Showtime: Hello Bonniconlon!

A few days ago, the In-Charge came home and said: 'It's Bonniconlon Show on Monday.'
Year after year, we hear people enthusing about Bonniconlon Show, but we've never been.
'We ought to go,' he added.
Later that evening I finally managed to track down the winner of a giveaway I'd organised for Country Markets. 'Here's my address,' she said, 'Or if you're going to Bonniconlon Show, I'll be in the Craft Marquee.'
That settled it. We agreed to meet there.

It started, we noticed, bright and early. '8.30am sharp' it said on the website.
8.30am sharp in Ireland generally means 'We'll start at 9am whether you're here or not.'
But an early start was fine by us. The In-Charge had promised to help someone later in the afternoon, so we needed to get back, and the statistics - which never lie, after all - had recorded 30,000 people attending the show last year.
Here in the west, 30,000 is A LOT of people, so we decided to go first thing.

Haha.
The best laid plans etc etc... I'd overlooked the fact that I had to ring the florist in England first thing to confirm an order for flowers (it's not a Bank Holiday in the UK) - and what with one thing and another, we didn't get to the Show Grounds until well after midday.
It was packed. And quite expensive to get in, I thought.
But it was great fun.

By then, a smoky bacon and sausage stuffed bap was just what we needed to perk us up, and, happily munching, we found all sorts of stuff to look at.

The first thing that caught my eye was a model railway

And close by there were some homemade model farms.

I love miniature things.
I was poring over them, vaguely aware of some traditional Irish music playing in the background, and out of the corner of my eye saw three people sitting, playing. It took me awhile to drag my eyes away from tiny tractors and straw bales, but then I realised that the musicians were also models - full-sized model people.

A shame we hadn't taken Model Dog with us!
She could have posed alongside them.


There were lots of other dogs though.
Gorgeous Borzois - a rare sight here.

I'd forgotten just how big they are!

The Borzoi kissing his mummy

There were dogs all preened and prepped for the show

And dogs not remotely interested in being in the show

And some dogs far more interested in the possibility of poussin for lunch

I was pretty interested in the poultry section myself. I hadn't thought about it beforehand, or I would have taken an empty cage with me. The ravages of old age, disease and Monsieur Renard have left poor Wellington sadly depleted of wives over the last few months. (We won't mention the TeenQueen in relation to sorry ravages. It is time to let bygones be bygones.)

I was extremely taken by the headgear some of the ducks were sporting

In another cage, some duckings had opted to sleep the day out, perhaps in the hope that when they woke up it would all be over and they'd be back in their own little ponds at home. Bless them.

But, as the In-Charge didn't hesitate to remind me, it wasn't ducks I was supposed to be looking at.

There were lots of chickens, so it was quite hard to choose, but in the end we came away with 8 young pullets who are even now settling into the big pen in the hens field, happily exploring the boxes, dust bath, food and water bowl that I have hastily put in there for them.

They are not without an audience. The TeenQueen is extremely interested in the newcomers, and Mistress Bluebell looks quite outraged.

I will introduce you to them properly next time.

We didn't have time to do much else. It took us awhile to find the Craft Marquee, but eventually we managed to deliver the prize to our delighted winner.

A Talentui Organics box of goodies for the Country Markets Giveaway winner

The In-Charge paused for a quick gander at some of the old cars while I was negotiating the purchase of my hens, so the only vintage vehicle I saw was this one. A lovely specimen, though - I've always liked those old Austins.

After that it was time to try and find our way back to the remote field where we had parked.
We did spot a familiar face as we edged through the crowds. Beltra Country Market's sister from down the road - Ballina Country Market had a stall selling all sorts of things from homemade cakes and jam to handmade denim bracelets.

Their stall was starting to look fairly bare by that stage, as they'd already sold so much, yet when we finally got to the gates, people were still streaming in.

Maybe this year Bonniconlon Show has topped last year's figure of 30,000!

While I and my boxes of hens waited for the In-Charge to go and bring the car, I looked back across one small part of the showground. There was lots we hadn't had time to see.

 Maybe next year...

 

What Price the Perfect Getaway?

