Willow

being taken for a walk

Crossword Puzzles

Today Araucaria had a wonderful clue:

Sphere for Matricide

Answer:

Domain

Go on, work it out.

NENO'S AWARD

Well I never!

Thank you so much, When I am Rich, I feel honoured and humbled.

Okay, honoured, but maybe not humbled. Can't really see what makes me a worthy recipient, after all, I only write what comes into my head, when it comes into my head.

All the same, it's great to be accepted amongst the blogerati; it makes blogging even more worthwhile.

Why do I love blogging? Why have I become a blograt?

Funnily enough, I was actually thinking this morning, how quickly I have become addicted to blogging and why that should be so. I only started to write proper posts in January.

I started off rather hesitantly, not really knowing what blogging means (actually, I still don't);

would I stick to it? would I have anything at all to say which would interest anybody at all?

what if nobody ever found my blog? would that matter to me?

And then, what sort of people would I find in blogland? would I want to be one of them? could I be myself, rave and rant, complain, write about painful subjects, silly subjects, serious subjects without laying myself open to ridicule? (always a consideration for me)

So, what decided me?

The desire to get back to writing, in a non-committal way, finding out if I still have the knack after years of writing nothing but letters, a journal, travelogues, came first.

I have always been sad that nobody in my family ever seriously got down to putting family history in writing; Words were used as weapons, to educate, to fight, words were not for writing down. My grandfather, the one I take after, was the most loquacious man amongst them, a real tub-thumping orator, a rabble rousing trade unionist - a very dangerous thing to be at the time in Germany - so when one of my brood expressed an interest, I thought, now's the time. Courage, my girl!

Lastly, living deep in the countryside is lovely in many ways; however, the countryside is not the most stimulating place. A lot of my life happens inside my head, so putting it on paper, i.e. a screen, was the next logical step. Blogland is the place to meet people who might or might not be interesting. no commitment necessary, but satisfying communication possible. The safe place to be from which to venture forth to test the waters.

A bit mixed, metaphorically, but then this is only a blog and blogs don't matter, do they? Or do they?

One more thing: since I started this blog, I have changed the way I look at things, literally - through my camera - and in my mind's eye. I look at people and actions and events like a writer does: in a "could-I-make-something-out-of-this" way. It probably will not lead to serious writing, except for pleasure, but it is helping me to become more observant again, to experience things more deeply, to enjoy them more.

Not bad going for the humble blog, eh?

So, here I am, still a little hesitant, but determined to carry on. With or without readers.

Because, quite simply, BLOGGING IS FUN.

SORRY, When I Am Rich, if you got more than you asked for, but I did start out saying, that I had been thinking about this.

I love your reasons and would certainly agree with all of them. But I couldn't just repeat them, could I?

Open Garden

After a gap of two summers I have committed myself to opening the garden again, in aid of church funds, for one weekend at the end of June.

I stopped doing it because I got just too obsessed with creating a pristine garden, where every plant is wanted, every group of plants presents a beautiful picture at all times and nothing is left to nature, much less to chance. By definition, a garden is an unnatural creation. I admit, however, that I took the concept too far and worked myself into the ground in the process. For weeks beforehand my usual position was "arse over elbow", as the phrase goes. The Scraper never got a look-in and even the dog had to walk himself.

This year it will be different. Definitely. Maybe. I hope.

Open Garden is a very English idea. There will be a number of gardens open all over the village, with little printed maps being handed out with the tickets, showing locations and giving a short description of each garden and the owner's aims in creating it. All gardens are pretty in their own way, even the neglected ones, where the owner describes it as "a wilderness left for wildlife". I have read sentences like "we don't believe in weeding" , and "we love nature".

And yes, they get away with it. IT'S FOR CHARITY, after all. Most gardeners are, however, proud of their patch, love to show it off, and put in a lot of effort.

