Autumnal Thoughts

 

 Summer's ended, Autumn is here. The cherry tree leaves are turning.

A day of rain and wind today, I've not been tempted to go out at all. The seasons turn so quickly, we had several days of high temperatures earlier in September, now it's jumper weather again. 

Cyclamen are out in force and shrubs are glowing their final hurrah of the year before they settle down for winter. The hedgehog visits the terrace at dusk, almost on the dot of seven now and I must remember to put out food betimes. It'll have to be earlier and earlier I suspect, until they go into hiding for winter. There are often two of them and there may even have been three last night. By morning the dish is licked clean.

There seems to be a trend at the moment for decluttering. I've wanted to do it for a long time but never quite got round to it. I have now, but I'm starting gently, with a drawer full of digital cables and such, all the stuff that comes with new gadgets which you never use. Also theatre programs of the last 30 odd years, London Westend ones, and from all sorts of theatres in the South East, South West of the country, the Edinburgh Festival and the Midlands. My, we must have seen hundreds of plays. I am keeping the Stratford programs for now. I don't know quite what to do with concert and opera programs. They will probably end up in recycling. These things cost a lot of money, yet you buy them, read them and put them into a box somewhere.

A young woman took them. I had asked the local book charity shop if they wanted any. No they didn't but they might know someone who does. All my unwanted programs are going to be exhibits in a tea room in the Shropshire Hills, for customers to look at while they recover from long hikes over a scone and a cuppa. She was a very pleasant young woman, within the first ten minutes she had confided half her life story to me, her past and plans for the future. She and her partner also rescue dogs in the next county, which pleased me no end and made handing over two large boxes full of programs a pleasure. Jennifer, the young woman, is interested in stars of yesterday and has posters of what we used to call 'divas' on her walls, European film stars of the 60s and 70s; I have some posters of opera performances of the period which I might pass on to her. She promised me a freebie in March when she opens up again and it'll be interesting to see what she's done. A quaint idea, don't you think?

My son was here for a few days, one of his regular tri-monthly visits. When he comes, he does some jobs I've saved up for him and he always takes a load of stuff to the local recycling centre, often needing two or three trips to get rid of it. There is also a day in the middle when he offers to take me anywhere I can't get to now, either because I no longer drive or it's just too far. You'd think I'd ask for a trip to somewhere special, somewhere of great interest, somewhere totally out of my reach now. Sad to say, I can only come up with a particular garden centre in spring and summer and a very posh supermarket the rest of the year.  What a sad state of affairs when my heart yearns exclusively for plants and fancy groceries. I couldn't even take him to the restaurant I'd promised him, the place was fully booked and we had to make do with the nice but ordinary White Horse, the local pub.

We spent a few pleasant days together; we don't have a great many interests in common, but we are family and family matters. We have the past, of course, life in Germany, where he spent his formative years, so we always have the German side of the family for reminiscing over. At one point we mentioned his sister with whom he also has little contact and when I asked if a reconciliation between her and me would ever be possible he said  "No Mum, that ship has sailed."

That must be one of the saddest phrases in the English language.

Apart from decluttering I am also trying to sort out financial and legal matters, which meant going through two desks. Would you believe that I have bank statements from over twenty years ago? Not any longer. Neither do I any longer have ancient receipts and invoices and credit card slips. What on Earth was I thinking? Sure, keep them for a year but don't file them away tidily in envelopes marked with the year where such transactions took place. Last century, anyone?

While I've been typing night has fallen and I quickly rushed out with my dish of cat food for the hedgehogs. Now of course I will have to loiter by the back door to await their arrival.

I've been feeling a bit gloomy again hence the delay in posting; Perhaps all this decluttering means that I am tidying away one kind if life and starting another? Who knows.

An Unhappy Blogger and a Happy Gardener

 Oh botheration! Now what's wrong? I am fast losing interest in blogging. First, Google takes over and messes up the system, removes followers and makes commenting into a problem. Not to mention adding photographs. What used to be so easy always takes many attempts now.

And then it starts removing my posts. Apparently some of my posts are offensive and must be taken down. Eh? One of them is a poem, fully in the public domain and not in the least offensive. There are two others which are purely history and deal with people surviving killing cold in post war Germany. Where on earth is the offence? These posts are 10 years old and more!

And when I opened my blog today I find that I have 45, yes 45, items of spam. Naturally, I checked and found that 43 of them were bona fide comments, going back to 2013! The remaining 2 were simply from people who wanted some attention.

Who is it who is messing with my blog?  And why? Does anyone else suffer this fate? I see a sad little old person hunched over a screen and painstakingly going through years and years of blogs, trying to find something to wet themselves over. Somebody with the mindset of the parents who consider the greatest sculpture ever, Michelangelo's David, a biblical figure, to be pornography? Or could it be somebody who has a grudge against me personally?

I expect not, I expect it's simply an algorithm which homes in on certain words. 

So let's go out into the garden for now.

My helpful son took me to several nurseries, patiently following me around and pushing trolleys without complaint. I bought a lovely lot of goodies, most of which have been planted but here's a picture of some remaining.

This is only a very narrow strip of raised bed, it's amazing what you can cram into it if you take care of it, feeding and watering when necessary.

Here's my "ballerina tree", the leaves out now, even if they are still small. The strangest thing, I had never before noticed that there is blossom too, but of course there must be, it's real name is 'weeping pear' and pear trees, ornamental or purely decorative, have flowers. The white flowers peering through near the ground are more of my dreaded daffodils. I must have got rid of thousands and still they come. The blossom on the cherry tree to the left are almost finished and the new rusty red leaves dominate that end of the garden now.

