Our History In Photographs

“The single most important component of a camera is the twelve inches behind it.” – said Ansel Adams.
That’s were Beloved took up position.

He was an excellent photographer. He had kept photograph albums of his own work from the time before we were together, a round dozen of them, which I inherited. He took many more photographs in our thirty years together, those I am keeping for now. But the early ones I filleted, sorted the pictures according to subject and, where I recognised the person, passed them on. I have only two small piles of pictures left, mostly of former colleagues, musicians all, which I am going to send to the Royal Opera House for distribution. A rather larger pile is of landscapes, cityscapes, mountains, rivers, the ancient bricks and mortar of European towns, churches, cathedrals, castles, market squares, secret passages in backwater villages, balconies overflowing with geraniums in French and Italian cobbled streets. What to do with these? I have many more in the albums I am going to keep; while I am alive they shall help to remind me of holidays we took in our time together. But what about the others? What to do with them?

I am not as good a photographer as Beloved was, I shan’t feel obliged to keep my own photos when his are so much better. But I have ancient photographs from a time before I was born, pictures of figures in formal dress, people I can no longer place, if I ever could. From my parents I inherited a boxful of loose pictures as well as three albums, the last one of which is a chaos of unrelated images which, as a child, I glued in without order, with the subjects unnamed and long forgotten. There is no one left who could help me identify them. I’d love to know who the smartly dressed lady is, elegantly  and elaborately coiffeured, in a long, flowing skirt, a white frilled high necked blouse with sleeves puffed to the elbow and from there to the wrists tightly buttoned. She is standing upright next to a chair on which, standing stiffly to attention, is a small child in a dark dress with a white pinafore, white stockings and black, shiny shoes. A boy? A girl? I vaguely remember Mum saying : this is aunt somebody, but whose aunt, hers or her mother’s?

We take hundreds of photographs which we post on social media (or not) where they will be preserved for eternity. Or at least for as long as our current form of social media exists. Since I have uploaded my pictures on to a screen I no longer stick them into albums. I had a look the other day, it says there are 6.000 of them; I sincerely hope that most of them are doubles and trebles; I surely have not taken 6.000 images? What on earth for?

Since Beloved died I have hardly taken any, fewer than I can count on the fingers of one hand: one of the German Bundesadler (Federal Eagle) in the Consulate where I applied for my new passport, one of the instructions on the inside of the Aga door how to operate the cooker, (which didn’t come out readable), a couple of spring flower beds. No more.

Some time in 2016 I treated myself to a new camera, idiot-proof the salesman said; I must have given the impression of an accomplished photographer. I still haven’t learned how to use it to its full capacity, little effort on my part leading to little progress. There must be someone who will teach me. The University of the Third Age does a photography class but I think you need to know how to handle the mechanics at the very least.

Old photographs have something so sad about them, the subjects no longer exist, they have become mere ghosts of the past, our own past, or our families' past. Gathering dust at worst, stuck in forgotten old-fashioned albums at best, they slowly fade and with them fade our memories. Here are a few lines taken from Philip Larkin’s “Lines on a Young Lady’s Photograph Album”.

But o, photography! as no art is,
Faithful and disappointing! that records
Dull days as dull, and hold-it smiles as frauds,
. . . .

How overwhelmingly persuades
That this is a real girl in a real place,
In every sense empirically true!
. . . .

Or is it just the past? Those flowers, that gate,
These misty parks and motors, lacerate
Simply by being you; you
Contract my heart by looking out of date.

Instead of an Excuse

So many posts unposted, so many blogs unread, so many comments ignored or not left, so many emails not replied to, so much writing left unwritten.

I don’t really know what happened, why I have barely glanced at my computer for the past two plus weeks (really? yes,  I just counted 17 days). I have been feeling rather tired, am I simply under the weather? A bit depressed?

There have been days full of sunshine,

gloomy, foggy days,

working days,

snapping sparrows bathing in the dog bowl

during idly looking out of the window days,

and days full of magnificent autumn colour.