There will be one or more plant stalls; a lot of the plants will be those that flourish and proliferate and self seed generously, simply divided and potted up, in a hurry, a few days beforehand, having had hardly enough time to establish roots. But you can also find a treasure, when a keen plantswoman (it's usually women) has potted up some of her choice and much loved specimens for sale. Some plants will have been donated by nurseries; charity fundraisers are persistent beggars.

There will be a tea stall in one of the gardens, in the church hall, if wet. The village ladies bake mountains of scones and sponges, whip gallons of cream, make many pounds of strawberry jam. Massive tea urns from the village hall are pressed into service. Cream Teas, taken at a rickety table, sitting on plastic chairs or mossy garden benches, are a highlight of the day; visitors love them.

Ah yes, visitors.

Visitors are the lifeblood that give the event purpose and reason for being.

And yes, they come, in droves, when the weather is fine. Even on damp days, they come. Some have been coming for years.

Roughly, there are three categories of visitors to the Gardens Open weekend.

Firstly, there are day trippers from the cities, whole families, dragging unwilling children and complaining grandparents along on the outing to the countryside. They are not particularly interested in gardening and know very little about it. They do the rounds, because it's a nice day out, they get to poke about in other peoples private spaces, the children might use any swings or climbing frames they find and there is usually a bench for grandpa to rest on until his minders pick him up on their way out, en route to the next garden on the list. The day trippers from the cities are often a little shy, they don't feel free to speak to the garden owner, they might be a little in awe of country dwellers and their abundant supply of air and greenery, even if the garden is only small.

It's a pleasure to have them come and draw them out. They rarely buy plants but they enjoy the cream tea stall.

The second group is an infuriating rabble. They come at a trot, rush around with unseeing eyes, talking amongst themselves about something entirely unrelated. They have a ticket entitling them to visit all the gardens, they glance at the outside of the house more than at any of the carefully tended beds; they never lift their eyes enough to admire your specially arranged vistas; all they ever ask you is the quickest route to the next garden.

I have tried to engage them in garden lore, without success. If it were not for the ticket price, they might as well stay away.

Lastly, we have a very special group, mainly consisting of groups of ladies; occasionally there is a lady on her own.

They are always very knowledgeable, are keen gardeners themselves; they recognise and appreciate all your tricks, know about the hard work that goes into creating and maintaining a garden. They alight on the smallest patch with greedy eyes, asking you for the name of an obscure plant whose presence in your garden you have long forgotten or overlooked, due to its insignificance in the overall scheme of your plot. You admit that some plants are probably called "amnesias" and hope they find you amusing. For them you get out the plant books, the garden encyclopedias and How To guides; they involve you in long conversations on propagation, cultivation requirements and hardiness; they buy your best plants and send you into the shed to find boxes and bags for their transport. They never mind the lengthening queue of people waiting to speak to you; they take their time.

These ladies are a delight; they can also be a menace: some of them carry sharp little scissors or pocket knives, maybe a dampened plastic bag or two. If they ask you openly for a cutting, you will try and accommodate them, take it as a compliment. It's the ones who snip away without permission you need to watch out for.

And then there's the vicar, who rushes from garden to garden, trying to look interested and rubbing his hands together, while thanking you profusely. He knows it'll all be worth it in the end.

This morning I saw Mrs. Blackbird hopping about, collecting bits of straw and twigs.

Bit late for nest building, isn't it?

Then I thought, perhaps she is a parliamentarian, furnishing her second home?

The Scraper's Diary, 8th March, 1947, Duesseldorf

Things are evening out now, more regular meals and hours.

Yesterday we reached Bad Oeynhausen at 5.30, two hours late, and loaded our kit onto the two lorries that are staying with us for the tour. We boarded the coach and drove to some RASC camp twenty miles away.

In the Naafi later, we met the fringes of the black market, but were not interested.

Today we drove here, and saw many terrible acres of devastation in Hamm and Duesseldorf. Ten times worse than London.