 

And some tulips, just for fun.  I like tulips but, like daffodils, they die horribly, messing up their beds in a very rotten (literally) way. Proper gardeners will dig them up and store them until autumn, when they replant the bulbs, but I can't be bothered. I am already storing enough plants over winter in the conservatory and I simply don't have enough space for more. I am a bit old to install a greenhouse now.

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If you cannot automatically comment please leave me your name or, even better, your blog name; it is nigh on impossible to visit your blog if I don't know who you are. Even a name alone, like Mary say, isn't much good if I don't know which Mary has commented.

Happy Spring Holidays

Once every 33 years Ramadan, the Christian Holy Week and Passover fall in the same month. If the stars can do it, how wonderful if we, mankind, could let that be our inspiration to live in peace with each other. And yet we fight, there is bloodshed in many corners of the world.

War is the vilest thing in the world.

Men come together to kill each other,

they slaughter and maim tens of thousands

and then they say prayers of thanksgiving 

for having slaughtered so many people.

How does God* look down and listen to them?

Leo Tolstoy, 1828-1910

War And Peace, 1869

(*The God of your choice - my words)

The Japanese cherry tree is in bloom; if ever there was a sign of renewed hope it is that. I have been working on pots and tubs in the garden. Taking out compacted and overgrown herbaceous perennials, freeing them from thick mats of weeds, split them, then replacing the soil, adding fertiliser and water retentive material like vermiculite, perlite or garden compost. Only hardy perennials have gone back into the pots, anything tender will have to wait until mid May. Rarely, if ever, do I manage to wait that long; I usually start half way through April, hoping for the best; I have lost many a choice specimen due to my impatience.

I've been rather foolish, twice, in fact. I did some push ups (against a large chest of drawers, not the floor) and forgot to warm up first, another sign of my pig headed impatience. Naturally, I injured my shoulder. It's been hurting for weeks now. Wrestling with large pots and tubs and their contents hasn't helped either. Today my shoulder is even more painful and I am having serious words with myself about resting up. If only I listened. Tomorrow my son is coming for two nights and he will take me to my favourite plant nursery which means choosing plants rather than dealing with them.

Good, back to Spring,

for now, anyway.

Things are looking up. I have been putting in a few hours of hard work in the garden, on my own, sadly.  Handsome Hunk works well, when he comes, that is. No matter how intensely I beg him to come at least every two or three weeks, all he says is "I'll ring you", and then doesn't. Wiry and Willing hasn't properly worked for weeks either, but he has an excuse. He has sciatica badly. He is seeing doctors and physios but nothing seems to work. He came last week but after an hour I sent him home. He looked bad and sat on an upturned bucket to rest his back and leg. He will come when he can, of that I am sure. HH will come too, I just don't know when.

In the meantime it's down to me. I am still pruning and cutting back, there is little point in doing much else, this weekend there will be mild frost again. I can't say that I am totally happy with the hellebores and hyacinths in the first and third pictures. I find the colours rather garish. But I do love the gorgeous quince flowers. (Japanese quince or Chaenomeles) The whole wall is covered in them. If the frosts don't kill them I will have masses of shiny yellow quince in late summer. I no longer make quince jelly, it's far too much work and I don't eat much in the way of sweet jellies. The fruits are not to be eaten raw, they are potentially harmful, but boiling them takes many hours.

I had great pleasure at the garden society last night. A delightful, very enthusiastic grower and gardener gave a talk on how to create a border with interest and appeal for the whole year. Whenever I watch garden programmes on the TV (some of you may have heard of Monty Don and Gardeners' World?), or visit a show garden, or attend a talk on garden design, I come over all itchy and raring to go. While I am sitting watching, I can do anything. In practice not so much. But until such time that it becomes impossible I will struggle on. Did I mention that I have agreed to open again at the end of June? The saints preserve us! Next week I am planning a visit to a nursery for a splurge on plants. Well, why not, I rarely treat myself to anything nowadays.

I've also attended my first concert of the year. Excellent but very complicated music. I was exhausted from just listening. I hadn't realised it was a private performance, by invitation only. The concert was given in the barn of a friend (good acoustics), there was wine and nibbles beforehand and during the interval, and altogether it was quite an occasion. I was fully aware of the honour of being on the guest list in spite of having initially misread the invitation. I had thought there was something funny about it, no tickets to purchase! Still, I enjoyed the outing and behaved impeccably! The performers were doing it all again the next night, this time on a stage, with a ticket price. Afterwards, I thanked the cellist for inviting me and he let out that they were, in fact, using the barn performance as a kind of dress rehearsal and needed a knowledgeable audience to be present, with the feel of a proper performance. Ah well, gift horses spring to mind. But a pleasure and an honour all the same.

 

New Hope

 
After a mild period where lots of brave little souls have pushed their first cautious heralds above ground we have now been promised another cold spell with night frosts. Ah well, we may all be looking forward to Spring here in the northern hemisphere but February and March are often the coldest months of the year around here. Still, aren't they pretty, my aconites and snowdrops?