In other words, nothing out of the ordinary. Now that it’s November, most of the leaves have gone and the nights have turned mildly frosty. There’s a bitter North-Easterly blowing and Millie’s walks are ever shrinking in length. She’s not too unhappy about it, she has started to limp after strenuous exercise; I am not going to ask more of her than she can do.

The sad thing is, I miss writing, blogging and visiting blog friends. I feel guilty for not replying to emails, which is a bit silly. I throw half an eye at the blank, dark computer screen, sigh, then sit down with a trashy thriller for an hour.

My attention to detail appears to have gone into hiding too. I ordered a new printer+ on the internet and when the thing turned up it was massive, far bigger than the space allocated for it. It was an office printer, wide format, with  facility for legal papers, large and small sizes, envelopes etc., as well as a fax machine. I have no fax number and no need of a fax. When ordering I forgot to look at the specifications and, most importantly, the size of the gadget. Printers have gone down in price since I bought the previous one and as I couldn’t be bothered to pack the thing up again and return it, it now sits in a different room, staring at me, balefully, every time I pass it, accusing me of sloppiness.

Sleep is hit and miss too. No wonder I am often tired. I love to go to bed late, get a book ready, wriggle into a cosy position, and feel grateful for having a warm, peaceful and comfortable space to put my head at the end of the day. Sometimes, just when I am at my most snuggled in, my mind suddenly insists that sleep is a waste of time, and how I could much better spend my time thinking, dreaming, reading, going over the past day and organising the next one. Fatal! I might have allocated anything from five minutes to an hour for this state of being between waking and sleeping but, once I am embarked on this route, sleep flees. Two, three, four times I rise again, for a drink of water, a visit to the loo, a sleeping pill, another sleeping pill. I do eventually fall asleep to wake to another complicated day and, given half a chance, I grab a nap after lunch. But then again, I could be reading instead of napping?

Permutations, Perambulations and Pictures

Millie is throwing me a dirty look from under lowered, speckled-white eyebrows: “Can we Please go out? It’s a lovely day.” 

“Oh, very well then.” She’s right, it’s chilly but the sun is out and I really shouldn’t waste the morning. I’m still very much up and down, given to mood swings, feelings of depression one minute, hopeful the next. A brisk walk in bright sunshine would surely do me good. 

It is indeed a cheery morning. We go up the old track leading out of Valley’s End towards Bishop’s Castle until we get to the crossroads, where we turn right, with our backs to Bicton Hill.

Ever since we’ve first lived here I have called this crossing of two field edge footpaths “Gallows Corner”. I can no longer remember who told me this but today, wanting to find out more about this gruesome, now disappeared, relic of past justice I asked several long time residents and local historians; none of whom had ever heard of it. Mr. Wells remembered the stocks next to the Town Hall, now the village museum, where wrong ‘uns, who had celebrated market day a little too carelessly, were shackled by their legs; I suppose they were lucky not to have been thrown into the lock-up proper from where they wouldn’t even have been able to see the fun, there being no window in the mouldy cell. On the other hand, well-meaning burghers might have pelted them with rotten vegetables?

Having walked along 'The Modems’ (again, I must find out why this track across the hill on the Southern edge of Valley’s End has this name), towards Radnor Hill we climbed the stile conveniently cut into the hedge into the next field.  Radnor Hill is mainly limestone, discovered and quarried by the Romans when they colonised this part of the country in the middle of the first century AD, and even today there are remnants of very early quarries on top of the hill, with several smaller and more recent quarries nearer the base.

Back down in the village, having slithered down a still muddy and steep path, via the old pool which has caused so much controversy and falling out of neighbour with neighbour, and along a small stretch of road past the entrance to the alms houses, we turned left to the allotments and the kissing gate, which leads to a track between two fields.  A kissing gate is a type of gate which allows people to pass through, but not livestock. The normal construction is a half-round, rectangular, or V-shaped enclosure with a hinged gate trapped between its arms. The kissing gate is often the subject of chatter about the origins of its amorous-sounding name. The prosaic answer is that it derives from the fact that the hinged part touches – or ‘kisses’ – both sides of the enclosure rather than being securely latched like a normal gate.

That hasn’t stopped many clinging to a more romantic notion: that the first person to pass through would have to close the gate to the next person, providing an opportune moment to demand a kiss in return for entry. I know which answer I prefer.

