To Tree Or Not To Tree

NOT what I need for the Bloom garden, but Lucy and I quite fancied these as patio umbrellas

BLOOM 4

I spent a good bit of last week looking at trees.
In fact, I find myself looking at trees all the time. In hedgerows as I'm driving, in other peoples' gardens, in the woods with the dogs. And they are no sooner seen than categorised.
Too big - too small - good shape - not enough branches.
Birch - willow - hazel - alder. Sycamore even. Beech - if only.
And then there's the ash.
There are a lot of ash. They are beautiful trees.
I often find that the perfect specimen I've just eyed-up is an ash.
I was offered three perfect young ash trees, well - in fact a horse tried to eat them some years ago, but, having recovered, the resultant shapes were perfect - but it ain't gonna happen.
It is illegal to even lift an ash from the ground at the moment, let alone transport it to Dublin.

On Saturday, Jack took me to see some apple trees.
I have been on the hunt for a likely apple tree since January.
We walked around an old orchard just a couple of villages away.
The owner has kindly said I can borrow one. And a couple of cherries too - if I bring them back, and help Jack set the orchard to rights, which is fair enough. Jack is kindly going back to lift them on Thursday, which knots my stomach uncomfortably. I hate the thought of lifting these trees. Suppose they don't like it? Suppose they curl up their little torn roots and die? They are a bit neglected, and a bit overshadowed by a row of massive sycamores, but they aren't dead. Yet.

But if the garden at Bloom is to be made, trees we must have, and a) I haven't got the budget to buy them, and b) I can't find the right ones to buy anyway.
It's all very difficult.
I wish I'd known this was 'Go-go-go!' last autumn. At least then we could have trenched around these trees, let them make some little rootlets, steadied themselves against the shock.
But you know what they say - if wishes were horses...(they'd eat all the ash trees).

Anyway, there's no rest for the wicked.
On Sunday we loaded the Models into the car and headed off to Leitrim, to see a man about a cabin.
It's a bit of a puzzle, Leitrim. In my head it's sort of northeast of here, but to get there we drove an hour and a half down the road to Dublin.
Hmm. But it was a good day and the sun shone.

We ended up in the middle of a forest, talking to two lovely people while I secretly admired the way they live in such close connection with the land. Their garden was a delight - and the antithesis of mine. It has grown, bit by bit, into spaces that were once woodland, and most things that want to grow are allowed to grow. (Which doesn't happen in gardens that belong to control-freaks.) Their old cottage, in the middle of the clearing, has had a bit added on here and there, and is hunkered down seamlessly into its environment.
Outside the door - every door - flowers spilled out of old clay pipes and scillas spread across the ground like pale, early bluebells, while the dogs - ours and theirs - ran around like kids at a party.
It was a place of ease in the best sense, a place of welcome, and letting-live.

Niall weaves hazel and willow and makes all kinds of things from wood, including yurts frames - his own is pictured here, waiting for its sedum roof this spring - as well as chairs with character and traditional hay rakes and all kinds of other things.

He is going to build Yeats's cabin for me (the bit of it we need), from 'clay and wattles'.
I'm delighted.
If he weaves the magic of his homeplace into it, it will bring all the zen I could wish for into my little garden at Bloom. 

Blooming Gardens

BLOOM 1

I can understand why teenagers are constantly tired.
They are in the novitiate of life, and it's all exhausting.
I know, because I'm a novice at the moment.

This year is Yeats2015 - it's the 150th anniversary of the great poet's birth and there are events going on all over the place. You might have spotted one near you - Harp Concerts every full moon, Yeats on the London Underground, poetry readings at 1pm every day in Hargadons in Sligo, Yeats at the NLI in Dublin - and tomorrow he might pop up in Paddy's Day celebrations anywhere in the world, who knows!

I seem to have been living and breathing Yeats and I haven't even been to a concert or a reading yet. I haven't had time.
I was asked - last year - to design a Yeats Garden for Bloom 2015 and, knock me down  with a feather, it's been accepted and now I have to make it happen!
That's where the novice bit comes in.
Much as I love all things to do with gardens and garden festivals, I've never been involved in building a show garden before.