The pure gold of aconites

Snowdrops to gladden the heart

I saw the GP about my night terrors. There is nothing much she can do, there are no easy medications which would see them off.  The subconscious will throw up all sorts of detritus from a long life which has most certainly had its shadows and dark sides, and still has. What she suggested I do is to see a counsellor if the terrors don't end. In the meantime, I am to calm my mind as much as possible before bed and try to discard anything, people, activities, thoughts, that endanger my equilibrium. 

She is quite right, of course, now, at the end of my years, I really do not need to accommodate the toxicity of unwanted intrusion by whatever, whomever, whenever. That includes people like Freda. I slowly came to understand over the last few weeks that people like Freda are bad for me and that I am under no obligation to put up with them.

I went to a very interesting lecture and slide show on compost the other night. Yes, you read that right, a lecture on compost! Those who have read my burblings for some years may remember that I love compost and am quite a whizz at producing quantities of the stuff which then, with the help of the handsome hulk, get spread inches deep on my flower beds, there to await worms and other crawlies to pull the brown and crumbly treasure into the soil beneath. 

However, this is not really what I wanted to say. The lecturer was a German who had been a physician in civilian life (pre garden lecturing) and owns an ancient farmhouse with land attached to it, which he has turned, over 35 years, into a splendid show garden and woodland. During a break I asked what he thought of the UK, the dreaded Brexit and the political turmoil of the last few years and was he ever tempted to return to Germany. He smiled very nicely and calmly explained that he lives on his land, tends his garden, enjoys his labours and pays little attention to the machinations of the great and not-so-good. He said : "I have my settled status, I have my garden, my hobbies and some good friends". 

In other words, he lives in a comfortable bubble and cares little for the ills the great and not-so-good visit upon us. I too have my settled status (it means we can stay in the UK after Brexit), my garden, my books, a few good friends, what more is there?  

And yet, I find it hard to turn my back on the world and ignore the state of it. Perhaps I must turn my attention more often back to my great love, poetry. Poetry to soothe the troubled spirit and calm the unhappy mind.

This short poem by the Welsh poet Edward Thomas conveys a message of optimism about the approach of Spring:

Over the land freckled with snow half-thawed

The speculating rooks at their nests cawed

And saw from elm-tops, delicate as flower of grass,

What we below could not see, Winter pass.

 

Books, Gardens, and a little Lesson in Humility

I have only very recently discovered a new to me, very powerful, story teller: Elizabeth Strout.  "Olive Kitteridge" is a beautifully observed novel, each chapter introducing and later revisiting and fleshing out a set of characters, all interconnected, living in a small town in coastal Maine, New England. It took me a long time to accept the emotional pain and troubled lives Strout uncovers for the reader, but she is gentle and empathic at all times and her characters, though complicated and flawed, become likeable in spite of themselves. I am glad I persevered, I have already bought "Olive Again" and will certainly explore more of her books, which are quite famous in the UK now, since she won the Pulitzer Prize.

I have been reading a lot of lightweight mysteries, as well as rubbishy novels which I've given up on (life's too short to let irritation take hold); lately I have felt that a better reading diet would do me good, so I've downloaded Anne Tyler, Penelope Lively, Rose Tremain, Maggie O'Farrell, Ali Smith, and a few others whose work I don't know yet; and for light relief, Nancy Mitford and P.G. Wodehouse. I have just counted the unread books on my Kindle, including non fiction, Travel, Myths, Nature and Poetry, there are 40 books in total. The unread books on my shelves come to a hundred or more; is it time I stopped buying new books?  Is it possibly an excuse that my Kindle books are all very cheap, under one £Sterling, all offers by clever booksellers and publishers to draw the unwise in? Winter is coming, it's too cold and wet to do much gardening, and I can most often be found curled up in a comfy chair with a book (or Kindle) in my hand. 

Talking of gardening: I haven't yet mentioned the Open Gardens on the last weekend of June. As always, visitors seemed to enjoy themselves. Saturday was cool and damp and windy and there were fewer than a hundred people all told.

On Sunday the weather was glorious, warm and balmy, neither too hot nor too cold and crowds turned up.

I sat on the sun terrace and had generously placed a few garden chairs around, there are always lots of people who have need of a sit down and many gardeners enjoy a natter about all things horticultural. As do I. There are also a few benches dotted about here and there and visitors are always welcome to make use of them.

I had quite a number of enquiries this year about trees; I watched a group of people clearly wondering what sort of tree my elderly walnut tree was and seemed unwilling to accept my explanation - in a nice way and with much exclamation of surprise. Not many people nowadays have walnut trees in cottage gardens. Another couple was smitten with my weeping pear tree. I admit it is a rather splendid specimen, I hadn't cut its umbrella of thin, graceful ash grey branches and silver leaves at all this year. It looks like a ballerina in a wide hoop skirt about 2 ½  metres across. I too would admire it if I came across it in somebodies garden.

I am glad that I decided to put myself through the effort and hard work; I freely admit quite an important reason for my decision was to show the world my "suffering at the mean hands" of my neighbours. (He actually turned up, the cheek of the man!) That's not all, of course, I like gardening and am quite proud of the result of my labours, as well as the positive feedback from visitors. Nearly everybody always praises my views; like I told the estate agent who came to value my house "It's a location to die for". Well, maybe not quite.

There is something I learned from the Open Gardens too, something about a failing I know I have and have had forever: I am inclined to judge people by their appearance.