The aptest comment I have heard happened in the coach:

"Well, well, well. So this is Germany. What's trumps?"

Hamm and Duesseldorf are blitzed to blazes, but apparently there's plenty of black market here. From what I've seen of them, the Germans are more happy, warm and well-fed round here than I had expected. It's rather ironic to think that we won the war, when we came over on the boat with hundreds of repatriate Germans, and I've got several years to serve.

Len gave a German waiter a Woodbine today. He jumped to attention and saluted. What a situation! Fags cost 8d for twenty.

o-o-o-o-o

9th March

I have made the acquaintance of the black market.

We played at the Opera House last night and three women and a man were waiting for us. At our approach they displayed tablecloths, aprons, shoes, lace and cheap jewellery.

They name a price, in cigarettes, and you can usually beat them down to half price. The women's faces bore a peculiar expression, half of eagerness and guile and half of resignation. They seemed to try to get a good bargain, and yet at the same time, know that cigarettes were worthless.

It's all a false position. Cigarettes cost us 8d for twenty (75 a week), while on the black market they fetch five marks each. For bartering purposes, a cigarette equals one mark, and one mark equals sixpence on official exchange. However, for one mark one can buy about a shillingsworth in the shops.

It's all screwy. I give sixty cigarettes for an electric iron. It thus costs me 2/6d, while the vendor gets three hundred marks for the fags, - roughly £15, - a good bargain both ways.

The Zombie Chicken Award

Surprise!

Don't Feed the Pixies has done me the great honour of finding this blog a worthy recipient of this much coveted award.

Let me first of all tell you that I couldn't have done it without my producer, my sound recordist, my aunt Molly and uncle Bert, my ..., oh, this isn't the Oscars, is it.

Still, believe me when I tell you that I am weeping tears of gratitude.

Now, about that list of things I love: how about pet gripes instead ?

Here are my seven:

Counting your blessings,

Men who hog the remote,

Vacuuming,

The fact that chocolate makes you fat,

Bad grammar,

Celandines and Welsh poppies (both these thugs hide their evil intent under a pretty

exterior),

Mobile phone users on trains/buses, who ring home to say that they're on

the train/bus.

Poetry

Last night the scraper and I went to a meeting of the poetry group. The subject was greed/gluttony; not a very poetic subject.

One of the poems I took with me to read is by the Renaissance poet, George Wither, who lived

from 1588-1667. He wrote it in 1635, 374 years ago and he might as well have written it yesterday:

When I behold the havoc and the spoil

Which, even within the compass of my days,

Is made through every quarter of this isle,

In woods and groves, which were this kingdom's praise,

And when I mind with how much greediness

We seek the present gain in everything,

Not caring (so our lust we may possess)

What damage to posterity we bring...

What our forefathers planted, we destroy;

Nay, all men's labours, living heretofore,

And all our own, we lavishly employ

To serve our present lusts, and for no more.

There is a powerful message in this poem, one we still haven't understood and probably never will.

Amazing, just amazing !

A power surge kills my TV and my modem router. Okay, so I can live without a TV for a while, but three whole days without access to the net is asking too much, far more than I am able to bear.

So off I rush to the computer shop for a new modem, which is then duly installed (not by me). Panic over.

And what happens when I get back to my blog? People have joined me, awarded me an award, left a message.

There I was, happily trundling along in my backwater (both geographical and blogical),

gingerly feeling my way through the blogosphere and thinking that, after three months of posting my bits and pieces, I might safely raise my head above the parapet. Wham, cross-fire!

Strange, how addictive both the net and blogging have become in a relatively short period of time.

Thanks folks, for noticing me. Individual thanks are on their way.

Talking of blogland, did anyone else see the silly article in the Independent?

"The word in the hallways is that the days of blogging are over"

Apparently, real time media such as Twitter are causing the imminent demise of blogging.

Yeah, right, whatever.