I've had plans, lists, phone numbers, websites and emails coming out of my ears.
I dream in square metres and my heart beats to the rhythm of plant names in Latin.
I am no longer seeing landscapes and backyards - everywhere I go, I am eyeing up possibilities and potential specimens.
And discovering how incredibly generous people are - with their time, their support, the contents of their flower beds...

Today, stomach muscles clenching in case I was making a mistake - I appointed a contractor. I wanted to appoint two - well, three actually. All of the ones I'd approached.
I think they'd all do a fantastic job, and each had something special to bring to the (potting) table. But of course it doesn't work like that, so I had to choose. I wish they knew how hard it was to make the decision - I'd much rather we all mucked in together, but life isn't like that unfortunately.
I hope I've chosen the right one. Time - as in all things - will be the judge of that.

And meanwhile, my own garden is abandoned and neglected.
It will forgive me, I daresay. In fact, in my absence, it will party its way through Spring and early summer, inviting in all the less salubrious types to dance through my borders and stay for indeterminate sleep-overs - you know, the docks and dandelions, the goosegrass - oops, sorry, the rumex obtusifolius, taraxacum officinale and galium aparine, I ought to say...

It'll be nice when I get past the tired and stomach-clenching bit.
Maybe that should be 'if' - 
My contractor said: 'It'll get worse before it gets better', and he ought to know.
Yikes!
But there again, by his own admission, he does go back and do it all over again year after year...   
Hmmm.
I'll keep you posted.

Felt All Over

When we were at the Museum of Country Life recently, the bit I liked best wasn't the Museum at all (fab and all as that was).
It was the Café.
No surprise there, cake-aholic that I am, but - although they had very delicious cakes - it wasn't even that.
It was the exhibition of felt pieces on display that grabbed me.
One of the waitresses said they'd been made by local school kids.
I wanted to take them all home - the felt, not the kids.

Some of the wonderful display of felt pieces

I love making felt. I think it should be obligatory for everyone at some stage, male or female.
So many people over the years have said to me: 'I'm not a creative kind of person'.
I find that very hard to believe. Everyone is creative. If they think they aren't, they just haven't plugged into the right socket yet. They probably haven't had the opportunity to be creative.
They need to go on a felting course, even if it's only for a single morning.

No one can fail to be creative with felt.
And who knows where one small session of 'making' might lead?
That would just be the start of it.

I think problems with creativity are largely about expectations.
Take art. For nine and a half out of every ten of us, there is such a gaping chasm between what we see in our heads - or even in front of our eyes - and what we manage to produce on paper/canvas or whatever, it's no surprise we feel as if FAILURE is stamped on our foreheads after every sorry attempt.
It's the same with so many creative disciplines.
The words you write don't express what you'd like to say.. The lump of clay won't centre on the wheel, no matter how often you try. The pink fluffy whatsit you're making doesn't look anything like the one in the magazine.
It's as if there's some vital link missing somewhere in the chain from brain to hand - the messages aren't getting through, or else they're being distorted en route. Your head wants to achieve but it ain't coming out through your fingers.

I guess it's probably age related as well. It's ok to splodge paint about when you're four, you're thrilled with anything at that stage, but splodges aren't terribly satisfying if you're 40 and you were hoping to run up a little Cezanne.

It isn't like that with felt.
Possibly because there aren't really any expectations with felt - or certainly  not in those vital, early stages.
You start with a bit of wool in your hands. You choose a colour you like, several colours that appeal to you.
You have soap and water, and someone shows you how to work them together, with a chik or a mat or something to provide a bit of friction.
You work away in the dark - you can't even see what you're doing.
But voilà - magic happens willy nilly.

When you unwrap your warm, soapy bundle, there it is - a unique fusion you have created without glue, or needle and thread, or any other invasive method of joining. The colours you have chosen have come together in a pattern that you may or may not have devised, to form an entirely new material that is robust yet fragile, tactile yet also a feast for the eyes, enduring yet delicate.
You cannot help but be thrilled - I promise you.

