A self-isolating spring equinox.

Strange times. Only a few days into them and already the dual dangers of madness and boredom lurk. I read in this morning’s Times that today is the official Spring Equinox when we have precisely equal hours of daylight and night. From now onwards daylight exceeds night but today, and only today, it is possible to balance an uncooked egg on its end and stand a broom upright on its own without any support. All to do with gravitational forces apparently. And it’s no myth as the two photos below prove: 

I admit that scientific experiments were never my forté at school…I much preferred staring out of the window. Which now serves me well when the weather precludes gardening. Today it was intriguing to see the comings and goings at the bird tables.

And while I aimlessly gazed Rosie was up to something much more constructive:

Only another twelve months of this. Yippee!

Hellebore Heaven (and hell).

As Storm Ciara rages outside and Coronavirus looks set to end the world it’s rather nice to be able to reflect on the prospect of Spring, even if we don’t live to see it. And hellebores are perhaps the best harbingers of it as their new leaves and flower buds comfortably pip snowdrops to the post. Not only that, they last for months, still flowering even as late as April. But the very best thing about hellebores is the variety of colours and shapes of their flowers (note: beware of hellebore pedants who refer to the petals as sepals and get terribly cross if you don’t). And here’s the very best way of enjoying them, particularly when it’s just a little bit windy outside:

These were picked (plucked, snipped?) a couple of days ago from the garden after I’d got Rosie to lift the heads of each and every variety we’ve got here so that I could photograph them all. Sadly there was a breeze blowing even then and what with her arthritis and my dodgy focussing the exercise wasn’t a great success. However here she is photographing, with rather more success, our small patch of hellebore heaven for her Instagram post.

Things you probably don’t know about hellebores (but are really very interesting, so read on): they prefer alkaline soil, plenty of organic matter and need to be free draining. They appreciate shade from the midday sun. Slugs, snails and mice are rather fond of them but rabbits aren’t. They are members of the buttercup family (hellebores not rabbits). The roots, if eaten, cause vomiting and can be fatal. Some varieties were used to treat worms in children, the idea being to expel the worms by throwing them up. If the worms had moved to the gut the treatment needed to be repeated and that could result in the death of the child. If you sit on the seeds of a hellebore you’ll get a blistered bum. And if you spread the powdered root of a hellebore onto the floor and step on the powder you’ll become invisible. And finally, if an eagle sees you digging up a hellebore he will cause your death (though you can avoid this by drawing a circle round the plant, face east and offer up a prayer). Told you, interesting, eh?

Winter doings (and not-doings).

Waking up yesterday and looking out of the bedroom window the view was slightly changed from six months ago: now skeletal, ethereal and distinctly chilly, then expansive, fragrant and warm. 

There’s no denying that shorter days and inclement weather tends to put the brakes on jobs that need doing outside. That’s certainly true of The Long House garden, particularly when inside there’s cricket to watch on the box, mince pies to finish up and the lure of a snug log-fire. Nonetheless despite our reluctance to venture into the dreary outdoors we have achieved a few things in the last few weeks. Most urgent was the need to replace the timber trellis that supported Rambling Rector, New Dawn, a couple of clematis and a honeysuckle: the wood posts had rotted after just five years in the ground (don’t get me started on why tanalising has had to give way to pressure treating…I’d bore you to death and blow a gasket in the process). So we decided to go for a galvanised metal structure to subtilely echo the design of the new wrought-iron work around Raymond’s Retreat. Tom at Glynde Forge did the easy bit and supplied and erected the metal work leaving Rosie and me to painfully and painstakingly hack back the roses before and prune and tie them in afterwards.

No sooner had that task been completed than the apple trees needed their bi-annual haircut. Not a job to be done in a hurry but because it spanned several days it was a perfect opportunity to plug in my iPod and listen to the Ring Cycle from start to finish. Six days later, and as Brünnhilde leapt onto the pyre for the second time, I theatrically snipped the final branch and nearly fell out of the tree in my fervour. Still, unlike her, I survived and now there’s another tedious job ahead: shifting the Puckamuck compost onto the flowerbeds. It should take no more than ten days…time enough to contemplate something I read recently: that the meaning of life is not 42 but gratitude. Gratitude at what is, might never have been, and one day will not be. So perhaps let’s start by being grateful that spring is almost on its way again.