There was this elderly couple, late 60s maybe, a little drab, even shabby looking, with the colour of people who work outdoors, gently strolling about. By and by they reached the sun terrace where I was sitting and stopped to chat about a plant or two, I forget which. I don't know how it happened - did they ask who tended the garden?, was I the only gardener?,  did I live alone? how did I cope? ; eventually, in the most unassuming manner, without in the least pushing themselves forward, they opened up and said that they had both been widowed and quite accidentally found each other and saved each other from the blight of loneliness. I was right to think that they lived on and off the land. She said "he brought a flock of sheep into the union." They were quietly happy and contented, probably not very well off. I had the impression they had everything they needed. So there was I, sitting on my sun terrace, with a house behind me larger than one person needs and proudly showing off my garden to these people who have so much more than I have in my lonely existence. Me and my stupid middle class superiority, I have swallowed wholesale the idiotic English attitude that class matters. Time I remembered where I come from.  I have envied the little couple ever since.

 

Autumn in the Garden

In spite of the month being October there are still areas of wonderful displays. The hedge is full of berries and hips; does that mean we are going to have a hard winter?  Some say so, but I am not sure; our winters have been rather mild in recent years. 

The hedges are magnificent, wildly overgrown and full of life. I love it that all kinds of creatures have taken up residence. I am providing them with water in large shallow trays; It's such a pleasure to watch  birds by day taking a bath and surprise hedgehogs coming for a drink at dusk. Soon the latter will take up cosy winter quarters in wood and leaf piles which I have deliberately left in various nooks and crannies. The more birds, frogs, toads, and hedgehogs I encourage to eat slugs the better pleased I am during the summer. And if the foxes come and eat that rat of the sky, the pigeon, I don't mind either. They leave the coloured doves alone, these are too fast for predators.

The next three pictures are showing part of the drive. It's a difficult area to cultivate because there  are several trees and the ground is shaded and dry. I think various kinds of conifers might be suitable, I am busy studying Pinterest ideas. Algorithms can be quite handy, Pinterest obviously knows what takes my clicking fancy. Maybe a visit to a plant nursery is in the offing during autumn when the time is right to plant plants shrubs and trees.

I don't know why I have so many cyclamen everywhere, perhaps the birds help

plant the seeds.

Last year I planted a weeping cedar along the drive,

it's doing quite well.

 There's a Mediterranean  pencil pine under the ash tree,

in a year or two it will add a few inches and become more of a picture.

For now the normally boring ash tree itself and its butter yellow autumn leaves

draw the eye. 

I am glad that I have recovered my gardening mojo, the opening in the summer was a great success; several hundred people came to visit during the last weekend of June. ( More of that some other time). The back garden was the showstopper then, the drive borders on the front of house, which are quite spectacular now, less so. You can't have everything. 

Decisions, Decisions........

my favourite Japanese Acer hidden under the shroud.

space - you need more?

Now that my desktop is back  I can finally get back to boring the pants off you. What fun. Why you keep on reading this drivel is a mystery to me.

For the past several weeks I have been in a state of permanent confusion. 

"What am I going to do, am I leaving, am I staying, what is best?" has been the refrain accompanying my days and sometimes nights. 

Nothing very dreadful has happened, but there are times when it seems that you have to make changes to your life; at the same time it is difficult to come to a decision that is both suitable and sensible.

It started with one of next door's scaffolders. "Lovely house you got here", he said, "must surely be worth a bit." The last time I had the house valued was more than five years ago, since then house prices have risen sharply and it is said that many town dwellers have seen the error of their ways during Covid and want to change to a calmer, greener pace of living. Working from home has made it possible and space and fresh air is now something to aspire to. 

more space, if you want to go exploring 

Space and fresh air I have aplenty, I needed an estate agent (realtor) to put a price on it. A smartly dressed man turned up in a largish gas guzzler with a bundle of glossy, colourful brochures under his arm. The brochures were specialist ones in their range of 'Fine and Country' properties, nothing commonplace and everyday for a property I had described to him on the phone as "with a location to die for". I wasn't even exaggerating, who else can say they live right next to an English Heritage castle ruin with three gates directly into its grounds? Estate agents in the UK have three requirements for properties out of the ordinary: location, location, location. 

'my castle'

The agent came up with an astonishing estimate, three times the price we had paid 23 years ago. The country housing market is in a fix, too many people chasing too few houses; that meant that the agent more or less begged me to put my house on the market NOW. With his firm. Quite innocently I mentioned that I had nowhere to go and that I'd have to dispose of lots of contents first. Oh yes, they'd be able to help all along the way, finding me somewhere to live and auctioning off my goods and surplus chattels. They do indeed have an auction house as part of their set-up, a reputable one (in case you are warning me off).

After quite some time and a long chat I finally managed to get him to the door without committing myself in any way. Since then I've been deliberating along these lines:

First and foremost: I like my house. It's large and so is the garden, but it is also convenient and comfortable. I know the village, my friends live here. I can afford modest help around house and garden and if (not when) I get too infirm to go upstairs I have a shower room downstairs and can turn my study into a bedroom. 

On the other hand, house and garden are too large for one elderly lady. I am a little isolated from the village and nobody ever comes all the way up the drive just on the off chance. Isolation means utter peace and quiet, and endless green space and fresh air around me. And then there's the neighbour and his shroud which is actually damaging a part of my garden for which they may not be willing to compensate me, in spite of having undertaken to do so officially. However, everything passes, as will the shroud.

the shroud along one side of my garden wall.

under it is their barn, their house is further away.

