Vera, You Are Utterly Fabulous: Leycesteria formosa

Being the completely appalling wretch that I am, (and Darling of my charming, witty and erudite readers), I haven't been checking my emails for months. Consequently I missed Vera's ident which she hopefully posted alongside this post about Rod Stewart

 

Anonymous (that's Vera) said...

 

I wanted to comment your Sheffield Botanical Gardens; What Is This Plant? (posted on Thursday, January 09, 2014, but it has not comments allowed). In case no one answered it yet. :) I guess it's Leycesteria formosa. :)
Vera

Yes. Yes, absolutely correct. Thank God for people like Vera.

 

 

If This Is It...I'd Choose Right Now ... by Newton Faulkner

Remember this? -->

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4As0e4de-rI

The whole summer built up to the 2012 Olympics, and finally Friday night arrived and we all settled in to watch the opening ceremony. Sound turned up to eleven, windows open against the heat, curtains drawn against the sunshine, everything on ice and everyone in their chosen seats...

... then James Bond leaps effortlessly up those red carpeted stairs, sidesteps the corgis at the top and we all thought, "Oh it's that woman who does the impersonations..." And then she turned round and we all screamed "OMG it's the Queen!"

And Daniel Craig reflected the zeitgeist when he paused, blinked ("Yes, I am in character with HMQE2 and she's playing along..."), then turned on his heel and carried on. Perfect, perfect Danny Boyle genius.

And yesterday I found this on YouTube --> all the best bits of the 2012 London Olympics. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TbsXUJITa40

Its the backing track music that makes it. Newton Faulkner's song If this Is It.

 

 

If I had one night where sunshine could break through
And show you everything,
I’d choose right now.
If this is it, all we have,
I know I’ve done all I can.
If this is it.
And we can't stop,
And start again,
We can't fast forward to the end.
This is it.

On Head Gardeners and On Their Comings and Their Goings

My most favourite head gardener died at the back end of January, deepest winter with snow on the ground. Sometimes the snow was so deep the hospital grounds men shovelled it onto spaces in the car parks just to be able to get visitors at least somewhere to park. Over eleven days of comings and goings you get to understand how hospitals work for visitors.

 

The staff were utterly, utterly wonderful. If you were to describe a pitch perfect care standard, this would be it. Woefully understaffed, still at their station an hour after the end of their shift and thus unpaid, writing up notes and asking passing visitors if they needed a tea tray; in the middle of their unpaid overtime, still caring enough for the welfare of the friends of the dying. Over the days you become familiar with other patients in adjoining rooms; moving from a discreet nod and small smile to preserve their dignity and privacy; to hellos then, "I've popped in to sit with her as I knew you'd be stuck in the traffic;" to "they've managed to stabilize my renals so I'm all set for discharge and that means I can restart my chemo next week;" to finally arriving at night with a set of rellies from the airport and the adjoining room has a new face so the polite nodding begins again.

 

Throughout our comings and goings, quietly to not disturb the rhythm of the clinical care needs on this busy, busy ward, amid the bustle and bright lights, the housekeeping staff brought in tea trays. Not a couple of mugs of tea, but the whole thing; teapots and cups and saucers, always a saucer of biscuits and an instruction to just keep making ourselves a fresh pot when needed. When the ward receptionist saw you arrive with more relatives, she clearly had a word and sandwiches appeared, "because its a long way from East Midlands and you won't have stopped on the way..." You can have all the star ratings and finest surgical outcomes you like, but if you get the care of friends and relatives right, you'll probably be getting everything else right, too.

All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain... if the Tories get in on May 7th. Get out. Get your ballot papers out, and get the Tories out.  

Valentine's Day 2014: The Little Land of Me

 

I came across Naomi Johnson, creator of these gorgeous little artworks at her workplace last year. She is as lovely as her creations.  If only you saw her range of Christmas decorations, each one handmade to Naomi's meticulous standards. Guess the price of the red felt heart above; £3.00.

 

And this perky little key ring; £1.00.  Yes really, a pound! I've ordered several for little stocking fillers ready for next Christmas.

But the green wreath above is my favourite decorative item this spring, and is going to feature heavily in my Easter decorations in the weeks to come. 9cm diameter an absolute steal at £2.00.  Two pounds!

 

http://www.etsy.com/uk/shop/TheLittleLandOfMe?ref=l2-shopheader-name

 

If we are to reflate our economy, we must support young, skilled British designers like Naomi.  For as William Morris so perfectly stated; "If you want a golden rule that will fit everybody... Have nothing in your houses that you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful."