There is just no end to the Spring bounty in the garden:

from Bluebells

Tonight from deeps of loneliness I wake in wistful wonder

To a sudden sense of brightness, an immanence of blue -

O are there bluebells swaying in the shadowy coppice yonder,

Shriven with the dawning and the dew?

Lucia C. Markham (late 19th-early 20th century)

On a Bed of Forget-me-nots

I love its growth at large and free

By untrod path and unlopped tree,

Or nodding by the unpruned hedge,

Or on the water's dangerous edge

Where flags and meadowsweet blow rank

With rushes on the quaking bank.

Christina Rossetti (1830-1894)

The Scraper's Diary, March 7th 1947 Cuxhaven

We docked last night at 6.45 pm, changed our money and were driven to another transit camp.

There is more snow here than there was in England, and in the truck I was reminded once more how interlocked humanity is, by the simple mingling of our condensed breaths in the cold air.

We sat in the dining hall and were waited on by German women A lovely meal. My faith in the character of the British soldier went one mark blackwards when I heard the language and saw the manners of the draft troops when meeting Germans for the first time. They behave like conquerors and swine, and all are out for what they can get.

My aforesaid faith went down another notch when I heard the same blokes in the barrack room.

As reveille this morning was 04.15 hours, I, and several others, turned in as soon as we could - that was 10.15. We expected a little sleep, but from then until 12.45, when the last man came in, and the lights went out, there was a continued stream of slamming doors, stamping feet, raised voices, and open laughter. Mr. Kent speaks of the British soldier respecting another's sleep. He must be speaking of regulars, not conscripts.

o - o - o - o - o

Yesterday I played pontoon from 09.30 hours until 17.00 hours, with half an hour break for dinner. In that time I lost one and six. In ten minutes play after ten I lost ten bob, and finished up half a crown down on the whole journey, so far.

o - o - o - o - o

All that I can tell of Germany so far is that it is snowy and just getting light. The train has hard wooden seats, and has just stopped for ten minutes after going for five.

We've been up for four hours, and it's still only seven fifteen.

I forgot to mention how I loathe the British soldier's habit of being so proud of his ability to mispronounce and misunderstand one or two words of German.

Also, that the North sea was covered for seven hours of our journey yesterday, by broken sheet ice at least a foot thick.

After a thorough soaking the whole garden seems to have come alive today. The grass is greener, the hedges are bursting with new growth and he flowers have grown measurably.

Gardener and I were out there all day, I am dog-tired, but it was worth it.

Sudden Spring

Spring is sudden: it is her nature.

However carefully we watch for her,

However long delayed

The green in the winter'd hedge

The almond blossom

The piercing daffodil,

Like a lovely woman late for her appointment

She's suddenly here, taking us unawares,

So beautifully annihilating expectation

That we applaud her punctual arrival.

Gerald Bullett (1893-1958)

March 1945

The war may have been over for us on the left bank of the Rhine but there were still weeks to go before Germany surrendered unconditionally. Not until March 24th did the American Army finally cross the Rhine; that night and for days and nights afterwards American tanks rolled past, an endless convoy of tanks, an unceasing movement of troops, a war machine of unimaginable power and might.

Once again the noise terrified me. Much of the terror I remember has to do with noise; the drone of aeroplanes, distant bombing, artillery fire, machine gun fire. The harsh sound of jackboots striking the pavement, men's voices shouting, bellowing commands, all that reached us in the cellar, through the coal hole. I don't think the darkness frightened me half as much as the noise. In fact, even now, so many decades afterwards, I still shake at the sound of loud voices, people arguing and men fighting drives me away rather than stand and stare.

Father had been home for several days, always in hiding. Food stores were running low, although Mother was allowed to collect our rations, mine and hers, Father had not been registered with the new authorities. Officially, he was a non-person. There were fewer house searches now, all soldiers had been rounded up and taken into a makeshift camp; Father stayed mostly in the back garden, close to a kind of cesspit where compost was being made. This pit was a fairly large, deep, square hole, with concrete sides, filled with every kind of rubbish that would rot, including the bodies of dead animals and birds - not that there were any being thrown in now, chickens and rabbits had disappeared into the pot long ago. There were rats, though.