It's blowing a gale out here on the edge of the world today.
My poor trees, heavy in their summer frocks, are being whipped back and forth. It's not fair.
But then, as we all know, life isn't fair.

Mercifully the promised rain has not yet arrived. I've got soaked most days this week, trying to garden in the rain, so today's wind, blowing warmly - if rather too enthusiastically - from the south wasn't going to put me off. However, it seemed only sensible to do a job out of the teeth of the gale, so I headed into the flower garden which is generally fairly sheltered and found to my delight that not a leaf was stirring in my new little moon garden.

The little moon garden

There was plenty to do. The weeds and grass have encroached into the semi-circular bed, and lots of early summer perennials needed a good cutting back. I was soon wading through dense knee-high greenery, and thought as I often do, of my ex-sister-in-law's words many years ago.
'At least there aren't any snakes in Ireland.'
She and my brother were living in Africa at the time, their children still quite small, and I'd been apologising for the wet August weather that attended their visit to us, along with its consequent lush growth overflowing the garden paths. It was like a jungle, but the kids loved it, and no one minded the rain either. 'It never rains in Africa,' they said.

Today it didn't rain either, but the ground was still soft from the wet week we've had, and the weeds in the new bed came out easily, so that within moments of starting work, my mind had wandered off onto lots of other things. The dogs rummaged through their ossuary while I sat on the little bench drinking a cuppa and contemplating my newest patch - barely a year old, yet already ripe with flowers and growth. I found it hard to visualise how that small area used to be - a wilderness of overgrown fuchsia and bamboo - even though we'd lived with it for donkey's years.

It's now a place of seclusion and peace - even on a day of stormy southern winds. And the little seat that the In-Charge made by recycling two old bench ends and some lengths of teak he had stashed away in his workshop, fits as if it had been made to measure.
Not many weeks ago we made the happy discovery that it is the perfect place to catch the very last rays of sunshine when the mid-summer days are so long, the sun practically sets in the north.
Our very own little getaway.

Hard at work in the moon garden - so called for its half moon path

Everyone needs a getaway. Somewhere quiet and peaceful to contemplate something green.
I often think that in today's overcrowded world we expect a lot from human beings. I am so lucky to have so much space, but most people are squashed tighter and tighter together, and yet, more than ever before, we expect everyone to 'play nicely'.
Losing it isn't allowed.
But everyone needs somewhere to let off steam. Somewhere calm and green.

The only big city I have lived in for any length of time is London. I moved there as a student and just sort of stayed for the next twenty years. London has its fair share of dreadful housing, but it also has lots of green spaces - squares and parks, woods and commons. I was commenting to my mother only recently that while I don't ever recall having the luxury of central heating as a student, I only ever chose flat/house shares that had some sort of garden, however small.

I watched a wonderful programme the other day, about the inspirational designer Thomas Heatherwick, he of the fabulous Olympic Cauldron fame (amongst other things.)

The wonderful Olympic Cauldron

If you didn't see the programme, do watch it - BBC2's Culture Show - I think it is only available for a few more days.
He is designing a Garden Bridge for central London. A pedestrian bridge filled with trees, flowers, birds, bees and butterflies. I'm not sure if it was originally his idea, or Joanna Lumley's but whoever thought of it, 'more power to them', as they would say in Ireland.

They just need someone to pay for it. Needless to say, it will be very expensive.
But what price such a perfect, green, soul-replenishing getaway?
Maybe the Beckhams could fund it. They have plenty of money, not to mention a child named after a bridge.
They could do this one in reverse - name a bridge after a child. The Harper Seven Bridge perhaps?
I don't suppose anyone would mind what it was called, if they could sit there and breathe out steam and breathe in green peace and birdsong.

An artist's impression of the proposed Garden Bridge for Central London

Helmingham Gardens: Walled-In Heaven

I've been in Suffolk, on the far eastern side of England.
Beautiful Suffolk, with cloudless blue skies full of shrieking swifts, endless fields of ripening, golden corn, stately trees marking horizons and hedgerows, and picture-postcard cottages straight off the lids of chocolate boxes.