I'll promise you something else too.
You'll want more.

Gradually you become more adventurous.
You try bigger, more elaborate, more precise, more abstract, wilder, finer tuned - who knows, but whatever it is you want to try, more will be the operative word.
More and more and more.
It's fun, it's alive, it's creative, it's addictive.
It's failure-proof.
You cannot help but create felt, and you cannot help but create pattern.
It's just so satisfying.

There was also a fab collection of birds made from felt and scraps of other materials

If you don't believe me, get on-line and find a felting course near you, or ask around and when you've found one, don't hang about - try it.
You won't be disappointed.
And who knows where that portal will end up taking you?
And you'll never again think you're not creative, either.

Oh, and if you're anywhere near The Museum of Country Life in the next few weeks, pop into the Café and see this lovely exhibition while you can - I don't know how long it'll be there.

Time to get felt all over.

Blessings in Disguise

The gulls were high in the sky this morning, shrieking with laughter; the sky blue from end to end, and the sun hot on the back of my neck as I walked round the garden with the dogs.
I often wonder what the seagulls find so funny, but I love to hear them, just as I love to hear the rooks shouting and arguing like souk stall-holders.

It was not thus yesterday.
We awoke to wind and rain, and the day had that settled look that doesn't bode well when it's wet.
It was Bank Holiday Sunday, and over our bacon, eggs and marmalade we relinquished our gardening and wall-mending plans and debated whether or not to give in to the weather and curl up beside a fire with books and movies.
But then I remembered that a friend had posted about a craft fair on Facebook.
We piled into the car and set off.
It was being held in the Museum of Country Life's hallowed precincts in Co Mayo.

I admit with shame that despite having lived here for the last two decades, I've not previously visited the Museum. I've driven past it on numerous occasions, but only en route to somewhere else.
It occupies an old country house, and the new building housing the bulk of the exhibits, has been beautifully designed to fit as minimally as possible into the grounds.

A stray grass stalk spoiling the view of The Museum of Country Life

We had a great afternoon.
The grounds contain a small lake, a lovely greenhouse, a garden with herbaceous planting alongside a second lovely greenhouse, some handsome trees and a few interesting sculptures.

My camera pretended to take some nice pictures of the rampant flowers in the greenhouse

I took lots of photos in the gardens, but unfortunately my camera battery was on its last legs and it turns out that it was just pretending to take pictures, something I only discovered when we got home and it was too late to take them all over again.  I must have spent a good hour clicking away in happy oblivion. Mercifully it did finally resort to the black screen of death.
Luckily the In-Charge had his camera too, but he'd disappeared soon after we'd arrived. He's better at museums than I am, and was doing the rounds - methodically.

#2 Son and I headed to the Craft Fair in a marquee behind the house, and had a great time chatting to the different stall holders. Two friends were there, Liz Courtie who makes jewellery and buttons and ceramics and Jane Dunn who is an artist and sells prints and cards of her work.

Liz Courtie's ceramics and Jane Dunn's paintings and prints

We admired some felting and bought some goat's milk soap from Carra's Garden, and spent a long time chatting to Ella, a potter from Poland who had a range of stuff glazed with blue glass that sang to us. Her pottery is called Mood Designs.

Gorgeous blues, birds, felt and soap from Mood Design and Carra's Garden

Afterwards we joined the In-Charge on his tour of the museum. At least, we tried to, but once again he proved to be so elusive that we started to wonder if he'd actually accompanied us after all.
The museum was full of people, and was interesting, but I get a bit claustrophobic in museums, so, although I did the full tour, mine was, well, on the quickish side.

Eventually we all met up in the cafe and ate large wodges of cake, and then I borrowed the In-Charge's camera and went off to take a few photos - alas, not of the gardens.

As we were driving away, we paused to admire the bird boxes amongst the trees along the drive - there were lots of them.