This hole was deep enough to hold a crouching man; green sludge and cabbage leaves could be scraped away to make a space inside the pit and then heaped on top of the fugitive.

This place was in its way as noisome as the earth closet into which Mother had stuffed the landlord's Nazi uniform, nobody would believe that a human being could be hiding there.

The danger of being shot for desertion by German troops was over on our side of the river, so Father finally decided to come out of hiding and give himself up. We had no food and he could do nothing for us as a fugitive.

Each village had a commandant. Father presented himself in his workmen's clothes and was duly arrested and interned. We knew he would be safe. The Americans had not ill-treated the prisoners, they saw to it that they were fed, although the makeshift camps were simple enclosures without shelter.

I cannot remember for how long Father was away, I don't think it was many weeks. Reasonably able-bodied men, who were not considered a threat, were desperately needed to start clearing rubble and erect shelters for people left homeless.

Our village was lucky, the nearby town had suffered two major raids, flattening it, but we had been spared complete destruction. There were only two houses completely destroyed in our street, several others had been partly burned and several were badly damaged but still inhabitable.

The war was over, the struggle for survival had begun.

Dinner table conversation

Last night the Scraper and I went for a meal with another couple to the White House. The main topic of conversation was the generally sad state of the world, starting with dishonest and hypocritical politicians and ending with the sad way we treat the earth. Now, there's nothing we can do about politicians, after all, it is a truism that power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely and no matter how idealistically they may start out they soon revert to the nature of the beast.

Besides, no matter how hard they try (in order to get re-elected) they cannot please all of the people all of the time.

Our friend mentioned the Obama circus coming to town (DON'T get me wrong: I am seriously pro-Obama, not just for the sake of the USA but also the rest of us). He brought Five Hundred personnel with him, his own armoured vehicles and helicopter.

What would be the carbon footprint of that little jaunt, I wonder.

However, I believe there is something mankind can do about the environment. And guess what, I believe mankind not only can but will. I am an optimist. I don't know what form this action will take, I am neither scientist nor clairvoyant. We could remind ourselves about the time not so long ago when the nuclear holocaust clocks were about to strike twelve and we were all told to hide under a door or the kitchen table in the event - well, that acute fear has disappeared from everyday life. 

We could go further back in history and think of the first trains and cars - wasn't civilisation as mankind knew it then also going to come to an end? All the untold numbers who were going to perish never did, did they.

When push comes to shove, mankind will find a way out. Mankind is infinitely inventive, resourceful and adaptable.  

Our friends are both in their eighties. I asked him - after a prolonged bout of ranting about the economy, the environment, etc. etc. -  if he was glad he was old, without responsibility for the future, able to sit back and enjoy the fruits of his labour for whatever time there was left.

He looked up, thought for a moment, then said, with a smile:" I don't know that I am old."

Considering that he is disabled through a stroke, and will never see eighty six again, that is saying something for man's optimism and adaptability indeed. I was mightily impressed.

The meal was excellent in all respects.

My (wet) dog and other family members

Benno is going very grey round the muzzle, much more so than labradors usually do. But then, there is an unknown quantity in his parentage, one we tend to keep quiet about, in order not to hurt his feelings. 

He comes from over the border, Wales way, where labradors are sometimes interbred with lurchers. They are mainly used as working dogs; the labrador part being the reliable retriever and the lurcher providing the speed. 

Perhaps, we should call him a "lurchbrador" or "labralurch" ?

Whatever, he is the sweetest, gentlest creature, always keen to please us.

As for the rest of the family? 

Delightful people, all of them. Separately. But it would take the combined effort, full-time, of a small country's entire diplomatic corps to get them round the negotiating table. 