Then there's the money. I'd want to downsize of course, and although I'd have to pay a fair chunk for a new house I might have a (smaller) chunk of cash over. But, is that such a good idea? In the UK interest rates are minimal, inflation is high, property is the only valuable asset to have, unless you are rich, of course. I'm not.

All things considered, I think selling up and leaving my little haven now would be a bit silly. As I said, I like my house. I'll never find another location to equal it. When the time comes I will probably move into a retirement apartment, there is quite a choice in my county town and rather than move twice, once into a smaller house with garden now and later into a retirement apartment when living on my own becomes more difficult would surely use up more energy, nerves, stress as well as cash than is sensible..

the flower bed hidden under the shroud

I may be elderly (OK, I am) but mostly I forget about it. Unless admitting to my elderly status comes in useful, which it does, at times, particularly when I need physical assistance. Many elderly people start the gradual process of reorganising their last years much sooner than me and maybe I am being foolish. But, while I can, I would like to continue enjoying my garden in particular, for a little while longer.

Sorry, Mr. Estate Agent, but not just yet. Maybe next year, maybe never. I am not ready to discard my hand trowel for good.

PS: apart from the shroud picture all others were taken at different seasons.

It's a bit early for such splendour.

Today I heard the tree speak

and this is what it said:

 

Got a date with spring

got to look me best.

of all the trees

I'll be the smartest dressed.

Perfumed breeze

 behind me ear.

pollen accessories

all in place.

Raindrop moisturizer

for me face.

sunlight tints

to spruce up the hair.

What's the good of being a tree

if you can't flaunt your beauty?

Winter, I was naked

exposed as can be.

Me wardrobe took off with the wind.

Life was a frosty slumber.

Now, spring, here I come.

Can't wait to slip in

to me little green number.

poem by

John Agard

from a 'Poem for every Night of the Year.

Old Ladies

Just now I finished a phone call with a very old lady friend. Old in years, not so much old in friend years. One of these sweet old dears who rarely, if ever, have a bad word to say about anyone, gentle and mild, a white halo for hair, small in size, frail and delicate. Articulate, educated, well-mannered, a lady. Sometimes I have wished that she might drop the sweetness, even if just by accident and join the rough, crude, occasionally cross and sweary world I inhabit.

We got talking about Putin and the invasion of Ukraine. Is there anyone cognisant who doesn't? I said I want him dead, shot, eliminated.

"Shot?", she said. "Shooting is too good for him, I want him hung, drawn and quartered", she thundered, "I want him torn limb from limb". To my great delight the old lady was spitting nails. Obviously, I agree with her and told her so and it gives me hope that old does not automatically have to equate to lacking spirit.

Life is slowly, in minute increments, resuming pace. A well attended garden club meets monthly again in a village hall a twenty minute drive away. When I heard that two ladies (yes, oldish) from my neck of the woods were on the committee and would therefore go I asked for a lift. The driver very kindly agreed. These meetings take the form of a paid speaker giving an illustrated talk on their subject of choice with open questions at the end. I have in the past attended many such meetings elsewhere and enjoyed them and sometimes I didn't.

What is wrong with non-professional speakers? You'd think that, as they get paid, they'd get the basics right. The speaker that evening started by getting her microphone upside down, she then sat with her back to the audience staring down at her laptop, and mumbled her way through a very uninspiring talk with few and mainly boring photographs presented on the screen. How many beds of snowdrops can you take, how many pictures of men at work and heaps of earth waiting to be turned into flower beds? And finishing off with a picture of more old ladies crowding the cake counter in the cafeteria of the garden she was supposed to delight us with simply made me even more cross. All this and when you go to the rather famous garden's website you get some beautiful vistas.

As I had been given a lift by two friends active in the club I thought I'd better not say anything on the way home. Imagine how pleased I was when one of them said that the evening had been a waste of time, the speaker quite poor and not to be invited again. One of them asked the other if they should not point out to potential speakers that they should face the audience and speak clearly. "Not really," the other one said, "they might be offended". Such very good old lady manners, spend a boring evening rather than give offence.

The entire audience consisted of nice old ladies with just a sprinkling of old gentlemen. I didn't see anyone above middle height, under 65, and with any colour hair other than grey. I have a friend who says I am incredibly negative; she's right, of course. I must learn to stop being so judgemental and keep shtum, unless I find genuine cause for praise. I have my doubts, however, that I will succeed.

I have mentioned the German Conversation group before, well, we have commenced face-to-face meetings again; we are slowly working our way through "Die Deutsche Seele" (the German Soul) a many-paged book with essays on such German terms as Fussball, German Angst, Bauhaus, Wanderlust, all the way from A through to Z. Alternatively, we watch DVDs on German history, starting with the 9th Century and ending with the Weimar Republic, a thousand years later. That should keep us old ladies busy for some time to come.

All in all, life is picking up. 

What to do?

I've been struggling, the black dog came down for a visit and, as always when that happens, I felt unable to blog. You all appear so positive, upbeat, competent, even-minded in the posts I read that it's almost embarrassing to admit to my failings. I blame Covid and the solitude caused by Covid.

I've been having poor sleep as well, many hours of wakefulness when the thought carousel whirls and twirls; in the end I give up and go downstairs to the warm kitchen, pour a glass of sherry, have some crackers, read a bit and am shocked when I realise that it's almost morning and sleep has once again been unattainable. Naturally, that leaves me even more depressed and tired.

Last night was a bit better. What a difference a few hours of sleep makes. 