 

An array of bird boxes in the grounds

I am very into bird boxes, especially having read that 12 wrens saved their lives by huddling together inside a nesting box during the very cold winter a few years ago.
I'm not sure that birds would nest in the Museum's boxes - I've a feeling birds are very particular about front door size and things like that - but they looked very pretty, and you never know.

While I was admiring the bird boxes, I walked through the trees to the edge of a large hollow. It was very steel sided and deep, and at the bottom a few lines were strung between the branches, with towels hanging on them.
The Museum's washing? An Installation? Campers?

I'm still wondering what that was all about.

The Museum's washing? An Installation? Campers?

It was a great afternoon, and not at all what we'd expected, looking out on the dismal torrents at breakfast.
I guess every now and again the rain is just a blessing in disguise.

One of the sculptures in the grounds.

 

Who Wants to be a Millinaire?

While I was at Claregalway Garden Festival with my friend, the New Yorker, we did - eventually - feel that we ought to see what was on offer inside the buildings around the old Tower House.
You can't just think about plants. Well, we can, but on this occasion, we didn't.
And if we hadn't gone in, we'd never have found the hat ladies.

I love hats. I always wore hats to weddings, when we were young and went to lots of weddings, and these days, I generally garden in a hat. (Not my wedding hats, obviously.)
And not these hats. They would have to be reserved strictly for garden visiting, or garden partying, not garden weeding.

They were a treat to behold.
And vastly elegant.

So beautiful

Every single hat had a sense of occasion about it, the sort of hats that just make you feel absolutely at your best, the moment you put it on.
I instantly wanted a glass of champagne in one hand, and someone thrilling to talk to.
Luckily, I had the New Yorker with me.
She is very thrilling.

Hats with a sense of occasion

We stopped and chatted to the milliners for quite a while.
What an amazing, creative, talented and sparky duo! And what craftsmanship.

Beautiful, and beautifully made

You know the old saying: 'If you want to get ahead, get a hat!' Well they've certainly got the hats, so watch out Philip Treacy, is all I can say. (And interestingly, he comes from Co Galway as well.)
These ladies are going places, so if you want to be able to say: 'I wore one of their hats long before the Duchess of Cambridge discovered them...' then get on the blower.

Confectionery for the head

I don't see how you could possibly regret it.
Weddings - Garden Parties - Leopardstown - the Curragh - Your kid's graduation - knock 'em dead with one of these smackers while you can still afford them!

Affordable glamour

The New Yorker bought two. One is for a wedding later in the summer, but knowing her, she'll probably wear them out and about in the Big Apple - quite possibly with an old pair of jeans.
I mean, look how good they are on top or plaits, for goodness sake!
She'll look fantastic.
She'll probably bump into Sarah Jessica Parker as she strolls nonchalantly through Greenwich Village.
Parker will drool and catch her arm.
'Where did you get that hat?' she'll hiss.
'My hat?' the New Yorker will say vaguely. 'Which one am I wearing today?'

She'll look fantastic

She'll innocently put her hand up to her head.

'Oh this one! Of course! I have this little Irish designer - no, not Philip...he's so passé this year, don't you think?'
I can picture the whole scene now.

 

So folks, you know what they say about she who snoozes...

Crevation Design, the hat ladies call themselves.

I have to say, the name doesn't grab me. It doesn't have the necessary sense of occasion. And it seems a waste not to have a bit of pazzazz.

Now, Majella Dalton - that's a name with pazzazz. That's a name to conjure with.

Watch out for it in Hello, ladies!

OK?

Majella Dalton

Millinery Designer

+353(0)86 834 7049

crevationdesign@gmail.com

Flower Power

I took a day off a couple of weeks ago.
A real, proper, in-the-car-and-out-of-here day off.
Being something of a a rare event, I expect my demeanour was that of a kid going to the seaside.

Last year I heard about a 'Garden Festival' in Claregalway, and as my gorgeous young French friend, Chloe, was visiting, we decided to go and see what it was all about.
We had a fab day.

