Equinox

Today is, I believe, the spring equinox.
It was calm and sunny when I got up at 7am.
It is now equinoctial, with rain flinging at the windows on an east wind honed to razor-sharpness.
The In-Charge had warned me, so I took the precaution of walking round the garden this morning, bidding adieu to all my lovely, upright daffodils.

I don't ever pick daffodils for the house because they last so much longer in the garden, and I'd rather see them there. Instead, I rescue odd handfuls of fallen ones every day..

There have been a lot of casualties this spring, thanks to the TeenQueen and Model Dog racing through the orchard every morning, not to mention the hens, who are extremely thoughtless where my flowers are concerned - despite my stern lectures - so between them all, my kitchen windowsill is generally full of broken daffodil heads stuck into little jars.
I expect there will be a big rescue-operation tomorrow as well, if this wind is anything to go by.

Down on the headland, I felt like Scott in the Antarctic, hat crammed on, earflaps firmly tied down, fighting my way into the wind. The dogs like the wind. They have the delicious sensation of being chased without being able to see who is about to grab them. They run so fast that you can't actually keep your eyes on them because it makes you dizzy. When they eventually slowed down I managed to get a - rather fuzzy - picture of them.

I think the horses like the wind too, although I felt rather sorry for them, having no shelter from it, especially the two tiny foals. They came running after us today, which they don't normally do, and for a brief moment, the TeenQueen thought of joining them for a mad dash around the lumps and bumps, but then she thought better of it.
Even she can count, and the odds weren't stacking up at all well
And they're bigger than she is.
And just a tinsy bit scary.
(I'm glad to say.)

So she high-tailed it inland across the rough grass, throwing out a challenge that Model Dog can rarely resist, and zig-zagged away like the hares she dreams about.
Then, on the far side of the headland, she spotted a flock of oystercatchers and managed to get them airborne in a flash, which was deeply satisfying.
It will be another exhausted evening on the fireside rug, I guess, and let the wind and rain do their worst.
Once the shutters are closed for the night, who cares?

Passing

The little bay

I took the dogs to the headland this morning.
The tide was right out, the little bay awash with seaweed, the water thick with seagulls.
The smell of the sea was so intense, it caught me in the back of the throat and sent me spinning through the years, to other days, other beaches, other dogs. Memories of another lifetime, it seemed, way back when time wasn't measured because it didn't matter.
Those days didn't feel like thirty years ago, but they did feel as if they'd slipped beyond reach.

Time changes as you get older. It is no longer a haphazard, generously proportioned patchwork, a kaleidoscope of shifting possibilities, an empty frame in which you are creating the picture.
It becomes mean and sly and penny-pinching. It stands at your side, licking the end of its pencil and noting everything down. Nothing slips by unremarked, and one way or another, everything must be paid for - even though the hours it measures out to you slip through your fingers like water.
But it's only when the past comes swooping back to grab you, that you realise how much everything has changed.

I found myself walking through the rough grass aching for days and people - for eras - that will never be again.

But it was a blue morning, calm and quiet, the sun warm on my back.
The headland horses came to say hello as we passed on our way to the lumpy dunes where the dogs love to race, or lie in the grass and ambush each other.

The headland horses come to say hello

It's probably the miniature hills and dells that make the headland so exciting for them. Whoever is playing the hare can never quite tell if she's about to be caught.
And it was only when I got to the top of the highest lump and looked back, I saw that one of the mares has had her foal. The tiny, dark creature was standing close to her, still wide-eyed at this world of mornings and evenings, of sunlight and starlight - too young to realise that all these things are just marking the passage of time.

Later, the tanker-man came to deliver heating oil. We stood in the sunshine and exchanged news. He always knows far more of what is going on than I do.
He was looking pensive as well, despite the spring weather.
'Someone up the road killed himself, this morning,' he told me.
I'd seen an ambulance, going past our gate - a rare sight in this quiet place.
Shocked, silenced, I didn't know what to say.
Tragically - in this quiet place - it seems to happen more and more these days.
'You never know how it is with people,' he said, eventually.

You never do.

Desert Island Women

Today is International Women's Day.
There are so many 'days' that you could make following them the sole focus of your life.
We have - apparently - just had 'National Cereal Day' and I even heard something about Pyjamas.
Don't even ask - I am as mystified as you are.
But International (maybe the Inter national is a clue here) Women's Day is something else.

Last year my CyberFriend, Isobel, marked the day on her blog, by paying tribute to some of the women who had influenced her life, and I have often thought of it since.
This year I would like to do the same.

Truthfully, I think they are too numerous to mention, but you have to start somewhere, and it is not far-fetched to say that these women's hands have helped shape the helix of my DNA. For that, I would like to thank them.