I wrote the above very late on Sunday evening, still feeling a tad sorry for myself but having sent the black dog into kennels for a while. 

So, what to do indeed.

First of all, when I got up, even before making breakfast, I rooted around in the music cabinet ( no longer holding sheet music since Beloved died) for some mood changers. In the olden days, when we still listened to radios back in the old country, Mum always had Sunday morning concerts on. So music was the first go-to, some CDs from the classical collections, a Beethoven symphony (Pastoral) on full volume. Music is magic, Beethoven helped right away. Toasted sweet fruit bread, tea, a sliver of well aged cheese, marmalade, and my inner woman was quieted. Roasted duck breast (a repetition of Christmas dinner) and a tasty lentils mess for a late lunch, followed by a long phone call with my son, both of us opening up about aspects of our lives which are not entirely pleasing, helped things along nicely. 

A walk in the garden next; looking closely with open eyes, I found a few welcome friends, much too early some of them. In spite of a mostly grey day I was cheered by aconites and hellebores in the woodland garden,

and snowdrops everywhere else, carpets of them. Ditto cyclamen.

I've taken and posted so many pictures of all three of them in the past I don't want to bore readers of this blog by posting yet more.

In the evening I finished off Frederik Backman's "My Grandmother Sends Her Regards and...." . I have enjoyed his humorous yet slightly bizarre writing (if you've read "A Man Called Ove" you'll know what I mean: depth and comedy at the same time. Backman is definitely one of my recently discovered favourites for a rainy afternoon.

A couple of documentaries on the BBC came next: the delightful and evocative "Wonders of the Celtic Deep". about animals and birds (are birds animals? Hm, yes, they must be) on the Pembrokeshire coast of Wales, the nearest stretch of ocean to Shropshire, and then, deeply disturbing, the beginning of a Paul Theroux series called Forbidden America about the impact of social media on US society; he begins the series by meeting the new online influencers of the far right. As faaaar right as can be, deeply frightening, in fact. Normally, I avoid such programmes. A pity that I should end the day on such a distressing topic. Maybe not the best idea after a few weeks of the black dog.

However, he has stayed away today too in spite of the scaffolding having gone up next door. No doubt I'll be woken by the noise of metal on metal tomorrow morning.

A Miscellany of Housekeeping

Just when I feel I have rediscovered my blogging mojo my internet connection gets dodgy. Three times in the last week my connection failed and I have spent many hours waiting for my IP to respond to phone calls; if I have to listen once more to the tinkling muzak while they keep me on hold, constantly reminding me that it would be so much easier if I just went online to FAQ, I shall do them an injury. I must make sure that I get a post out before the connection fails again.

There is a development in the dispute with the neighbour; after much to-ing and fro-ing, and at great cost, we have reached an agreement. I am giving permission for the barn to be repaired and for three months they can erect scaffolding on my land, provided they arrange for the scaffolding to leave me full access to  the passage between the front and back of my house, they replace any plants they damage to a comparable standard, make good any disturbance on my land, and they do not extend the time limit;  furthermore, my permission is valid only for the barn's back wall acc. to the "meaning of the act" (legalese); I am not obliged to grant permission for rebuilding any other side or the interior. Some success, I suppose. 

Blogging mojo is not the only mojo I have rediscovered, after several years of the garden receding into the background of my life I am feeling the urge to get back out and create a place of peace, beauty and solace, culminating in opening again in the summer when the village gardens display their charms to visitors, once covid restrictions are over. We'll see. It's easy to plan an active gardening life from the comfort of my cosy study, but it might not feel quite so urgent when the work outside starts. In the cold of early spring at that. However, gardening is good for body, soul and spirit.

Opening the garden might have a further benefit: mild revenge on my neighbours; if that strip of land cannot be cultivated for months it will show and I'd know whom to blame, publicly. Yes, I know I am acting quite childishly. 

A friend lent me her copy of Colm Toibin's "The Magician"; a fictionalised biography of the German writer and Nobel Prize Winner Thomas Mann; she said she wanted to have my opinion on it. Although Toibin is a greatly admired author I have not previously read any of his work. I am ashamed to admit that I had a prejudice against (Northern) Ireland. For years, before the Peace Process, the news was always bad, I hated the endless murders and maiming, the fighting, the violence, the religious bigotry; I lost count of the number of times I had to leave the underground on my way to and from work, how terrified we passengers were if we saw an unattended bag anywhere in the carriage or how we suspiciously watched each other, looking for signs of terrorism. The relief was great in 1998 when the Troubles finally ended although Brexit is having an alarming effect on the Peace Process.

None of that is anything to do with Toibin, he is Dublin Irish, and a marvellous writer. After nearly two years of choosing lightweight reading material, lots of it, some of it boring and toe-curlingly badly written, I was a bit worried about having to read a book of literary merit and give an opinion. I needn't have worried. Toibin's style is fluent, limpid, even simple. He is totally accessible. The Magician is first and foremost a portrait of the artist as a family man with  Germany's decline and fall always in the background. I can honestly say that I loved the book and will now most certainly delve further into Colm Toibin's work.

Life affirming Gardens

Hallelujah, winter’s all done and dusted, bar the shouting. It is so often dark and difficult and can be very lonely. But today is the vernal equinox, the official beginning of spring. From today the days are longer than the nights and things will get better and better. It’s still coolish but nothing will keep me from getting out into the garden, unless spring turns contrary and throws rain and snow and ice at me between now and summer.