My gorgeous friend, Chloe

 
It wasn't quite what I'd expected - there weren't show gardens to look at, or anything like that, but we enjoyed the whole expedition thoroughly and came back with lots of delicious additions for the garden.
So this year I made sure to put in on my calendar, and took my friend, the New Yorker, with me.

The restored tower house in Claregalway

Claregalway is a couple of hours drive south, and not somewhere that I'd been to before last year. The festival is held in the field attached to the restored tower house, and although it is mostly about plants and gardeny stuff, there are other things to see and do, too.

In the courtyard beneath the tower they have a band - several bands in fact, over the course of the day, so there's all kinds of music as you mooch around the grounds.

You can sit and have a coffee and listen to the music.
And when you've got your strength back, you can head back into the mêlée.

Last year, there were people re-enacting battles, with someone telling you the interesting and gory bits while you watched.

The gory bits

There was a jester last year who had stepped straight out of the past to cause mischief and botheration. You could tell by the look on his face that he'd done it before - professionally. He was particularly keen on paddling people's backsides when they weren't looking. I could do with one of those sticks.

This year there were two live hobby-horses also causing mischief and botheration and neighing fit to bring the ISPCA out. There was also a poor little chicken called Free Range who laid an egg for me.

 She got very shy when I chatted to her.

Last year it was so hot that the seats in front of the bandstand were full most of the time, but eventually Chloe and I found a gap and collapsed for a breather while we enjoyed the band. We watched small children become entranced with the music, others be overtaken by its rhythm, and were thrilled when one couple got up and just danced. It was perfect.
Romance.

No one danced this year, but the New Yorker and I sat and ate some cheese and charcuterie and wondered if anyone queueing for the loo had noticed who was peering down at them from above.

I fell in love with a heron last July, but sadly he is now living beside another pond, not mine.
Seeing him now makes me wish all over again that he was in my potager.

But I did buy some ingenious little cane toppers which look a gas in the garden and make canes a joy rather than an eyesore. (No pun intended, but I have poked my eye with a cane before now, so..).

I hurried back to buy another quota this year, and was delighted to find the potter, Baurnafea Ceramics, there once again. Even more delighted when the lovely New Yorker bought me a present from his stand - how kind is that!

Presents!

Cane toppers and ceramic orbs for the flower bed - quite episcopalian

We had a delicious lunch, sat and listened to the band, paid many visits to the plant crèche and viewed all that was on offer inside as well as out.
It was a fabulous day, and by the time we left there was barely room in the car for us.

Definitely one for next summer's calendar.

Confessions of a Hopeless Addict

I have to tell you, dear Reader, that I am a woman of several vices, most of which I have kept hidden from this page.
I did plead guilty to one, some time ago, in Secret Vices,  but there is more.

I am an addict.
A plural addict - there are quite a few habits I just can't kick, but yesterday one of them rose up to confront me as I was preparing to entertain 30+ people to tea in the garden.

I am a mug-aholic, as those who know me well will testify. We have lots and lots.
If I ever buy a mug, the In-Charge says: 'Oh good, we needed one of those.'
My response at times like that is immediate and brisk. 'Be grateful it isn't shoes,' I always say.
But, like most men, he doesn't get the joy of small, pleasing things.
Mugs, after all, are not boys' toys.

It started long, long ago, so my collection has been building for years.
In fact I can fairly and squarely blame my mother. She gave me a set of four mugs as a present in the distant moons of the past.
That was all it took to get me hooked.

The RNLI's wonderful Spring, Summer, Autumn and Winter mugs

The other side of each mug is the same but different

You can see why. They are totally fab, but sadly the intervening years have taken their toll and they are all now ex-mugs, used for other things. I have tried to find replacements on eBay, but possibly in a somewhat desultory fashion, as my search yielded nothing. But even in their sad state, I still love everything about them.

Looking back, I expect the seed had already been sown, as by then I had acquired two mugs that I still have, although no longer use, as I wouldn't like them to get broken. They are both butterfly mugs, and they sit in the Butler's Pantry, in honoured retirement. (I'm still looking for the Butler, by the way. The whimsical term was wished upon my lovely old pantry by the In-Charge and #1 Son, way back when.)