Rumer Godden with one of her beloved Pekingese

Perhaps I would have been a writer, no matter what. But it was being immersed in the magicical world of books when I was young that made me want to perpetually recreate that magic, and amongst others Elizabeth Goudge, Rumer Godden, Louisa May Alcott, Kathleen Wendy Peyton, Edith Nesbit, Rosemary Sutcliffe, Mary Noel Streatfeild, Frances Hodgson Burnett, the Bronte sisters, Georgette Heyer, Daphne du Maurier, Monica Dickens and Barbara Timewell were amongst my formative fairy godmothers. Later the influences ballooned and it would be hard to isolate a few names (though I'm sure I will do so, after this has been posted).

When you are a child, pictures can lead you into another world as surely as words, though they are not always necessary if your imagination is constantly straining at the bit. But, like most people, I have loved some books purely for their illustrations and discovered others through my son's eyes; and the images they have created in my head will be there forever. Janet and Anne Grahame Johnstone, Shirley Hughes, Jane Ray, Nicola Bayley, Cicely Mary Barker, Sheila Moxley and Margaret Tarrant are just some of the illustrators who have hugely enriched my life.

The Young King by Anne Grahame Johnstone - 'borrowed' from My Christmas Book of Stories & Carols pub by Award

And then of course, there is the poetry. Where to begin with poetry? Well why not with Carol Ann Duffy or Elizabeth Jennings, with Mary Oliver or Dorothy Parker, Carole Satyamurti, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, HD, Kathleen Coates, Jenny Joseph, Edna St Vincent Millay, Christina Rossetti - Ruth Fainlight, Diane Wakoski, Maura Dooley, I could go on and on...

Next it would have to be images. I couldn't exist without beautiful images. But if I was lost with the poet-list, I'm really sunk now, there are just too many, so perhaps I should keep this even more personal. Some of the images that make my life special every day have been created by Annabel Langrish, Hilda van Stockum, Heidi Wickham, Sarah Brecht and Sylvia Ripon. 

My treasured portrait of Top Dog by Sarah Brecht

And so far I haven't even included the women who make me laugh, like Sue Perkins, Jo Brand and Victoria Wood; the ones whose gardens have inspired me - Beth Chatto, Vita Sackville West and the Empress Josephine who bred so many roses; the ones who have filled life with small inspirations, like Francine Lawrence and Susy Smith - both editors of Country Living Magazine; the Hildegardes, Dame Julians and (again) Elizabeth Goudges who open up avenues into inspirations of other kinds; the Sandi Toksvigs, WTFs and Kirsty Warks for their ascerbic commentaries; the Audrey Hepburns, Yasmin le Bons and Sandra Bullocks of this world who are just hopelessly beautiful; the Candace Bahouths, Laura Ashleys and Tricia Guilds for exploding me into colour and pattern way back when; the Ella Fitzgeralds, Lesley Garrets and Rebecca Fergusons who make me wish I could sing; or the Svetlana Beriosovas, Marie Ramberts and Darcy Bussells who make me wish I could dance.

And then, of course, there is my mother, who taught me the joy of the little things in life.

My mother - from whom I also learned to love animals

I don't think Kirsty Young would let me take this amazing crowd to my desert island, but - in a way - I'd be taking them all anyway.
Thank you, wonderful women.

Mellow But Too Fruitful

Isn't is rather wonderful that most things mellow with age.
Even our irascible selves.
Even a vase of flowers.

It looks even prettier at the end of it's life than it did at the beginning.

The only thing that doesn't seem to mellow is my garden.

It is like a perpetually unruly toddler, filled with boundless energy and only waiting for my back to be turned to do exactly what it likes.

I am exhausted by my garden.

I love it, as presumably one loves one's toddler - however naughty. But it wipes me out.

After a month of ceaseless work, one tiny patch feels vaguely tamed - although once the rain returns even that will soon prove to have been an illusion.

Having - by some thoughtless oversight on the part of my parents - only one pair of hands, the other 95% of the garden is, so far, untouched. But even now it is summoning up all its newly awakened zest for life, and is gathering strength to burst forth with whatever it feels like growing.

I wonder what it will produce as 'This Year's Weed - DaDah!'

Not verbena bonariensis or papaver orientalis, I don't suppose, and needless to say, yet again, I will not be consulted in any of its decisions.

It is at times like these that one needs comfort.

Like many people, I keep a pile of books beside my bed.
It tends to grow rather than diminish, as I am very bad at moving on the ones I have read - there is always some quote I'm intending to copu out, or else I simply forget to put them back on the shelf.
The In-Charge once asked, very politely (all things considered), if I could deal with the pile, as he hadn't been able to hoover on my side of the bed. As I redistributed them, I counted.
73 books. I was shocked, but also pleasantly surprised to know that 73 books could be accommodated in such a relatively small space.
It gave me hope for when we come to 'downsize'.