We have a wonderful variety of professions, breeds and  races in the closest family: a physicist, a pilot and a pastor, an accountant and an archeologist, a doctor and a determined drifter into and out of professions, a musician and a muser, even a sociologist and counsellor who could put us all right. We have German, Dutch, Greek, Danish, Polish, Jewish, Caribbean, Armenian, Pakistani and English blood sloshing around; we could be our own United Nations and  our own lively, argumentative, noisy debating society. We could put the world to rights.

And do we?   Do we, heck!

Give me dogs any day.

A walk with Benno by the river

An Easter Sunday walk is obligatory, we are so lucky with the weather here.

The primulas are out on the bank under the castle walls.

Spring Blossom

A wonderful Easter Saturday n the garden.

The Cherry tree and the Amelanchier are in full bloom. Even the leaves are out and the reddish/golden leaves of the Amelanchier and the red leaves of the Cherry bathe the area around them in a reddish/golden sunhaze. The daffodils are already beginning to lose their lustre.

Easter

Easter eggs and the Easter Bunny

Since the time of the ancient Teutonic world the egg has been regarded as a bringer of luck and symbol of fertility, a joyful gift to celebrate the return of spring.

Although egg painting was known in pre-Christian Greece the custom did not reach Northern Europe until the 17th Century when the Turks conquered Byzantium, causing many of the inhabitants to flee northwards, taking their traditions with them, including the custom of painting eggs.

Written records show that the Easter Bunny as egg bringer first appeared on German soil in 1682, in the company of cockerels, foxes and donkeys, who were all deemed "responsible" for the delivery of eggs. It seems most likely that the rabbit won through against the competition because of its high symbolism. Like the egg, the ancient Greeks, Romans and Teutons revered the rabbit as a symbol of fertility.

All the Easter Sundays of my childhood were sunny, how could it have been otherwise. In the predominantly catholic area where I grew up children were told that the Church bells, which fell silent on "Green Thursday" (Maundy Thursday) and did not sound again until Easter Sunday, had flown to Rome, to be blessed by the Pope. So, on Easter Sunday morning, we were woken by the joyous, noisy clamour of the freshly returned bells of the village Church and all the other Churches in villages all around ringing out over the wide, flat, marshy land.

Children rushed outdoors to hunt for the Easter eggs which their parents had painted and hidden in small clusters all over the garden. There were no chocolate eggs until much later but I do remember, that within a few years of the end of the war, when real food was no longer a luxury available only on the black market, there were sweets, like liquorice sticks and boiled, flavoured lumps of sugar.

The eggs were eaten for breakfast. Once the first novelty and excitement of the hunt had passed and the basket of prettily patterned, painted eggs on the table had been admired, I soon grew tired of eating them. They were, of course, cold and hard-boiled, I could never manage more than one; thinking back now, it seems to me that they were dished up, in some form or other, for days afterwards. Eggs were by no means plentiful, not even in the country; being part of the rations, they were a precious source of nourishment, highly appreciated.

The Scraper's Diary, March 5th 1947

Somewhere in the North Sea.

There are six hundred troops on this ship; about twenty officers and twenty women are crushed into half the available space while we lounge in the rest. I quite sympathise with the troops who walked off ships lately, the accommodation is rather inadequate. However, for a short crossing like this it isn't too bad.

This ship is the "Empire Cutlass". To a landlubber like me, it seems colossal, except when the other five hundred and ninety nine are also moving about.

We left the quay at 15.30 hours yesterday, and the sunless land slowly moved behind us. As we got out to sea, so the weather deteriorated. I got quite a thrill out of realising that the swaying motion of the walls was not a product of my inebriation.

We settled down to a long session of solo. About half the band was seasick to some degree.

We all wished that we were in the Navy when our ration of twenty "Greys" cost only eightpence, but most of us changed our minds later, when the sea grew rougher.