Kissing gates are often found at the entrance to church graveyards but there is no evidence that this has any symbolic significance.

Once we are through the gate - I have to hold it open for Millie and she snakes through without demanding a kiss - the field track to 'The Green’ lies ahead. (in spite of its name, ‘The Green’ is our tiny industrial estate consisting of three low and rather attractively built structures - one even has arched windows, like church windows. The industry pursued here is entirely rural, causing neither pollution nor noise.) The lower slope of Radnor Wood  is getting closer.

Three ponies and three sheep live in the paddock  at present. The field on the left has some kind of crop growing, possibly rape. Or perhaps winter wheat? I have no idea why just three sheep, when they are so plentiful everywhere else and are certainly never given any special treatment.

One of the ponies comes to inspect us. I often have an apple in my pocket, perhaps that’s why. Millie and the pony sniff each other but then lose interest. (‘The Green’ industrial estate is visible over the hedge on the other side of the paddock). At the other end of the field edge track we climb a stile and return to the village and the ford across the river.

Snowdrops and daffodils brighten he banks of the river. The waters have receded, although the river ‘was out’ when we had those endless heavy rains earlier this year and at the end of last year;  the levels have sunk, roads are clear and 4x4s can cross the ford again. I wouldn't like to try crossing in my small and ordinary car but then, I don’t have to. Valley’s End has a perfectly good humpback bridge built as recently as anno 1450 and still going strong. Well, with the fairly regular exception of lorries crashing into it, causing the locals no end of amusement while watching desperate drivers trying to extricate themselves without doing too much further damage. Many times drivers who had miscalculated the angle from road to bridge simply shot off, leaving the scene of the crime in as great a hurry as our narrow country lanes would allow. But, no more. Valley’s End has installed a camera! The guilty party will be caught and made to pay! Unfortunately, the parish finances are none too healthy and I am not sure that there was enough money in the kitty for both camera and film.


Millie was right to get me out. I am feeling much better. Tired, of course, after little in the way of exercise for several weeks, but I might take heart and go off again tomorrow.

Tuesday’s Positively Pleasurable Permutation

Two moments of awareness in one day, who’d have thought it: -

It’s not that I wouldn’t have seen this chink of light breaking

through the darkness of the afternoon but today I made an effort 

to let it please me instead of just shivering and scuttling for home

as quickly as possible.

Paul came this morning to start the great tidy up of the woodland garden.

He also took the time to strim a path for me from the side gate down to the moat.

This path, which is normally very overgrown, becomes slippery once rain 

freezes and icy patches form. Now I can see where I put my boots and

 may save myself from a tumble down the bank.

Thank you Paul.

There is one pleasure yet to come tonight: it’s poetry evening chez Friko. The subject is ‘Battle’ (as opposed to war poetry). Not a subject I find riveting but I’ve found a couple of potboilers, one of which is funny: "The Battle of Hastings", which ends with ‘Arold on ‘is 'orse with an eyeful of arrow and a ‘awk on 'is ‘and, preferably to be read in a Cockney accent. while the other is a patriotic, gung-ho thing - "The Battle of the Baltic” - which is full of cannon, gore and hearts of oak.

I’d better get the wine and nibbles ready.

Wishlist

Castle Moat

It’s summer, it’s June and therefore double birthday month at Castle Moat. A pair of Geminis for those who attach importance to such matters.

“So, what do you want for your birthday? Anything you can think of?”

“Hm, what about you? Is there something you’d really like?”

A perennial problem, one which we rarely solve. There was a time when Beloved bought me jewellery. Gold one year, amber another, jet from Whitby a third. Silver, pearls, a not terribly precious stone or two, rings, bracelets, necklaces, ear rings. I enjoyed them and wore them when the occasion arose. I hardly ever wear jewellery now. In fact, when I look at individual pieces I wonder who in the family, or more likely, among my friends, might be glad to have it.

Clothes too, a silk blouse, a cashmere jumper, stuff I don’t wear often because I can’t be bothered with frequent dry-cleaning. In London things were different, with a dry cleaner in walking distance and your cellophane wrapped item speedily returned. In the country it takes a week and costs a fortune. Besides, when would I wear really smart clothes? Gardening and dog walking demand jeans and a fleece to cover the t-shirt.

