in Copythorne Crescent. The house looked good. It was down a narrow unmade road with hedgerows alongside fields opposite. In one field a couple of horses were necking. There was significant road traffic noise from the M27 beyond the fields.

Lidl is more compact than Asda, so shopping there was fairly straightforward. In the English owned store, we separated as I went off in search for wine to see if that is where the excellent Cotes du Rhone came from. It was, but it wasn’t on offer at 50% reduction. It cost £10.50. Jackie normally buys half price bargains. She thought she must have decided to treat me with that one.

Tramping up and down the aisles in Asda, evading – not always successfully – shopping trolleys, baskets, walking aids, and slaloming children, is easily the equivalent of a decent distance walk. Why is it that no-one who suddenly stops, and reaches across the rows for an item which has caught their eye, is ever supplied with rear or wing mirrors or brake- or indicator lights?

And why, whenever I take our shopping across to the car, do I always get the trolley with out of control steering? The Asda one was fine today, so it is a slight exaggeration to say that I always get the dodgy trolley, but, given that we went to two shops in one trip, it would be fair to say I always get one per journey. The Lidl one was different. It was a prime example of the need sometimes to lean heavily on one side of the carriage whilst at the same time attempting to steer it straight from the front. Today it became slightly more complicated when playing dodgems with a woman being pushed in a wheelchair. The man escorting her was an expert steerer, but he did have to allow for my veering in front of him. Eventually the couple simply stood and stared, as I struggled to prevent my steed from falling off the edge of the kerb before reaching the dropped section. Once you reach your car with these wheeled bearers it is the devil’s own job to stop them from running into your vehicle whilst you decant their contents. Like the errant shoppers in the store, they don’t have brakes.

When I eventually did empty the trolley and return it to its rack, I met a couple of unforeseen obstacles. Lidl’s bays are reached by pushing the trolleys between two parallel bars. At the end of the row you are rewarded by the sight of a line of these baskets on wheels attached to the last of which is a key chain that you insert into a slot on your trolley so that your £1 deposit is spewed out for your collection.

The first obstacle was a young woman leaning on the bars arguing into her electronic cheek extension who seemed to have no conception of blocking the road. I gently pressed her shoulder and pointed to my trolley. She shifted her position barely enough for me to get by without the slightest pause in her one-sided debate. Having reached the trolley rack I was ready to insert the key. I saw no slot in my handle. A brief technical examination revealed that the container for the slot was loose, cracked, and had swivelled underneath the handle. With consummate skill, I righted the pocket, inserted the key, caught the flying £1 coin, and returned to the car feeling I had just won the lottery.

Michael came for a visit this afternoon and stayed over. As we sat in the garden I was entranced by the late afternoon’s sun’s rays lighting up the sweet peas and other glorious flowers in Jackie’s pots.

Our dinner consisted of sausage casserole, potatoes, cauliflower and cabbage; followed by apple crumble, custard, and ice cream. Michael and I drank the Cotes du Rhone while Jackie quaffed Hoegaarden.