Beethoven keeps your ears warm.

Funny old autumn. Never ending rain, floods, relatively warm temperatures. And Friston Forest’s best mushroom and toadstool season for years. But now winter’s arrived, the birds have ceased singing, the leaves have fallen, the days are getting colder and fellow dog walkers, normally quite chatty, are keeping their heads down.

Reason enough to don the headphones, switch the iPod to shuffle and let the music do the talking while I do the walking. And the random selection that shuffle comes up with is often quite bizarre: an aria from Don Giovanni, a song from Ella, Edith Evans expostulating about a handbag, I Was Glad alongside Strawberry Fields, Cretan dances on the heels of the Hallelujah chorus…I’m sure you get the picture.

And so often the conditions coincidentally match the music: Wagner and muddy paths, Vivaldi and breezy days, Mozart and sunlight, Bach when I’m counting my 10000 steps, Beethoven when it’s freezing cold.

Shuffle’s best when the goosebumps strike, the times when the hairs on the back of your neck stand up and your spine tingles. When Maria Callas as Mimi dies and Rodolfo (di Stefano) screams in horror, the moment when the soul of Gerontius passes into purgatory, the concluding chorus of Mahler’s Resurrection Symphony, the fireworks at the end of part one of Mahler’s Symphony of a Thousand and especially Solti’s version of the Chorus Mysticus at the very end of it, liebestod from Tristan & Isolde, Freddie Mercury’s Barcelona, the Sanctus from Berlioz’s Requiem sung by Michael Spyres…just a few of my nipple hardening moments.

I almost forgot: Beethoven’s Emperor concerto. That wonderful music, together with the headphones, is a sure-fire way of keeping out the chilliest winter weather. Who needs a scarf?

We really shouldn't moan...

…when the residents of Fishlake and many other villages north of Watford have been flooded out of their homes but I’ll have a little whinge anyway. My loyal readers will already know of the parsimony and nonfeasance of the Environment Agency (EA) from my musing on March 10th, 2017 while last month’s musing demonstrated the recent consequences of their lack of action.

But another five weeks of almost continuous rain has deepened the flood waters to such an extent that Westdean has been cut off from the outside world save via our escape route through the Friston Forest. And that’s another story: the mile-long track is riddled with pot holes (full of water so of unknown depth) and has two padlocked barriers with codes that have to be opened and closed regardless of the weather or time of day for ‘security’ reasons. Guess who doesn’t maintain the track and who insists that the barriers can’t be left open during emergencies: why, another government quango, the Forestry Commission.

Why is it that these large organisations don’t listen to local opinion? For years they’ve been told of the likely implications of their reluctance to maintain the land for which they are responsible but which they ignore either out of perversity, stubbornness or supposed lack of money. Last year, for example, the EA’s shingle clearing at the River Cuckmere’s mouth ceased for cost reasons. £50k a year was deemed unnecessary. So what has happened as a result? See for yourself:

Local anger was so enraged that our district councillors, even our MP got involved and the EA backed down and spent £2000 (yes, £2k not £50k) clearing the shingle. Immediately, literally the day after, the floods in the meanders disappeared:

Elsewhere is still flooded though slowly, very slowly, receding. And why is it taking so long? Because the sluices up and down the river aren’t maintained. They are either broken or in sufficient disrepair that they are not doing the job. And because the river is so silted up it hasn’t the capacity to carry the heavy rain’s excess water to the sea. Who should repair the sluices and dredge the river? The Environment Agency of course. I rest my case.

Rain, rain, glorious rain.

Though you can have too much of a good thing. ‘Well, exactly, yes, quite’ as the best and most musical umpire we ever had at Oatlands cricket club would say. His name was Peter Parker. Not the same Peter Parker that was top man at British Rail in the ’70’s though. He (the BR Chairman not the ump) wanted to appoint a new ad agency and arrived at Allen Brady and Marsh, one of the candidates - a top fashionable agency at the time - and was asked by a surly receptionist, filing her nails and smoking a fag, to wait in reception. The room was filled with overflowing ashtrays, half-empty coffee cups and magazines lying on the floor. An hour later, and fuming, he was greeted by Peter Marsh the MD and demanded an apology for the delay. Well, said Marsh, now you know how it feels to be a British Rail passenger. ABM got the business.