What about perfume? Nina Ricci’s L’Air du Temps was my favourite for years and I frequently found a pretty bottle on the breakfast table on the big day. I still use perfume occasionally, but so seldom, that I have a whole untouched bottle waiting to be broached in my dressing table drawer. (Heavens, that antique dressing table was a present once.)

Hawthorn Blossom

The dressing table came when we hit on the idea of joint presents, after all, our birthdays are within two days of each other. A small piece of antique furniture, or a non-essential household item, a beautiful bowl, or a painting. Something decorative. (I hate ‘practical’ presents, I hate ‘useful’ presents). Something we could both equally enjoy.

Now our house is full of stuff which we would love to pass on to an appreciative recipient, we are certainly not in the market to add to it. We look at our acquisitions and wonder “ would X like it?"

Wild Orchid in the Field

We bought each other books galore, music CDs too. Now we mainly read ebooks and listen to digital music. That leaves the choice of vouchers for digital downloads. How romantic is that? 

For a while, we bought the more expensive bottles, a crate of French vintage wine or an oak-aged single malt. True, we still like a glass of wine and Beloved will have a glass of whiskey on cold winter nights, but an ordinary wine will do now. We never finish a bottle at one sitting and letting a good wine stew in the bottle for days on end is a crime against Bacchus. Beloved has also finally admitted that single malts do nothing for him and he much prefers an ordinary Scotch.

 Laburnum hanging over the Back Wall covered in Red Valerian

and long fronds of honeysuckle waiting to bloom.

What remains? Can you think of anything? A good meal at a nice restaurant is always an option, but we do that anyway when we feel like it. Our needs and wishes have shrunk dramatically and those few things which could be deemed special and worthy of present-giving are within reach any day. Should I wait for that book, the silk shirt, the box of hand-made truffles until my birthday or buy it for myself now, while I feel like it?

What to do? What do you do? When I asked Beloved just now he said “I can’t think of a single thing that would give me more pleasure than for us to have a nice day, maybe have a special bite to eat and lift a glass in a toast to us and our pleasant life together.”

Lovely man, if a bit unimaginative.

I won’t even get a bunch of flowers. There are untold bunches to be gathered in the garden right now, all of them more beautiful than artificially bred, stiff-necked, one size fits all supermarket arrangements, irradiated for long life.

Hold on a minute, though. I’ve just thought of something I really want: a cottage on the coast in Germany. And while we’re at it, how about a small flat in London for those hard to reach theatre visits? Not asking too much, am I? Oh yes, and a chauffeur to drive me from one to the other. And a housekeeper to take care of things while I’m away living in one of my several abodes.

There you are, I knew I would come up with something if I thought long and hard enough.

PS

 Some of you asked for an explanation

of the yellow stripes in the distance

in the picture in the previous post.

Romantically: Fields of Gold

Prosaically: Fields of Rapeseed

Rapeseed, also known as rape, oilseed rape, rapa, rappi, rapaseed, is a bright-yellow flowering member of the family Brassicaceae, consumed in China and Southern Africa as a vegetable and grown in the UK as a valuable cash crop.

 Rapeseed oil is very popular and supposedly a healthy alternative to other fats and oils.

I use it for frying and braising. It has no strong taste of its own

and is therefore suitable for all dishes which demand a light touch.

We needed the rain.

Getting a brilliant rainbow thrown in

was a bonus.

Now What ?

Now that I’m beginning to find my way around iMac Yosemite I’d like to restart blogging more or less regularly. But what is there to say? A subject would be helpful.

The weather has been very pleasant, there’ve been no great upheavals, my bruises are fading, Millie and I have had some gentle walks, the birds are singing and the garden is taking on colour and life again.

naturalised campanulas on the edge of the football field

Paul is coming most Tuesdays and although he’s had a bit of a row with a neighbour about stuffing OUR cattle grid with OUR prunings, gardening has been a joy. The neighbour rents a garage at the road end of our drive and saw Paul unloading a barrow’s worth of twigs into the grid cavity. There’s a field between neighbour and us and we have a fairly good relationship. Neighbour was worked up because he’d been lumbered with a small grandson who obviously had ideas of his own how to pass a  jolly hour or two; I heard grandad hissing “sit down, sit, sit down”. 