On Dreaming Of Runner Beans

On A Cold And Snowy Weekend In Canterbury

I hate, loathe and detest driving in icy conditions.  After only a few miles I feel sick from all the adrenalin.  I hate walking on icy pavements, too.  This probably has its roots in a childhood skiing accident.  I do, however, love paddling about in the snow as I have a pair of military-depth-tread boots reserved for just such occasions.  Suitably booted, I can trot about in the snow all day, although admittedly I do get a little twitchy when the sun starts to drop and I'm out in the middle of fields, etc.  We all know vampires don't exist but those films are so realistic, aren't they?

When the snow and ice begin to melt, I revert back to my tan leather boots, especially when walking at the seaside, where I have never before seen snow piled up on the beach.  Miracles and wonders. 

Seville Orange Marmalade

There are some terribly important rules to follow when making marmalade.  Here they are;

1. Do exactly as Delia instructs. 

Once you have made Delia's marmalades for a couple of seasons, you will then be in a position to use your own experience and then and only then are you allowed to make the following deviations from Delia's instructions;

2. Do not use pectin enriched sugar; complete waste of money. Your citrus is full of pectin, and if you have used frozen citrus, simply add the juice from an extra lemon.

3. Refuse to engage with the mind-numbingly tedium that is cutting off the citrus' pith. Pith removal must be abandoned, especially when making grapefruit marmalades.  Pith will all boil to nothing and release so much pectin you won't need the pectin sugar.
4. Pomelo or ugli fruit never set and produce a bland, flavourless mess.  What a waste of your life, especially if you stripped then shredded all that pith...

5. Just tie up the pips in the bit of muslin.

6. Boil the marmalade for 15 minutes only, do the frozen saucer test then turn off the marmalade pan and let it all settle.  Your marmalade will be softly set, especially if you've thrown in an extra lemon just for badness' sake.  There are few things as repellent at breakfast time as a boiled to buggery, firm-set marmalade, although runny boiled egg white comes a close second.  Makes me want to boke just thinking of that...

7. Replace a litre of water with a litre carton of clementine juice in your orange shred marmalade.  Also, consider adding a carton of mohito cocktail mix to your lime shred marmalade.  Oh yes.

Lingua di Fuoco; Borlotti Beans

 





 

The Slacker Diaries Part 3

I have been engaged in some interesting gardening this winter, mostly photography.  That I haven't bothered to upload evidence here, is really due to my natural tendency towards idleness when it comes to my camera.  This morning, I thought I'd better upload everything in case I dropped it again into the pond...  backdated photos to follow.

Spring Bulbs In Washed Food Tins From Cora

Spring bulbs in washed food tins from Cora?  I bet you thought this sounded crazy back in October, but look at the results this the weekend.  Just lovely, a splash of memories from my French kitchen in the middle of an English winter.

Pinaceae Abies balsamea "Hudsonia"

Pictured at RHS Harlow Carr back in February.

St Valentine's Day

RHS Harlow Carr

On Avoiding Gardening, Part 3

The snow had a lot to do with it. A whole month, near enough, from before Christmas to well into New Year, practically half way through January and almost up to the end of the month. Heavenly, heavenly, wonderful, deliciously cold and white and most importantly of all, "sticking" snow.

Of course the garden suffered, not having seen snow like this since the 1960's. The older, established trees had within their heartwood memories of hard, prolonged, unrelenting winters. "They stood, and earth's foundations stay." The newly planted trees, those less than a decade out of seed, sprang back and shed days worth of accumulated snow relatively easily, their young and sturdy branches used to bending most of the summer under the weight of too many fruits.

The Merlot vine, perfectly pruned and beautifully tied into the wires against the south facing wall held onto its white coverlet, and just blazed through each day; glaringly white, wonderfully bright. "Here I am, bouncing bright white light into your kitchen, calling you to stand at the windows and admire my brilliance." And stand at the windows I did. And make snowmen. A whole row of them with carrots for noses and very rude/anatomically correct (depends on your point of view and the age of your children making them with you) dangly bits. "Mum, when it snowed last February we all piled out of halls and made huge snowmen just like this, and posted them on YouTube and Facebook. Then some jackass texted (___ the rival halls) and offered them out. Within 15 minutes the place was swarming and they ran straight into our ambush. We nearly killed them."