WW (Wiry and Willing, to give him his full name) and I have already spent happy hours digging (him) and me standing over him and telling him what, where and how deep, and exactly which holes to hand over to me for new planting. He created more light by filling builder’s bag after bag with  hard hedge trimmings and shrub prunings, some of which I too have provided. Since I have my new secateurs pruning is so much easier. Decent tools make all the difference. WW brought his son and his son’s truck along and between the two of them they’ve shifted a mountain of greenery and taken it to the dump. And still the mountains never seem to be any less, I can’t wait for my son to come and help move stuff. 

The other evening I felt quite miserable, never having anyone to talk to and eating every meal by myself were getting to me, so I got on to my favourite garden nurseries on the net and indulged in a mad splurge. Others buy clothes and shoes, I buy plants and books. Five boxes arrived over two days, filled with two date palms, two mahonias, three hydrangeas, three cornus , a collection of lupins and some heucheras, and a honeysuckle;  apart from the date palms, which I got at a reduced price because I spent such a lot, all plants are new, unusual varieties which I have never grown before. I have dug up large flower beds and tried to weed them thoroughly before replanting, with minor success. However, lockdown has shown me how precious life is and working myself into a frenzy over weeds is not an option. Live and let live is the new motto.

For the moment the new plants look bare and boring, just you wait until they start growing. I’ll have a jungle border soon.

The tree doctor called today; for some time I have been worried about the taller and older trees around the edges of the garden. I have lost several already. There is one beautiful green/gold cypress of 30m, an ornamental cherry and a youngish (30yr old) walnut tree, all of which have had me worried every time one of the gales has blown up the river valley from over the border with Wales. Westerlies are often quite serious storms nowadays. Probably to do with climate change, they are occurring far more often than they did. Doctor Tree put my mind at rest. The cypress could be topped and reshaped but I’d lose the  pretty lacy curlicues right at the top and the tree would no longer look natural, but ‘doctored’, as it were. As he said that the tree had done the necessary to withstand gales by growing bumps around the trunk (yeah, me neither) there was little danger that it would topple over for the next 20 years. He pronounced the walnut tree healthy enough in spite of its gnarly and split bark; that left the cherry, which he thought should have the ends of its branches trimmed; a bit like taking the split ends off in a haircut. There is ash dieback all over the country; I have several ash trees which, cross fingers, still look healthy. Some ash trees are resistant to dieback, could I be one of the lucky owners? Not just ash, other trees are dying too; it’s a problem for which there is as yet no solution. Doctor Tree seemed quite worried.

I like trees and would prefer to keep mine going for as long as I am here. Apparently, you can tell if a tree comes to the end of its life by keeping a close eye on leaf growth. If leaves grow all along the branch, right to the tip, the tree is fine, once the ends stay bare there’s trouble ahead.

The work on my neighbours’ barn still hasn’t started. I think they probably haven’t been given permission. Turning the stable cum barn into a bijou residence is what is called ‘change of use’; with listed buildings the Planning Office frequently turns such requests down. I should be thoroughly ashamed of myself but, truth to tell, I don’t much care. 

Cheerfulness is Breaking Out ?

There are one or two reasons to be cheerful after all,  this winter flowering viburnum is one of them, even if the picture is, once again, of very poor quality. I have no idea how I can make photos clearer, as clear and focused as they were with the old Blogger. I am using the same camera and doing nothing different, that could account for it.

Life is more and more circumscribed in the UK, we are in the third lockdown and there’s little hope that we will climb out of the pit any time soon, vaccinations notwithstanding. I am still waiting for mine, but the advice is, that even after having received the vaccine, we are to remain vigilant and as close to home as possible. Staying out of circulation makes for a dull life and there’s little of any interest to blog about. Zoom meetings are a poor substitute for meeting in the flesh.

W.W. (wiry and willing) called today. He promised that we will soon be out in the garden again. There are jobs he can do now, like laying a crazy paving kind of path; all stones have come from the walls of the old castle which have got buried in the garden over the centuries since the castle was razed, and have since been dug up by me and Beloved and old gardener and kept aside for just such a purpose as the one I have in mind. I also want to lower all the hedges which have grown taller than necessary and take far too much light from beds. A job for W.W.’s chainsaw. Snowdrops are out in several places and aconites are just beginning to show their golden heads above last autumn’s leaf fall. More reasons to be cheerful! 

I really must go out more, while we had snow and ice I was worried about slipping and breaking something. Hospitals bursting at the seams with Covid patients are not an attractive destination at present. Amazing, how fear concentrates the mind. 

I am very fortunate that my son has stepped up to the mark, he rings me once a week, usually on Sundays, for a long chat. I had no idea that he has a well developed interest in politics, we only ever used to ‘just chat’, but now he is my weekly ticket to staying sane and letting off steam about the dire state of the world, in general as well as specifically. While casual meetings with like-minded friends are verboten, I miss a good old session of getting hot under collar. To the rescue comes son; we have an hour or more of serious raving and ranting and, boy, do we have something to rave and rant about! There is no need to go into details, there cannot be a single person anywhere who is not aware of the near tragedy, all of us, in our respective countries, might be facing. Still, as George Orwell said: “A people that elect corrupt politicians, imposters, thieves and traitors are not victims... but accomplices”.