I am glad Paul, who gives the impression of being a very gentle man, didn’t let neighbour bully him. Neighbour is the kind of man whose mouth is permanently turned down at the corners and who seems to have an equally permanent bad smell under his nose. Still, he usually admires me because he thinks of me as one of those highly organised and efficient Germans. “I don’t work for you,” Paul told him, “Go and take it up with 'She Who Must Be Obeyed’ instead". Sensible man. Neighbour hasn’t uttered a word.

dandelions, celandines and violets on a bank above the river

There’s been a touch of the melodramas, the dreaded Afib came for a visit. Because I dose myself up the minute I notice the rhythm changing I usually manage to sleep through several hours of an attack; for the remaining hours (ten in total this time) I manage to stay calm and wait for either a return to normal or, after twelve hours, a call for help. I’d been a bit tense for a few days, then a very dear friend of ours fell ill suddenly; there was a debate about cancelling/not cancelling a theatre trip, risking or not risking a journey which could easily end in disaster. As I have the unfortunate habit of feeling obliged to take on the woes of creation, whether creation wants me to or not, the adrenaline levels rose and my heart played ‘silly-buggers’.

Well, I ask you. If you can’t even rely on a ten-years-younger friend, fit and strong and willing and able, to stay upright, whom can you trust? Friend is home again and in good spirits, I am extremely glad to say. He now understands why I hate going into hospital and drag out calling the ambulance service for as long as I can.

daisies

Son and daughter-in-law and stepdaughter came for a short visit over Easter. We see little of family, there are many months between visits, although son and I are on reasonably good terms. But I think I must appeal to son’s kind heart and get him to drive over more often: there are a surprising number of jobs too small for a paid handyman and too difficult for us; in other words, just right for the d-i-y skills of an intelligent chap who can reach those hard-to-get-to spots without climbing on a precariously balanced ladder or breaking his back to crawl into tiny spaces.

In case you think me totally selfish: I quite like to see him anyway.

So there we are. I’ve read a few books, cooked a few meals, saw a few friends, went to the pub, had a drink or two, wrestled with a couple of computers, cuddled the dog, saw a play, read some poetry, argued with Beloved, and got used to not having easy and unlimited internet access. Apparently, there is great danger of becoming dependant on social media and the net. Can’t say I’ve noticed. For a few days it felt strange not to be blogging and reading blogs but the feeling caused me no great anxiety. Still, all of you who have remained faithful to my inconsequential burblings rest assured, I shall gradually get round to visiting and paying my dues.

A Walk On The Mild Side

An early spring day,

soft and mellow,

a slight haze in the air;

too good to spend all of it indoors.

 We start off at the confluence of two small local rivers, just beyond the castle

and what was once the castle fishponds.

 They’re streams really,

but we call them rivers,

the Clun and the Unk,

which should, by rights, become the Clunk,

but the Clun wins out.

 we’re following the Unk upriver now.

 

 Just Millie and me,

aunt Josephine’s walking stick,

a small camera,

and Eva Cassidy.

Sheep have been here before us, leaving gossamer strands of fleece behind

on sere bramble fronds

Eva often comes along on days like these,

her bitter-sweet voice is just what I need.

Millie walks ahead,

as usual following her nose

and the delectable scents only she can detect.

We meet nobody;

it’s just us, all the way.

 Eva is still with me,

but quietly enough so I can hear the birds;

they are making good use of this day too.

Each one is marking out his territory,

the robin loudest of all.

 And all the while there’s the sound of the river,

gently flowing and tumbling over rocks,

pretending to be a waterfall.

Somebody died here,

a hen pheasant probably.

There’s nothing left of her apart from a handful of feathers. 

Millie takes a cursory sniff, but quickly loses interest.

Some other creature has eaten all there was.

We haven’t gone far at all,

an hour maybe,

but it’s been worth it.