The pile of books is a great comfort.
There is always some treasure to soothe my troubled mind or drown my woes in balm.
And of course, I never put all the books back on the shelf. One or two have to stay within handy reach, and this is the one I am reaching for now.

As you can see, it is well-thumbed

It never fails to lift my spirits when the garden reminds me who's boss, or gets uppity.
Which is surprising really, as it is full of magnificent pictures of magnificent gardens where not a weed dare show its face.

Come here to me, as they say in Ireland, and I'll give you a few tasters - several from France and one from America:

Words (for once) fail me

I gave up longing for this when I learned how many hours of sunshine a day irises need to thrive

I want this house just as much as I'd like the garden, so let me know when you're moving out Michel

Perfection. And if anyone has an urn like this that they don't want anymore, please get in touch.

But it doesn't really matter that these gardens are perfect in every detail.
That they each have - no doubt - teams of devoted tenders who pick up every stray leaf and tenderly clip the box hedges before breakfast, lift the tulips after elevenses and sow more peas in the afternoon. That because there are no weeds, it only takes a stroll around at dusk, glass in hand, to check for unwelcome arrivals in any of the flowerbeds.

I suppose it is more about aspiration and inspiration.
About the triumph of imagination over reality.
It is about rekindling the essence of your passion.
And I guess it's cheaper to drown your woes in balm than in champagne.

So if there are any garden-lovers out there, hie thee hence to your local bookshop and order a copy.
Give yourself a well-earned break.

Fashion Designers' Gardens

by Francis Dorleans, photographs by Claire de Virieu
ISBN: 9 780304 354375
My copy published by Cassell & Co

Lions and Lambs

It's been a quiet sort of month.
A heads-down, getting into the rhythm of things type of month. And largely unsociable.
Some ups and downs - like my poor Mrs Smith - but a good month nevertheless.
A month of measured days and new beginnings.  

When we first came to Ireland, someone described March as 'coming in like a lion and going out like a lamb'. It wasn't an expression I'd heard before, but it described that deeply petulant month perfectly.
Twenty years later the climate has adjusted to a different set of rules, or perhaps no rules at all, and now it seems that February has taken on the mantle of March - and this year it did indeed come in roaring.

We didn't have the snow that much of Ireland and most of Britain had, we just had hail and gales and rain, rain, rain. Everywhere squelched and water poured off every inch of the land. But for the last two weeks it has been as dry as a bone. Oh blessed relief.
We've had thick white frosts some mornings, and often an easterly wind like a knife, but I have spent hours of every day gardening with great satisfaction, protected from the north and the east alike by my ten foot, 200 year-old walls

TeenQueenSuperModel likes gardening. In fact, she tells me it's her most favourite thing of all.
Except for racing in the orchard. And breakfast. And walks. And cuddles. And snoozing on the fluffy bed by the fire.

Snoozing after a hard day's work

But apart from those, gardening is what Tiggers like best.
Model Dog also likes gardening, but then she likes doing whatever I'm doing.
It's rather a case of 'Wherever I go, there's always Pooh, there's always Pooh and me,' and I wouldn't have it any other way. I'd be lost without my Model Dog.

So, a-gardening we have gone.
The herbaceous border is practically done. As are my back and general muscle-system, but nothing's free, after all - and the pleasure it gives me to see the bed looking spick and span far outweighs the minor inconvenience of hardly being able to straighten up.
Now I can re-plant the things that have been heeled in here and there around the garden, mulch it as soon as the rain returns (which it will, it will), and then stand back and watch it all burgeon.
I will keep you posted.

Unfortunately, TeenQueen's gardening means that the lawn adjacent to my flower bed (although 'lawn' is perhaps a rather a high-falutin' name for that particular patch of grass)  looks like a graveyard. Or perhaps a charnel house.
It is littered with bones. Mostly just the remains of bones, and there ain't many remains.
While I dig, the dogs lie on the grass and munch their way through any and every marrow bone that Paul, our lovely butcher, can throw their way.
Model Dog used to be happy just lying on the grass, but since the advent of the TeenQueen - with her sharp young teeth and adolescent attention span - it is necessary to keep her constantly amused so that she doesn't get into mischief.
Bones are definitely what Tiggers like best. She demolishes them with indecent haste, and prances with excitement when she sees the gardening bucket come out.

But it hasn't been all gardening this month.
I've been writing again - getting back into my book; and enjoying the last days of winter sunshine in the woods; and the crisp blue days by the sea; and helping a friend; and doing a bit of crochet here and there; and knitting my patchwork squares; and loving the lighter mornings, the longer evenings, the end of the snowdrops and crocuses, and the start of the daffodils, primroses and violets.

It's that moment of the year when the winter is behind you and the joys of spring and summer are all to come - all still to come.