Sorry…got side-tracked. Back to the rain: October’s downpours have been too much. OK, we needed some wetness after weeks of dryness but coupled with high tides and the Environment Agency’s refusal to clear shingle from the Cuckmere’s mouth the local landscape has been transformed. The famous meanders ought to look like this (left) but (right) is how they now are:

And as for the rest of the Cuckmere Valley:

Talking of bicycles (which we weren’t but now are) our grand-daughter Bay was allowed to choose her 4th birthday present. Unsurprisingly she opted for this, and here she is on her very first ride…inside. It was raining.

And as a special treat, and because it’s still pouring outside and because you’ll need something to do this weekend and in case you missed my headline’s witty play on words, try this link. (Warning, it might give you an earworm. If so, chew some gum.) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AjnOj9O16_I 

After the Ashes.

Well, the little urn remains down under despite the series being drawn at two each. A pity we didn’t quite make it after Headingley where, as all my loyal readers will know, we won a famous match after being bowled out for 67 in the first innings, being set 359 to win in the fourth and being rescued by Sir Ben’s unbelievable innings of 135 not out to steal the match from the complacent Aussies. What memories!

But memory can masquerade as truth as an incident in the family beach cricket at Seaview (see my August musing) proves. The left hand picture shows what the batsman remembers while alongside is how the bowler recalls it. A trick of the light or what? 

Actually it’s quite a relief that the cricket’s all over. Instead of dragging a radio round the garden or dashing inside to see what Jofra, Rooty and co have been up to I can finally get on with the serious business of putting the garden to bed. Not that I was idle in August anyway. The old philadelphus that flowers so wonderfully in June needed some attention because it was bashing against the internet line when the wind blew but a minor haircut became a complete coppice when we realised how large it had grown. 

And the wild flower meadow had to be cut, raked, burnt and mown, which gave the dogs the chance to invent a game of their own - mouse taunting.

But the most exciting change in August was the swopping of the tatty, rusty old ironwork around Raymond’s Retreat. We commissioned young Tom Gontar of Glynde Forge to design, make and install it and here’s the before, during and after:

Thank goodness there’s now plenty of time to do the more mundane autumn clearing up: cutting back, leaf sweeping, final mowings and weeding, bonfiring, hedge cutting and pruning. Oh, hang on…there’s the rugby world cup for the next seven weeks. Bollocks.

Never go back?

We knew we had a fairly hectic summer of garden openings so we thought a short holiday in early August, joining up with the large Lloyd clan in the Isle of Wight, would be a nice break and relive, for me, many happy childhood holidays. Rosie, being a loyal soul, although not too keen on the prospect of endless games of beach cricket, went along with the plan thinking that Osborne House, the Garlic Farm, Ventnor's Botanical Gardens and exploring the island might provide some relief. So off to Seaview we went. As I remembered, it looked like this:

It still does, sort of. Except that instead of a few yachting types coming to enjoy a week or two’s sailing there’s been a mass invasion of tourists bringing their cars (especially chelsea tractors), motor boats, jet skis and surf boards along with an inevitable lowering of standards of behaviour. And if this sounds like the moanings of an old(er) man, well, I’m afraid it is. 

Still, there were compensations: beach cricket was fun, Osborne was interesting, the countryside was lovely, the dogs discovered the sea, we found a wonderful nursery (Eddington House), the Solent was endlessly fascinating, the garlic farm lived up to expectations and the weather was great. 

Nonetheless, where once a holiday on the island in August was a pleasure it’s convinced me that it’s best now to go out of season.

For amongst other reasons August is the month when home grown vegetables are at their most prolific and pot plants need a good drink every day. And even if you find someone kind enough to do the watering and pick the veggies there’s no guarantee that they’ll remember to do it. So my answer to it all is stay at home, pretend you’re on holiday, over-indulge on the food and booze, put your feet up, read a good book and let the weeds grow. It’s cheaper, you’re helping to save the planet and you’re not having to mix with the riffraff. Above all, you can keep your memories intact.