Just the other side of the castle is home.

Curiosities and Millie

Striking catkins dangling on a hazel tree are a reassuring sign that spring is on its way. These catkins are all male; watching them dance in the wind is a pretty spectacle all on its own, but knowing that this dance is also a fertility rite, and that the wind is busy pollinating them, gives added meaning to the display.

Squirrels have made good use of the fruits resulting from this annual period of mad procreation. Peering into a hollowed out fence post I found this cache of emptied hazel nut shells. I wonder if squirrels used the hollow for storing their autumn loot or if they came here to crack them open and eat the tasty kernels, leaving the shells behind?

A toothless tree witch watches over it all. Deep eye sockets, a bulbous nose and petrified braids of grey hair complete her picture. A sight to frighten children.

Millie isn’t frightened of anything, not even having her stitches removed. The vet and a nurse got hold of her between them, turned her over forcibly and went to work. Her hind leg trembled a bit but her tail kept thumping the floor. Funny girl.

The lump removed from her groin is a malignant Fibrosarcoma; the good news is that the likelihood of metastases is low and the sarcoma is not particularly invasisve. The vet has removed all of it, including a few millimetres of healthy tissue, which means that she is now probably clear of cancer. I sincerely hope so, both my previous labradors developed terminal cancer. As Millie will most likely be our last dog (famous last words) I hope that the lab report’s final sentence is true: ... "long term prognosis is good”.

What, December Already ?

Advent again? Really?

I swear they disappear one week in every four for us oldies. Perhaps they think we’re slow and couldn’t keep up if they made us do a full month. No matter how hard I look I cannot see into what black hole of forgetfulness the last twelve months fell. It’s discrimination. I never signed up for being short-changed. I want my money back!

It’s the season of dismal grey clouds again, with only the occasional - probably accidental - chink of sunlight raking the tops of the hills with thin fingers of light. So I’m back in my winter fleece with upturned collar, the dog lead necklace being a permanent accessory.

O Dirty December
Yet Christmas Remember.

This month keep they body and head from cold. Let thy Kitchen be thy Apothecary, warm clothing thy Nurse, merry company thy Keepers, and good hospitality thine Exercise.

so says

Neve’s Almanac of 1633

and so say I.

In The Kitchen and Elsewhere

The weather is changing, high winds and squally showers, a lot of them quite heavy, make being outside unpleasant. I’ve said it before: I am strictly a fair weather gardener. Perhaps I’ll take to tending my rather neglected blog again, now that autumn’s here. But for today I had other duties.

My friend Sally asked me to make a culinary contribution to her big birthday party tomorrow, so that’s what I started on this morning: the bottom half of a cottage pie to feed about ten people. I’ll do the top half tomorrow, as well as a pudding of similar dimensions.  As I was in the kitchen anyway, I decided to prepare a mackerel pate as a starter for our own Sunday lunch - pate does better when the flavours have had time to blend.

Doing the vegetables for the meat layer of the cottage pie, I thought I might as well do the vegetables for our Friday lunch, which was to be baked chicken, rice, carrots, sweetcorn and leek, saving me having to start all over again later.

By now I was resigned to finding no time for anything else, so I did a couple of loads of laundry while waiting for the various constituents of the meals to cook. Beloved came in now and again, asking “can I do something, like peel a grain of rice maybe?” but when he got round to it, I was usually at the stage where you do not want 'outside interference’ and I shoo’d him out again.

Things brightened up a bit in the afternoon and Millie and I rushed out for a very short walk once round the castle and a sniff of the breeze up on the bailey. Millie has been back at the Vet’s for another minor operation, this time an exploration of her ears. She was most unhappy when I took her into the back rooms at the surgery and she was, again, very unwilling to allow herself to be shoved into a small cage prior to being sedated for her examination. I bet she rues the day when she was adopted by her new, unfeeling family, who seem to be doing nothing but letting her in for all sorts of indignities. Poor sweetie. The cause of her facial lesions has still not been determined.  I am hoping that autumn will bring relief, what with the impact of both seeds and insects lessening. Either could be causing the allergy.

