sweet peas – Page 6 – derrickjknight

Harvest Mice

Seated in the arbour this morning, Jackie and I contemplated the wildlife around us. A squirrel scampering across the lawn was no doubt seeking store-cupboards for winter supplies. Underneath a thin covering of the grass lie ancient gravel footpaths. These are always the first sections to turn brown in a drought. A scuffed up part of one of these suggested that even a squirrel could not get through it to bury its spoils. Squirrels had, however, turfed out small potted seedlings from their containers; rather like cuckoos placing their eggs in foster parents’ nests. The bird-feeders had been refilled yesterday. Small birds were feasting from them, whilst the larger, ungainly, pigeons, hyena-like, scavenged for spillage on the ground. Jackie had emptied the bird-bath yesterday, with the intention of cleaning and refilling it today. This was because it had been fouled by the pigeons. A number of tits were flitting down, expecting a drink after their breakfast, only to be disappointed. So she refilled it and I am sure the birds expressed their gratitude.

The pigeon photographed on 13th. September drinking from the bath could not have been a soiling culprit. It had been ailing, and eventually succumbed to a marauding cat. We think a cat, rather than a fox, because it’s clawed body had not been eaten.

Having lunch at the kitchen table I admired the sweet peas which usually adorn it. Constantly cutting the flowers ensures frequent replenishment of the stock. Some of these will have come from the cosy arbour mentioned above. Another container of flowers regularly being filled is the ‘accident pot’. This sits on the patio between the kitchen door and that of the workroom/garage/potting shed; and is a receptacle for flowers which have been broken off inadvertently during the gardening activities.

Jackie explained the production of the sourdough bread we were eating. It is apparently the extra length of time in the yeast box which produces the strong flavour. She spoke of how she had enjoyed making bread for the harvest festivals with Matthew and Becky. The children used to love making little mice with which to decorate the sheaves of dough. They had a very special effect, since, by the time they were applied, they were always grey.

Later, we finished putting the pages for the project for Mum into the display albums; then worked on developing ideas for the logo for Elizabeth’s new company, Psychologists for Autism. Jackie came up with our favourite idea which we played around with to send to the professionals. Elizabeth has received a draft of a different idea which really isn’t suitable.

This evening Roc des Chevaliers 2010 and, for Jackie, Hoegaarden 2012 helped down her roast pork dinner followed by apple crumble and custard or cream depending on taste. A few strawberries found at the back of the fridge, although a bit crusty, were still edible.

Bats

Sparkling dew greeted us on this glorious early autumn day, encouraging an early start in the garden. I tackled the ivy once more, and Jackie, general maintenance, including a bonfire.

An incinerator built by Rob many years ago from the innards of two washing machines still does the job perfectly.

During lunch, Elizabeth spoke of her friend’s late mother, Audrey Randall, a teacher who was voluntarily involved in wild life rescue, particularly specialising in bats. We had harboured bats in Lindum House. We never learned exactly where they lived, but they would swoop to and from the eaves, especially at dusk. Their darting flight put me in mind of swifts. Only on one occasion were they spotted in the house. I was lying in bed reading at about one o’clock in the morning, when two of these creatures flew through the open window and began to circle the room. At first I thought they may have been attracted to the light, but, from the little I knew about bats, that didn’t make sense. Of course, I reflected, many insects were attracted to the bedroom light and the bats were attracted to them. Mat and Tess were staying at the house, with a New Zealand cousin of Tess’s. I thought my son and daughter-in-law, who had only just gone to bed, might be interested, so I let them know about my uninvited guests. Very soon the three young adults became invited guests. The most excited of all was Tess’s relative, who just happened to be a student of bats. I swear I hadn’t known that. She just happened to be writing a paper on pipistrelles. And there, clinging to my bedroom curtains, were two, probably terrified, pipistrelle bats. The young woman, armed with a camera, remained in my company for some time after the novelty had worn off for Mat and Tess. After she had gone, it only remained for me to get rid of the intruders. One was easily persuaded out. The other, obviously not having had its fill of insects, not so. I just had to turn out the light and wait for it to leave. It’s quite difficult to sleep when a bat is whizzing around your room in the dark.

During my second year at Wimbledon College, Bats was my form master. On one parents’ evening, Mum was rather keen to meet him, because, as she told him, she had heard so much about him. She knew he taught maths. She knew that somehow he always knew who had perpetrated my misdemeanours, like smashing a light bulb during a plimsoll fight. She knew he was much feared. Naturally, therefore, on shaking his hand, she wished to let him know what a well-known figure he was in our household. That would have been perfectly acceptable on its own, but, Mum, why, oh why, did you have to prefix this with: ‘so you’re Father Bats’? Upon hearing this, Reverend Father Battersby, S.J., fixed me with an evil leer. I can see it now. But his eyes were smiling. I wanted to disappear, yet surely Bats had heard this many times before. Not that I knew that. He can’t have held this against me, for it was he who offered me free membership of the school boxing club (see 10th. July post). You’ll probably understand now, why I could not refuse his generosity.