There is what seems a mild gale to me blowing, and frozen snow bombards the face of anyone who ventures on deck. The sea is dark green, whipped to a dirty cream as the ship pushes its blunt way through he rollers.

Altogether an interesting crossing, although quite uninspiring, quite unromantic.

Visibility can't be more than a hundred yards.

We were confined to our bunks for half an hour after we boarded ship, and I fell into an idle musing and reverie. The bloke in the bunk above me seemed to be most peculiarly shaped, judging from the bulges in the canvas. I picked out his head and hips easily, but then he had a big bump halfway down his spine, and, apparently, two treble-jointed legs. When we got down I was surprised to find him quite normal and well-proportioned.

0 - 0 - 0 - 0

I was in the luggage van coming to the docks. Just before we drove off, the B.S.M. handed his case over the tailboard; his blanket was strapped onto it. We drove away.

"That Buck's case?" said Bill.

"Yeah", I said.

"Fuck Buck", said Bill, and kicked the case forward.

"What the bloody hell are you doing?", said Harry and kicked it back.

This went on for some time. Bill had drunk fourteen pints of wallop before we started.

"Here, hold on", said Pop, "you've kicked the bloody side in".

"Christ!", said Harry, "put it out of the way."

"Fuck that", said Bill, "I don't want his bloody case on here" - and he wiped his boots carefully on Buck's blanket.

"Here, mine are dirty too", said Pop, and wiped his.

I was killing myself laughing.

Order was eventually restored, and the case, - with a hole in its side, and a soaking wet, filthy blanket tied to it - was passed back to a safe place.

At the quayside, Buck was standing by the lorry. He saw his case.

"What the fuck's been happening", he asked. "Have you been using my blanket for a bloody doormat or what?"

"I don't know Sir". I said. "it must have fallen over".

Later he came up to me. "What happened to my case", he said, "there's a bloody great hole in the side".

"I don't know, Sir," I said, " I passed it back. You know these great bumps in the ground just after we started? "Yeah", said Buck. "Well, several cases fell down there", I said. " and one must have fallen on yours."

"I've had that bloody case for years", he said, and his eyes did not believe me either.

Town and Country and a bit of Culture

We've been having visitors, hence the gap.

 

The Northern Chamber Orchestra under Nicholas Ward gave a concert at the Assembly Rooms in Ludlow.

We had Mendelssohn's String Symphony No. 13, Mozart's Clarinet Concerto,  Astor Piazzolla's The Four Seasons of Buenos Aires, Walton's Two pieces from Henry V and Mozart's Symphony No. 27.

An easy, popular programme, the Scraper even called it anodyne. I wouldn't go quite so far; I adore Mozart, Piazzolla was very interesting and Walton quite moving. 

The soloist Mark Simpson is a young musician; he won BBC Young Musician of the Year as well as BBC Proms/Guardian Young Composer of the Year. Technically, he was very accomplished, 

however, as the Scraper frequently tells me, there is a world of difference between technical brilliance and musicianship.

We enjoyed the concert very much, there is too little music in our lives nowadays.

A meal at The Unicorn Inn in Ludlow (www.unicorninnludlow.co.uk) rounded off the evening. 

rhubarb

literally.

The Scraper pulled his first lot of outdoor grown, unforced rhubarb today and we had it with custard for pudding; very English and homely.  

New Plants

Here we go again: buying  replacement plants for the ones the frosts have killed.

It's been a bad winter for rosemary, hebes, some olearia and cistus. I haven't even checked on the ferns yet.

It might be an idea to stick to fully hardy plants in future.

The new plants come from "The Dingle" near Welshpool. (www.dinglenurseries.co.uk) One of the best nurseries I've ever been to and certainly amongst the very best in Mid-Wales.

The nursery is way off the beaten track, hidden up a dead end country lane; the gardens and plant sales area cover many acres of ground; I can 

lose myself in there for hours, just browsing.