My two original butterfly mugs

These days, I am very picky about my mugs. They are mostly - but not exclusively - bone china, and if I don't love them, they're gone. I know I'm a bit odd, but it never ceases to amaze me that people just open the cupboard, grab, pour and drink without even looking at the mug they're using! It takes me longer to choose my mug than it does to boil the kettle.
But mostly my pickyness is about seasonality.

Some of the Christmas seclection

Every now and again, I see someone drinking a cup of tea out of a Christmassy mug - in June.
How can they do such a thing?
Does the drink not congeal in their mouths, the milk not turn sour, the taste sicken?
It leaves me astounded.

The boy's Christmas mugs from long ago

My FAVOURITE Christmas mug, that Henri broke - also irreplaceable on eBay

WonderBrother has a mug with Garfield on it. Garfield. I ask you.
Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against ginger cats - think of Hobbes - but Garfield on a mug isn't even aesthetically pleasing.
Perhaps we are not, after all, blood-relations, my brother and I.

I am sure my mother's present was the beginning of my seasonality. In our house the mugs are changed with a regularity that leaves other household tasks dumb with outrage. We have spring, summer, autumn, Christmas and winter - naturally. And every now and again, a mug just appears for a month and then is gone again.

Some mugs are only out for a month

Yesterday, with rather a large party visiting the garden at tea time, the Butler's Pantry was forced to disgorge some receptacles that were not - strictly speaking - due for an airing. Mercifully, push didn't come to shove, as they say. I wasn't forced to use my February crocuses, or - heaven forbid - any autumn designs.

Autumn mugs

As it was, I was able to rummage out enough to seasonally 'mug' everyone. Any more people and I'd have had to say that, sadly, tea wasn't available.

Summer mugs

More summer mugs - well, a few spring ones too I suppose

Either that, or I could have called the non-players into use.
There are other mugs on the premises. Ones that are used for Bovril, or soup, ones that I don't mind the In-Charge using. (He is guilty of leaving mugs outdoors, in odd places. I find them, weeks later, filled with rain.) Also, it must be remembered that he drinks coffee morning, noon and night and coffee is very hard on mugs, so I tend to point him towards the beakers that will take the strain.

Mugs that can take the strain

Coffee stains china and gets into places that it won't come out of. Plus, quite apart from his other mug-unworthiness, the In-Charge has been guilty of breakages. He broke my favourite summer mug - the #1 Son mug - and committed the cardinal sin of not telling me, so I had to find out by spending a futile morning searching for the missing vessel - to no avail.
Luckily for our marriage, I was able to buy a replacement.
I hardly need add that his use of the replacement is verboten.

#1 Son mug on the left - it makes me think of him. The other one was a gift from him, so is also verboten

My mother can't have realised what she was starting, all those years ago.
I was brought up to love things, and look after them, but not to be acquisitive.
As with many aspects of every upbringing, that proved to be a miserable failure.
I adore things and am happy to acquire.
I love colour, craft, pattern, texture, textiles, art, pictures, images - the whole merry shebang.
I suppose to the wartime generation, acquiring things you didn't actually need was considered extravagant, but that was then. To me things are the produce of mankind, the wonders he dreams up in the fabulous tangle of his mind; the constant evoking of the wonders that surround him in nature.
I suppose art comes from the need to find within ourselves some meaningful way of either expressing or exorcising everything we experience in the world we are brought into, it is our constant struggle to turn it into something tangible and meaningful.

I create lots of things, but I don't create mugs, so I don't suppose my addiction will ever end.

Each one is beautiful, and someone's design, using shape, colour, pattern and form.
That is wonderful in itself.
So why not have your tea out of something uplifting? You never know, it might do you more good than the drink itself.
I know I will.

Favourite dog mugs

My special mug, decorated by #1 Son in the style of a fashion designer he likes, Paul Smith