After lunch Jackie and I went off to Haskins Garden Centre for some stakes, and on to R. Owton, butcher’s at Chalcroft Farm Shop, for a chicken. They didn’t have any so we went to Sainsbury’s and bought three for £10.00.

Next to this shop lies, as does a fakir on a bed of nails, a wooden building which houses a sign-writing company. This is not flat on the ground, but supported by mushroom-shaped stones, one at each corner, and one half-way along each side. The stones are staddle stones, the job of which is to allow storage buildings to be lifted clear of the ground. The buildings once stored produce such as grain or hay, keeping the contents free of ground level water, and preventing rats or other vermin from reaching them. It was Jackie who recognised these artifacts and their purpose. The wooden building rests on the smooth round tops of the mushrooms; the fakir has no such comfort.

This evening the three of us filled ourselves alfresco with Jackie’s stuffed marrow, donated by Christine Strohmeier. It is of course a truism that non-one ever buys a marrow to stuff. They are always donated by a proud kitchen gardener or allotment tenant. Jackie drank Hoegaarden and Elizabeth and I shared a bottle of Montpierre Shiraz 2011. Afterwards we ate Sainsbury’s lemon tart and cream, followed by After Eight mints. Elizabeth was unashamedly relieved when Jackie and I refused coffee.

An Uncomfortable Night

Today, much cooler and less humid than last weekend, was a very pleasant day for gardening. Jackie, proud of the sweet peas she had grown from seed, continued with her planting and weeding, whilst I continued with the new bed. This time, my main problem was the ivy. Had I known just how much ivy there was concealed in what was once perhaps a shrubbery, no way would I have expected to finish this task so quickly. Elizabeth and I had, in the spring, cleared a great deal of ivy from the laurel hedge at the front of the house. But this was nothing compared to Sutherland Place, which I mentioned yesterday. When I first took up my tenancy there in 2008, no-one had entered the small London terraced garden for 20 years. The ivy had taken over. It took me two complete weekends to clear it.

Jackie also mowed the lawn whilst Elizabeth, who has been unwell recently, weeded the herb bed. Some years ago, a statue that Jacqueline had given Elizabeth, lived on the grass. This little girl was moved around from site to site as the mowing required. Last year, thinking that she really deserved a permanent home of her own, we moved her into a flower bed. Now she stands on the remains of one of the brick pillars that held up the former pergola. Mowing can now be undertaken without having to shift her, and she is left in peace to survey the activity. Later Elizabeth mowed the front lawn. I got a bit further past halfway in digging out the new bed.

I have never been one for camping, or barbecues, for that matter. I like my home comforts, and cannot see the fun in struggling to light, and keep alight, an outside facility when there are perfectly good ovens and grills in the kitchen. Yesterday I described Wolf and Luci’s caravan, which seems to me a pretty good method of going camping. Louisa and Errol and their daughters are currently being flooded out of their tents, but they think that is all part of the fun.

So, why am I going on about the outdoor life? Well, Barbara made a witty comment about camping after reading yesterday’s post. This reminded me that the last time I went camping was by accident. On 28th. May I wrote about the fundraising walk I had done in the summer of 2003 in support of Sam’s Atlantic Row. Walking 215 miles in 11 days, as that post shows, was only the half of it. What I didn’t mention in the Nettle Rash story, was the ten nights involved. Sam’s friend James was accompanying him on the boat. The vessel Sam was to spend 59 days alone in, rowing across the ocean, was purpose-built. There was therefore a small cabin on board. Designed for one, it was going to have to accommodate both Sam and James. As I have already stated, I like my comfort, so the plan was that wherever we stopped at night, we would find me bed and breakfast accommodation. That worked pretty well. Most of the time. The two occasions on which it didn’t would have to be consecutive, wouldn’t they?

Fortunately the nights were warm. Fortunately James had brought a small tent which he was generously prepared to lend me. Unfortunately there was no mattress, no ground-sheet, and no sleeping bag. Because we hadn’t considered the possibility that we might decide to stop in the middle of nowhere. On the first occasion, we managed to find me some sort of camp-site with tents, but no bedding of any sort, and latrines which I was quite unprepared to use. I slept on the hard ground. Yes, I did actually sleep. When you’ve walked as much as I had, you’ll sleep anywhere. I thought. Until the next night. This time I used James’ tent. These outdoor nights were spent in my day clothes. The place where we had pitched the tent seemed to be incredibly stony. One particularly sharp stone dug into my left thigh all night. I was just too tired to attempt to move, and desperately trying to get some shut-eye. I’ve no doubt I did sleep a bit, as is always the case when you think you haven’t slept at all. When, early in the morning, I finally decided I’d had enough, I looked for the offending stone. I couldn’t find it. Then it dawned on me. I fished in my left trouser pocket, and pulled out my bunch of keys.

This evening we were joined by Elizabeth’s lifelong friend Nicki and her children Georgie and Josh. Elizabeth produced spelt spaghetti with a chicken based bolognese sauce, which was followed by coffee roulade, French apple tart, and M & S chocolate coated cornflakes. Three different red wines were drunk, Jackie preferring Hoegaarden, and the young people bottled ales.