I love being the mother of children old enough to be away most of the time at uni and beyond. I also love standing at the french windows in my kitchen staring out at the garden. Recently it's been mostly raining. But just this week, and forecast for next week too, a few snow showers and sub-zero temperatures appeared. My beloved safety boots, my fleecy wrap-ups, my pink Derby County woollen hat, my waterproofs and Felcos are calling to me, and I'm ready to start back to gardening. Truly, truly I lead the life of Riley.

The Captain's Verses : A Soldier's Love Letter From The Desert

You will come with me,

in that hour I wait for you,

in that hour and in every hour,

in every hour I wait for you.

And when the sadness that I hate

comes knocking at your door,

tell it that I am waiting for you

and when loneliness wants you to change

the ring in which my name is written,

then tell loneliness to talk to me,

tell it that I had to march

because I am a soldier,

and that there where I am,

under rain or

underfire,

my love, I am waiting for you,

I wait for you in the harshest desert

and by the flowering lemon tree,

in every land where life exists,

where spring is born,

my love, I wait for you.

If they say to you: "That man

does not love you," remember

that my feet are alone in this night, and they

search for the sweet, tiny feet I adore...

...and your soul which I awoke

so that it should keep on singing

until the end of life...

My love, I am waiting for you.

Farewell, my love, I am waiting for you.

My love, my love, I am waiting for you...

And so this letter ends

without any sadness;

my feet are firm on the ground,

my hand writes this letter on my travels

and in the middle of life I shall be

always

next to my friend, facing the enemy,

with your name on my lips

and a kiss that never

went away from yours.

Pablo Neruda: The Captain's Verses

I shall complain no more about failing to meet the potting up deadline for hyacinths to flower in time for Christmas. There can be so much excess at Christmas; colours, lights, details, lists, shopping, baking, tidying, Masses, Christmas cards to post and the rooms to decorate. In all of this the simple colours of the bowls of spring bulbs are lost. Better to leave them rooting away in the icy darkness of the outhouses, and bring them into the light and warmth after the Feast of the Epiphany.

The seemingly grey and empty time that appears after the putting away of the tree and its sparkling baubles, is swept away by the beauty and scent of the spring bulbs, Paperwhite Narcissi, "Bridal Crown" all the way from the Holy Land, and as here, Dutch hyacinths. I place bowlfuls on all the window ledges and once the blooms open to the warmth and sunlight, the rooms are filled with their powerful scent. My January and February are filled with sunlight and snow and the scent of spring. Gaudium et spes. And my year stretches ahead with delight.

And On And On It Snows

"Our snow was not only shaken from the whitewash buckets down the sky, it came shawling out of the ground and swam and drifted out of the arms and hands and bodies of the trees; snow grew overnight on the roofs of houses like a pure and grandfather moss, minutely white-ivied the walls and settled on the postman, opening the gate, like a dumb, numb thunderstorm of white, torn Christmas cards."

"Were there postmen then, too?

"With sprinkling eyes and wind-cherried noses, on spread, frozen feet they crunched up to the doors and mittened on them manfully. But all the children could hear was a ringing of bells."

"You mean that the postman went rat-a-tat-tat and the doors rang?"

"I mean the bells that the children could hear were inside them."

"Or I would go out, my bright new boots squeaking, into the white world, on to the seaward hill, to call on Jim and Dan and Jack and to pad through the still streets, leaving huge footprints in the hidden pavements."
"Looking through my bedroom window, out into the moonlight and the unending smoke-coloured snow, I could see the lights in the windows of all the other houses on our hill and hear the music rising from them up the long, steadily falling night. I turned the gas down, I got into bed. I said some words to the close and holy darkness, and then I slept."

Dylan Thomas: A Child's Christmas in Wales

Hello Beautiful: Galanthus Nivalis

Galanthus nivalis, the common snowdrop, signals that winter is coming to an end, that spring is just around the corner.

Walk Of The Month: Derbyshire

I've lifted the enclosed in its entirety from this weekend's Daily Telegraph, because that's the view I have driving Merci Beaucoup Enfant Deux to school over the mountains. Although obviously, I don't actually climb Stanage Edge...

"Christopher Somerville feels the weight of history in Derbyshire as he follows in the giant footsteps of Little John and Charlotte Brontë.