The magic of summer.

It’s been a disappearing trick…the last seven weeks have sped past and suddenly we’re almost into August. And the garden has changed from the perfection and optimism of early June to the blowziness of late July in the twinkling of an eye. I’ve come to the conclusion that that’s the trouble with opening the garden so frequently…we’re so busy keeping our heads down with the weeding, mowing, dead-heading, watering, cake-making and general organisation that we hardly have time to notice the subtle rhythms of the summer. But when I thumb through the photos of our visitors this year - four groups from Holland, one from Austria and one each from Eastbourne, Westhumble and Wimbledon plus of course the public opening day - it becomes much easier to spot the languid but inevitable changes.

But now we can relax a bit. No more visitors this season. We can - at least till yesterday’s rain and wind which flattened them - enjoy the hollyhocks. We brought one black flowered plant with us when we moved and thanks to the bees and The Long House conditions they’re thriving here.

And late July is the time of year when we’re asked to do a butterfly count. How many painted ladies have we seen? Well, none yet despite the apparent mass influx of them. And sadly also a total lack of any blues. Perhaps last summer’s heat, when there were hundreds in our meadow here, disturbed their breeding patterns. It’s also glow-worm spotting time too now. They’re on a decrease for sure…four years ago we found a few but haven’t seen any since. So for old time’s sake here’s a picture of each of the three.

Talking of our meadow, here’s how it’s changed in five weeks. The early season ox eye daisies and grasses have been replaced by a proliferation of wild flowers and thousands of bees, butterflies and insects…now that really is magic.

Dogs and art.

Hurrah. Rain at last. Not just a piddling drizzle but today the real McCoy. Which come to think of it, is an apposite term because Elijah McCoy, born 1844, invented amongst other things a very efficient lawn sprinkler. Other companies tried unsuccessfully to copy it but people, wanting one that worked properly, insisted on the real McCoy. Hence the expression. And talking of torrential rain, we’ve recently returned from Crete (again) where in February the island had in just a few days 4 times the monthly rainfall, causing billions of euros worth of structural and physical damage and considerable loss of life. None of which was reported in the British press because of bloody brexit. Here’s what we saw for ourselves in May:

But back to the subject in hand: dogs. As I was walking them a couple of days ago and idly musing about Taz’s recent injury, the horrendous vet bill and how it could have been even worse had he needed not just a few stitches but a total member replacement, when the other damn dog broke into my reverie with a series of quite blood curdling screams. What now? Broken leg? Cruciate ligament damage? Impaled on a branch? The two of them had been tearing round the forest and anything could have happened. Luckily for our bank balance it was nothing worse than a collision at high speed with a tree stump but dear Inky managed to milk it for all it was worth. They’d both like you to see how brave they’ve been:

And art? It always amuses me how the art world takes itself so seriously. One of the events at this year’s Charleston Literary Festival was a lady promoting her book on the surrealists. She spent over half an hour giving a po-faced account of the birth of surrealism and the painters and writers like Man Ray, Max Ernst, Marcel Duchamp and Salvador Dali without once admitting that they were really a bunch of piss-artists who were enjoying the louche Montparnasse cafe life and seeing what they could get away with in the name of art. Of course the surrealists produced some amazing work but pomposity about the subject has led inexorably to some quite dreadful installation art, about which laughter is the only recourse. Says me. Meanwhile Rosie, sculptor second only to Michelangelo, has an exhibition in our greenhouse, while her oil painting is improving daily under the tuition of England’s leading landscape painter after Gainsborough, Constable and Turner, Michael Cruickshank. See here and be amazed (bids welcome).

As it’s still pouring outside and in case you misread ‘Dogs and art’ for ‘Dogs in art’  I googled to see how many times they have featured in paintings. Here are just a few of the, literally, hundreds of occasions they’ve inveigled their way in. Almost certainly to help the artist pay his vet bills.

All photographs © Robin Lloyd