Picture postcard houses

It was lovely to be there again - pottering in my parents' garden; listening to the church bells; visiting antique/vintage/junk shops with my sister; and whiling away scorching afternoons beside the open French windows, chatting with my mother over some gentle crochet.

Not to mention being almost entirely off-line.

Now I am back at home - to a rapturous welcome from Model Dog and the TeenQueen, it's true - but to the less enjoyable realities of normal life as well. My dear friend has been in a car smash and is in hospital with two broken ankles, the TeenQueen, in an enthusiastic but misplaced attempt to defend her home from canine intruders, has bitten another friend's lurcher, and the rain it raineth every day.

At lunchtime I rushed out to feed some roses and young blossom trees - a job best done in wet weather - and it was only as I changed into dry clothes afterwards that it dawned on me: a week ago this very afternoon, I was visiting one of the most beautiful gardens I have ever seen - the walled garden at Helmingham Hall.
How I wish I'd had my camera. My phone isn't the same thing at all. Apologies, Helmingham, for not doing you justice.

Side view of Helmingham Hall

It's not very far from my mother's village, but for some reason I've never been there before.
I shall certainly be going there again. In fact, I'm wondering if I might move in without them noticing.
There are several gardeners there, but I'm sure they could use an extra pair of hands, and I'd work very hard.
The Head Gardener, I was told, has been there for 50 years, since he was a boy.
It shows.
And the lady of the house is a garden designer.
That shows too.

I'm sure the walled garden at Helmingham has always been a thing of beauty, but now it has reached the peak of perfection.
You have to walk around the lovely Tudor Hall to get to it - along the side of a moat on which water lilies drift lazily in the afternoon sunshine. At the end, a notice on the gate says something along the lines of 'For the sake of the deer, please keep this gate closed', and there is a half-wild, half-mown path with topiary hedges that entice you ever onwards.

Even then you only catch glimpses of the joys ahead.
Have you ever noticed that about the best gardens? They lure you bit by bit. Never is everything revealed at once, and just when you think you have arrived at the pièce de résistance, a path - or a doorway - or an arch cut into the hedge tells you that there is more - still more - to come.

So it is at Helmingham.
After the moat, the topiary hedges, and the casually thrown out lure of a dappled apple walk, finally you arrive in a walled enclosure, with trees, urns overflowing with white cosmos and lavender-edged flower borders that look  like oil paintings, in which hide covered seats where you can sit out of the sun yet still smell the hot, sweet scent of roses.

The ante-room

But it's only the ante-room.

Huge pillars entwined with roses and topped with winged horses' heads mark the entrance to the actual walled garden. They hold massive wrought iron gates of which I am deeply jealous.
Although to be honest, it wasn't just the gates I lusted after.

Someone once said to me: 'One garden is much like another.'
Wrong.
Gardens are like books. They are all different, although some may fall into the same genre. I have seen gardens that leave you depressed, others that leave you unmoved. There are many that disappoint and many that surprise and delight. But the best of gardens take you to another place entirely, a place that I, for one, never want to come back from.

Inside its high, aged brick walls, Helmingham's rectangular garden is broken up geometrically. A central grass path is edged with wide herbaceous borders backed by fences, railings or obelisks supporting endless roses, clematis and other climbing beauties.

The central path

And at regular intervals there are other paths leading off to the sides.
Some of these are arched allées - covered with runner beans, or wisteria or sweet peas.

Sometimes there are just more grass paths, with more herbaceous borders.

And hidden away in between are long rectangular beds of vegetables, or cutting flowers, or lavender.

Set against the outer walls, in between the planting, are benches and amusing topiary specimens.

The Snowman

The armchair so you can sit and watch your leeks grow

And there are side gates - of which I'm also exceedingly jealous.

Exceedingly jealous.

There is also the Coach House Tea Room serving delicious cakes to revive you for part two - the knot garden, the rose garden, and a newly planted garden with lots of trees...
Or maybe just a second, leisurely tour of the walled garden, where you can sit and watch the bees falling over each other to get at the veronica and the allium and the honeysuckle - and everything else. I've never seen so many bees in one place.