And finally (there has to be an ‘And finally’, as they have on the news, something silly and light, to make you go off with a smile on your face) : very occasionally I have contact with my ex-son-in-law, we might send Christmas emails or birthday wishes, we have remained on good terms through the years. Well, we had a light hearted correspondence during the festivities, nothing much about nothing much. But he ended his message with:

Onwards and upwards, and don’t give up on the blog… much of Shakespeare’s best output was penned during plague!

giving me an unexpected chuckle. Friko and Shakespeare, eh? I didn’t even know that he followed my blog.

Would Raving and Ranting Help?

 

The ancient Greeks had a word for it, they called it HUBRIS, closely followed by NEMESIS. I can’t say that I was surprised when the long-expected news broke. Contrary to the reaction from some (only some) parts of the international media I am also not going into hypocritical overdrive. Does anyone think he is going to learn from this? Probably not. Our pound shop version said at first that he now knew the score, but it looks like he has long forgotten it again.

So, it’s autumn now. At first I didn’t want to believe it, I carried on digging and forking and pulling up, but then it started to rain. And rain. The days drew in markedly and there’s a definite chill in the air. In spite of the rotten quality of the photos (oh, damn Google, will they ever get it right?) you can see the difference in colouring.

I am staying in bed much longer in the mornings and going to bed ever later in the evenings. Some days I will have a nap in the afternoon. The weekend was dismal, I didn’t see a soul. Whatever am I going to do with myself for a whole dark winter? The PM  has warned us all that it will probably go on until Christmas and beyond. After feeling no serious ill effects during spring and summer I believe winter will be a whole different kettle-of-fish. Enough already! While the weather is awful I read, and read, and read. A book a day is nothing, sometimes I finish one and start another within hours.

I feel like constantly moaning and complaining, except that fulminating without letup is so tiring! Do you know what I mean when I say I mutter curses under my breath, slam around in the house, find fault with everything and everyone? The other day I got cross when collecting medication from the surgery. They’d left out my lifesaver COPD inhaler and I had to go back to claim it. “We had to wait for it to be delivered”, said the woman at the window. Not a bit of it, I don’t believe it; at other times somebody would have made a note on the packet telling me so.

There’s something else which annoys me every time I open a new packet of pills: they stick sticky tape over the ends now. Both ends.You fumble and fumble to get this tiny bit of tape off, if you succeed the bit of tape then sticks to your fingers and you stand over the open kitchen bin trying to get it off and deposit it inside. Of course, it won’t come off, it’s too small and too sticky. You have to go and find a piece of dry kitchen roll and transfer the remaining fraction of tape from your finger to the paper. You could, of course, just cut through the tape while it’s still attached to the pill packet but what do you do with that? Plastic sticky tape is not meant to be recycled. 

Oh, dear saints in heaven, life is getting ever more complicated. And Google definitely isn’t helping. Getting these two mean and fuzzy photos on took ages. Grrrr!

Who said gardening is a doddle?

No wonder the stump was swaying in the recent high winds; I watched from the window in the roof and saw that not only the huge nest of dead ivy but the body of the stump was rocking. Time to call HandsomeHunk and get him to get the ivy off before it fell on the drive or maybe on my head when I was walking past under it.

HH duly came and inspected the job. "Won’t take long”, he said confidently. "I've brought my extension saw and  a long pole. I’ll be able to shift it.”

 

I usually go out and work with the helpers, perhaps a bit of supervision is included too, as I haven’t known either HH or WW (Wiry and Willing if you forgot) for long. HH comes uncomfortably early and I was still organising myself indoors. Very soon the doorbell rang although I’d told HH that I would come out as soon as I was in a fit state. I saw that he had left off the hard hat and was pushing at the ivy rather than sawing it off. 

“I think you'd better come and look for yourself” HH said. I saw that he had a tall ladder leaning against the stump. “I can’t climb that ladder”, I said. It really was much too long for me and I wasn’t sure I had the  necessary courage or agility. “You won’t have to climb up”, he said, “ you can see the problem from down here. The tree is completely hollow”. 

So it was. HH had taken off the ivy nest and the innards of the rotten stump were visible. He pushed at it  and large bits dropped off. He poked some more and sawdust came dribbling out.

After much careful prodding the ivy crown and top of the stump were off completely. But then disaster struck. The stump had been host to a large climbing rose (yes, another one of the monsters which can grow to 20 m or more, with vicious tendrils armed with even more vicious thorns) and quite unexpectedly, the bark incl. chicken wire and rose came off and thudded into the large philadelphus shrub next to it.

The bark would have made a wonderful cave for several children, except that the chicken wire which had held up the lower strands of the rose was firmly embedded in it and would have cut any child to shreds.

However, all came right in the end, after much toil and trouble. HH finally managed to salvage the foot of the tree which we saw is home to dozens of bumble bees who have burrowed into the soft timber, dislocating little heaps of natural sawdust. I will be delighted if the stump can remain as rent free accommodation for the entire insect population of the garden.

Unfortunately, I am now left with piles and piles of debris. As WW is cutting the hedge at the same time I have a problem. How to get rid? I’d love to have a bonfire but I’ve already smoked out the village once, they won’t be very happy if I do it again before they’ve had a chance to forget it and forgive me.

PS: it’s taken me hours to write this  really rather insignificant post. I am quite exhausted from swearing at Google for messing me about and changing things and making things so difficult. The uploaded photos are of poor quality, apologies. And there’s no ‘reverting to the original Blogger’ anymore either. But at least Google have found my yyys and xxxs again and several other letters they mislaid.

Blast you, Google.