Hooked

The CrochetQueen, having taught me the basics of her wondrous craft last week, afterwards sent me a link on facebook.
And then, at the market yesterday, I had coffee with a GrandeDame of the art, and we sat happily stitching together while she further instructed me. She too sent me away with a link in my ear.
I'm not at all sure that either of them have done me a favour.

For one thing, I have burnt my knitting needles.
Knitting?
Who wants to knit when there is crochet out there waiting to be knotted?

You see what I mean?

I am not an owl by nature, but long after the In-Charge had carried his bad back off to bed last night, I sat up perusing the crochet-idyll of cyberspace. I stayed up until the candles guttered in their sockets and my screen flickered with the effort of staying awake.

But oh joy, oh rapture, oh itchy fingers!
Here are some of the treasures I found.
I hope no one minds me sharing them with you. Who knows, it might inspire you all to go out there and buy a hook!

Totally thrilling

Much too good to eat

    

Right up my street

If I had these, I'd leave all my clothes in a heap on the floor so I could see the hangers

How pretty is that?

BUNTING! I knew bunting was just WAITING to be made

Bored with making cupcakes? Iam. Maybe I'll give these a try instead. The more you eat, the thinner you get

A touch of Morocco

And some of you may remember this beauty on my blog last year.
I wanted it very badly indeed.
(I still do.)

Well, for all you mad cyclists out there - how about this instead?

Or compromise. Have a rickshaw (probably safer on city streets than a bicycle, and there's room for the shopping too).

Small wonder I lay awake in the small hours wondering if I can spare the time to sleep at all?



Do you think, if I'd learned to crochet at a young age, my life might have taken a different course?

Well, be that as it may, I am well and truly hooked now, at any rate.

The photos on this post have come from:
For the Love of Crochet
Comunidade De Arte E Artesanato
Colorful Arts And Crafts
 

Or if you prefer pure art, have a look at Prudence Mapstone's website

Caught Napping

I love winter, but by now, it always seems to have gone on for an incredibly long time.
It's been wet, cold, windy and miserable for as long as I can remember.
And I can't wait for Spring - probably the most eagerly anticipated season of the year.

But the same thing happens to me every year.
Suddenly one day I realise that Spring has been and gone and done it's thing while I was - well, what was I doing?
Waiting, I suppose.
Anticipating


How unappreciative is that?

Viburnum Bodantense flowers all winter, bless its cotton socks

It's not that things pass me by. I always notice.
The snowdrops start first, often before New Year even and then, too early for their own good, the first tiny, fragile little violets peep out. The viburnum Bodantense continues in full throttle, despite having been flowering since October, and then the blue, blue flowers of the delicate anemone blanda appear. And - suddenly - wham, bam, everywhere you look, weeds are popping out of the ground like jack-in-the-boxes - or should that be jacks-in-the-box?

The orchard blossoms

I think, deep down, I am waiting for bugles and trumpets and a massive fanfare. For an Official Announcement on the Today Programme, a banner across the sky proclaiming: 'Let it be known - Spring has arrived!'

So brief, so beautiful

Instead of which, with horror, I suddenly realise that we are into the Pheasant's Eyes - the very last of the narcissus to flower; that the camassia are over; the tulips are blown; the leaves are opening on the first of the big trees and that the brief, wondrous moment when I thought I was in control of the garden has flown for another twelvemonths.

So this year, bearing Jeanette Winterson's words in mind - 'the time is now and the place is here and there are no second chances at a single moment.' (quoted just a week ago in my post, A Heartbeat), I am determined not to let it happen again.

It helps that I have been out gardening like a fiend. I have been trying to tame my herbaceous border which has run rather wild this last year or two.

Not a pretty sight

Hugo, our lovely Frenchman, got me going by (effortlessly) digging up the thugs for me, and helping me replant them in the new, whimsically named Moon Garden, where, as far as I'm concerned, they can fight it out between themselves.
Now I am gradually working my way along the bed, clearing it, dividing plants, removing weeds, and generally improving everything's living conditions.
A slow but rewarding process.
And even though it's still only February, a week of sunshine has brought everything on so fast that I am only just in time - another week and some plants wouldn't appreciate being uprooted at all.

Getting there - slowly

Model Dog and the TeenQueen have been a big help.
Model Dog is an old hand, but gardening is new to SuperModel.
She has taken to it in a big way.
Lying on the grass, soaking up the rays and reducing vast marrow bones to matchsticks is just what Tiggers like best.

So, Spring - HELLO!
Nice to see you!
Please make yourself at home, and hang around, who don't you?
Have a cuppa - in fact, have two. Or a glass of wine. Let's make a celebratory cake! There's really nothing else I'd rather do than keep you company.

The spring is sprung, the grass is riz,

I wonder where the boydie is?

They say the boyd is on the wing -

But that's absoyd!

The wing is on the boyd!

And if you don't believe me, measure the height of your lawn tonight and then measure it again in the morning!

A bouquet of loveliness