It was so hot last Wednesday that I was glad to slip out of the back gate for a moment in the shade, where a sort of secondary moat - or perhaps it was originally a carp pond - runs around the outside of the walled garden, dividing it from the Apple Walk and the Deer Park. It reflects the magnificent, graceful trees, and does what water always does. It brings heaven into the garden.

As if it wasn't there already.

Behind the walled garden

Between the Apple Walk and the Walled Garden

What else can I say? Except hie thee hence to Helmingham.
It's part garden, part oil painting, and part heaven.

Paeony Envy

I'm suffering very badly from paeony envy at the moment.
Unjust, I know, as my own paeonies are flowering their little pink hearts out.
Despite the rain.

What you can't see in this picture is the gold at the centre of the flower

Sarah Bernhardt strutting her stuff

But on our recent trip to Salthill Garden in Donegal, the paeonies would have struck lust into the hearts of all but the most saintly.
We nearly wore them out with looking at them.

Elizabeth Temple, their owner, could have told us the name of each and every one. But unfortunately, she wasn't at home that day. She'd been kind enough to warn me, and even suggested we come another day, but it was the only time I was free.
She is extremely knowledgeable and I daresay would have had all their Latin and colloquial names off pat.
 

Like this one

  And particularly this one

But it wouldn't have done any good. My friend and I have looked - believe me, we have looked in all the garden centres, but there is no Bowl of Beauty to be found locally. Nor any of the other ones we saw (though names would help, I'm sure).

Sadly, I have to confess that it's not just paeony envy that plagues me.

While we were in Paris, we went to see Monet's garden. It was our 900th wedding anniversary and, as I have long wanted to visit Giverny, I couldn't think of a better way to spend it. Happily the In-Charge was agreeable.

Monet's house at Giverny from the lily pond

I had not taken the crowds of other visitors into account, I must say.
In fact, I hadn't really thought about it, but I suppose I imagined us strolling, arm in arm, along the flower-lined paths as if we owned the place.
Hah!

I am evidently not alone in knowing that late May is garden-visiting-time.
As we set off, de bonne heure on Sunday morning, the In-Charge commented acidly on how full the train was, but I cleverly remembered that it was Mother's Day in France. 'They're all heading home  to their Mamas,' I said brightly. 'Isn't that nice!'
It only dawned on me as the train emptied ontoVernon platform, that all and sundry were bent upon sharing our day out.

There were four full coach loads from the station, and that didn't include people who had arrived under their own steam, so to speak, or on other bus trips.
However, I sternly repudiated the In-Charge's hopeful suggestion that we board the next train back to Paris, and actually, although there were a lot of people, the gardens are big enough to swallow them up and we didn't feel crowded - except on the famous bridge over the lily pond.
It was worth every moment of queueing to get in.

We had, sadly, just missed most of the famed tulips, but the wisteria was in full, hyperbolic bloom.

The famous bridge over the lily pond

Luscious beyond belief

And so were the flags.

Look - there's a paeony in bud beside the flag. I need to go back there - now!

I have wisteria.
It doesn't garland a bridge over a lily pond, admittedly, but even so, I do get my wisteria fix every spring.

But I don't have flags. Not really.
Not rows and rows of glorious, wonderful, beautiful flags.

My friend - with whom I visited Salthill - and I pored over a French catalogue a few years ago, from a nursery that specialises in flags and irises. We drooled, we ooh'd and we aah'd, and I eagerly jotted down the names of all the plants I couldn't possibly live without.
The bill added up to about €187 - before shipping - so with deep regret I threw the catalogue away.
'We don't have enough sunshine, in any case,' I tried to console myself. 'They need hours or sun every day to flower properly.'
But I am not really consoled
Deep down I want a walkway in my garden lined with flags, preferably on either side.
Like Pierre Berge's garden in Deauville.
Like Monet's garden at Giverny.
Like the Tuileries gardens in Paris.

Or failing that, a purple border (with flags in it).

A purple border at Giverny

Is that too much to ask?
It's all I want.
Well - apart from the paeonies.

And I'm rather envious of Monet's pansies too...