In the short spell of brilliant sunshine the freshly washed hills looked welcoming but we decided not to risk a longer walk. We found a small tortoiseshell sunning itself on the path. There was a whole flutter of half a dozen or so of them, probably the new generation hatched in August/September, which will live through the winter,  often hibernating in garages and sheds, or even inside houses in the corners of ceilings and under curtains and pelmets.

Beechnuts

That crackle and crunch underfoot is beech mast.
The big beech is aiming missiles at me from a great height,
and when her aim is true, I feel it.
Ouch!

Once in every five to ten years, they say, can we expect such bounty.
Last year was a good one too, so either they are wrong,
or nature is changing her rhythm.
A hot, dry summer helps.

I have need of a pig.
Could you lend me a pig?
Free of charge to both of us?
I have no acorns but plenty of beechnuts.
But do remember to ring the pig’s nose, I don’t want it rooting up my garden.

There was a time, a long-ago time,
when they gave you a voucher for a litre of oil,
in exchange for six kilos of beechnuts.

Diligence can do it,
they said.
All it takes is three days of back breaking work in the forest.
If you have little ones,
and maybe sing a happy song,
collecting six kilos of beechnuts
is child’s play.

Collect more and keep them to enhance your diet.
You want bread?
Cracked and ground into flour,
beechnuts are very tasty, make excellent bread.
But remember,
oxalic acid is harmful,
so roast these pretty little delicacies first
to avoid bad pain in the gut.
And warn the little ones.

A pig, on the other hand,
enjoys a forest meal, no ill-effects at all.
No need for roasting.
Yet.

For The Love Of Autumn

Every year round about this time, in common with many other bloggers, I post pictures of autumn colours. Trying to ring the changes, I’ve given the posts various titles, ‘Autumn Cheer’, Autumn Leaves’, 'Autumn Tints’ etc., but basically they are a celebration of this most spectacular season of the year. I don’t get bored setting out and admiring the splendour all over again; after all, this kind of beauty remains inspirational, and repetition does nothing to diminish it. Not as far as I am concerned, anyway.

This is the view from an upstairs window of the cherry tree and the sun-kissed stems of a rowan, with the wooden bridge over the river visible through the trees.

Another perennial favourite is this Virginia creeper on a neighbour’s house which is only just beginning to turn. My own is a little later in the season and burgundy-coloured.

Even the very ordinary and utterly humble ground cover workhorse, the prostrate juniper, useful as weed suppressor and for winter colour, becomes attractive when brown leaves nestle in its folds.

Nothing humble about this spectacular variety of spirea! Golden in spring, it really comes into its own this time of year. I have two bushes growing side by side. When I look out of the window during late afternoon, when the sun streaks into the garden from much lower down on the horizon than it does in high summer, they positively glow. I took this photo after an overnight shower. 

Viburnum opulus is another common or garden tree/small shrub (cut it to whichever size you want) which shows its true colours in September. The leaves will turn yellow before they fall and the fire-engine red berries hang in generous clusters; birds gorge on them until none are left.

(btw, although viburnum opulus has been adopted under the name ‘European cranberry in the US, 

it is absolutely nothing to do with the fruit) 

Two very common wildflowers brighten disturbed verges and open grassland in September. 

Pink rosebay willowherb has lost the fluffy seed heads, exposing the bottle brush like flower stems.

Willowherb is such a pest, self-seeding everywhere, but I have to admit that it is really quite spectacular and I am willing to admire its architectural qualities when situated nowhere near my garden.

Another familiar sight in waste places, roadsides and hedgebanks is yellow tansy, with its 'gentleman’s buttons' bundles of flowers. Once upon a time tansy was a culinary herb, French chefs used it when preparing omelettes in much the same way as we use fines herbes today. Our palates have become less sturdy than those of our ancestors, the rather spicy savour is too overwhelming for modern tastes.

I’ll leave you with the wise words of a gardener in charge at Kew Gardens Arboretum. On the news today, he was asked by a reporter if we should get worried about the extremely dry September we have just experienced.

“Oh no”, he said, stretching each word with his flat Yorkshire vowels.  “No need to panic. Nature’s great. It’ll all work out in the end.”

He also promised us a very colourful autumn. Bliss.