"It was a red dawn and a murky sunrise as I drove north into Derbyshire. But when I swung over Bradwell Edge and looked down into the lush farmland of the Hope Valley, the snake of mist that traced the curves of the River Derwent was already shredding away. By the time I got to Hathersage, the gritstone houses and road walls were sparkling under a pale sun.
On a pub sign I spotted a likeness of Little John, Hathersage's most famous son. The fierce but genial giant who once tumbled Robin Hood into a stream stood depicted in tunic of untraditional blue, his nickname abbreviated to a curt, if trendy "LJ". Up in the churchyard of St Michael and All Angels I found his grave, long enough for two ordinary mortals.
Those who opened the grave in 1784 reported finding an immense thighbone nearly three feet long. Little John's mighty bow and cap of Lincoln green hung in St Michael's Church for hundreds of years; his cottage near the churchyard stood until it was demolished in the 19th century. Whatever the facts about Robin Hood's right-hand man, Hathersage continues to bask in the reflected glory of the Big Man of Sherwood Forest.
I pondered his provenance as I climbed the frost-whitened field paths north of the valley. In the 12th century the Hope Valley lay within the northern bounds of Sherwood Forest. Could bold Robin and brave John have lain among the ancestors of these oaks and beeches, the grey goose-feather flights pulled tight beside their ears, a fine fallow hart in their sights?
The handsome Tudor house of North Lees Hall stands close under Stanage Edge. Its tower spawned a tale in the mind of a 19th-century governess, a fable that has earned an immortality to equal that of Robin and his Merrie Men. Charlotte Brontë first caught sight of the pale stone tower in 1845 when she came for a three-week stay in Hathersage with her friend Ellen Nussey, sister of the village vicar.
The local surname of Eyre caught Charlotte's inner ear, too. Soon Jane Eyre would apprehensively approach the dark tower of Thornfield Hall, lair of the saturnine Mr Rochester: "It was three storeys high, of proportions not vast, though considerable: a gentleman's manor-house, not a nobleman's seat: battlements round the top gave it a picturesque look."
Those battlements were the setting for one of the most dramatic scenes in literature, as poor mad Mrs Rochester made her final bid for freedom from a terrible fire she had started: "...she was on the roof, where she was standing, waving her arms above the battlements, and shouting out till they could hear her a mile off... She...had long black hair; we could see it streaming against the flames as...Mr Rochester ascended through the skylight...we saw him approach her; and then, ma'am, she yelled and gave a spring, and the next minute she lay smashed on the pavement."

For five minutes I stood at the gate, staring up at the tower, struck still and dumb by the power of that tremendous moment. I had walked on through the bare trees and up the ancient packhorse road to the summit of Stanage Edge before the picture faded and was overlaid by more immediate images - helmeted rock climbers festooned with rope, walkers filing up the rocky path of Jacob's Ladder, and, soaring above all, the rainbow arc of a paraglider's sail.
Stanage Edge, the rocky rim of what was once a gigantic dome of millstone grit, is a climbers' and boulderers' heaven. The grey adhesive rock, fractured into steps, cracks and layers, offers challenges to test tyro and expert alike. Famous names from that introverted, macho and phenomenally athletic world, the hardest of the "hard man" school - Don Whillans, Nat Allen, Joe Brown - cut their teeth along these modest-looking crags.
They and their successors dubbed every climbable crack and interstice with names superbly curt and clipped: Goliath's Groove, Agony Crack, The Unconquerables, The Vice, Blockhead Direct, Queersville, Eliminator.
I strode the flat, tricky gritstone pavement along the Edge, face to the wind, in a kind of high-level ecstasy. Climbers crouched and sprawled in impossibly heroic poses on every crag. Beyond them, a most enormous view opened to the south and west across the frosted fields and shadowy moors and edges of the Dark Peak. To the left ran cream and purple moors, the wind streaming their pale grasses so that the whole wide upland appeared to be in motion, racing north into Yorkshire.
Quitting Stanage Edge at last did not mean quitting these wonderful heights. Higger Tor and Carl Wark lay ahead, flat-topped tors like castles. I stormed their walls in an outpouring of supercharged energy.
Then, breathless and buffeted by the cold and wind, I dropped down through tumbled meadows around Mitchell Field Farm and the mock-baronial miniature fortress of Scraperlow House; down towards Hathersage, the warmth and light of the Scotsmans Pack inn, and the grey church spire that marks where Little John lies sleeping until Robin's horn wakes him for one last chase through the glades of the eternal Forest."

"You could ride an elephant through the Tube and no-one would be particularly surprised."

Once again, Annie Mole and her great blog have provided a lesson to the world on what it means to be British. April, you may want to set this as a future homework for Little-Miss-Brit-in-the-making.

http://london-underground.blogspot.com/2008/02/tube-thriller-video.html

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X6EDAZ3crdY