Fuchsia “Bornemann’s Beste” still going strong. The gift that keeps giving, thanks Harriet!
BOGOF
Out-of-time flowers are most welcome as we draw towards the winter equinox. However they are quite different to their summer counterparts. The light that brushes these blooms, for only a short time each day, is soft and kind allowing hidden traits to come to the fore. Paler, more delicate, even vulnerable; somehow ethereal. A new incarnation of an old plant. Buy one get one free. I have a feeling marketing could be my calling.
Festive
The callistemon in my garden is looking very festive, deciding to throw out a random crimson flower for the occasion. If you squint your eyes up tight and look at the bloom through the bottom of a wine bottle you can almost see Rudolph and his mates pulling Santa across the sky on route to deliver presents to all the lovely little children across the world. Maybe you have to drink the contents of the bottle first for it to work.
The Truth
I love those tales of glorious winter gardens, lyrical with frosty mornings. The cold crisp days are invigorating and inspiring whilst the low afternoon sun caresses the ruddy leaves of Leucothoe “Scarletta”. Goldfinches feast on hoary seed heads and fluffy bloomin’ bunnywunnys hop past giggling.
Let me tell you the truth, well my truth anyway. I will begin with a few relevant words to set the mood: Dank. Wind. Mush. Sog. Dreary. Miserable. Relentless. Gloom. Any wildlife with any sense is sheltering, not that I could see it anyway as my eyes are full of mud. Each evening I study the weather report, hoping they have got it wrong. At night I hear the rain and wind assaulting the windows and wish it to have passed over by morn. I wake ears on full alert as to what is happening outside. Invariably my optimism is once again thwarted and I have to make the decision whether it would be fruitful to go to work.
Here is some more truth for you. Although these are frustrating times, I don’t waste my energy worrying too much about them. These things are out of my control and there is always soup to be made. Today it was cauliflower and stilton, and very nice it was too!
Waffle
Life caught up with me today so you are going to have to make do with a photograph of a hellebore and no words. As my mother would (and often does) say “you can like it or lump it”. You may even prefer it. Now I am worried that as I have let you down on the writing front you will realise that you would rather have a pretty picture and no ancillary waffle. Well, needs must and I will have to take that risk. Admittedly it is a rather lovely hellebore and I wouldn’t blame you.
Belle
What a glorious day!
For a start the sun shone, admittedly it was intermittent but every beam was absorbed and stored in my sunshine bank. We shuffled the extended border, digging up many of the plants and rearranging to give them more room and fill the gaps, pausing occasionally to appreciate the warmth of the rays. This was a most satisfying and agreeable experience, we even found a missing astilbe, always a good thing.
Today there was a diverse assortment of bloomers in Bobbies’ garden, many that haven’t read the manual. Roses, poppies, saxifrage and zantedeschia were all happily flowering alongside the usual December display of mahonia and cyclamen. None, however, reflected the return-to-light more perfectly than this golden perennial wall flower. It would make the brightest buttercup look dowdy. Although it has flowered for most of the year, it is now that it has come into its own, so deliciously hot you could run your underfloor heating off its energy.
Someone else thought that on the contrary, it was her that was the belle of the ball! I am inclined to agree.
Rumble Fish
Many years ago I saw a film called Rumble Fish. From memory, bearing in mind this was in the mid 1980’s and things are a little hazy, I can tell you the following. It starred Mickey Rourke and Matt Dillon. There were motorbikes and much angst. It was very cool but a little too violent for my Disney tendencies. Synonyms, allegories and general smartypants stuff abounded. It was filmed in black and white except for the eponymous Rumble Fish who appeared in vivid, retina burning colour.
This diminutive, rose-flowered azalea flower was a beacon in the dull light of the mid winters day. It reminded me of that film. Without the fighting. Well not much anyway.
Monotone
It was a day in black and white. When I found the odd nugget of colour, the odd tattered rudbeckia bloom, an ill at ease lavender flower, bloody stems of cornus, desperate acer leaves, all were diluted. The sparse colour was faded and tired. The wretched wind had sucked out the hues, the ravishing rain had diluted the shades. All was monotone.
Envy
This is not my sophora. It is full of flower, both potential and actual. It is not tatty. I forgive it for the fact that it is far better than mine. Not that it minds either way, flaunting its buttercup blooms in the winter gloom. I like its attitude.
Home Sweet Home
For the last few days I have been visiting the town I used to call home. Although it isn’t where I was born, it is where I grew up. It is where I ticked off many milestones on my journey to the place I am today. When I am not there it is a just a memory, albeit it a fine one, but I have little time in my life for yearning. When I am there, however, it is much more. Seeped in memories, they ambush me at every turn. These are mostly happy, but a few are sad. I am melancholic for things that have been lost, regretting that I didn’t appreciate the privilege of growing up here, sadness at leaving special people who will always be in my heart. Ghosts lurk at every corner. Some taunt, some comfort me.
Things have changed over the years. Of course it is still beautiful; surely no one could sully the fabulous beaches, the jaw-dropping views out to Mrs Woolf’s lighthouse or the coastal moorland of Man’s Head, the stiletto snapping cobbles and of course that famous luminescent light. Now it is far more affluent and the season is long and unremitting. The shops of my day are becoming sparse, in their place expensive boutiques, eating establishments and jewellery stores. I was saddened to see that the chippy where my younger brother worked in his youth had closed. He would return from his toils perfumed with Essence de Chip Fat. The cafe which has replaced it looks lovely. I would imagine that they steam their vegetables.
So we roamed the streets with best of them. We stayed in a proper grown-up hotel with views across to the harbour. Nightly the waves crashed against the rocks not 10m below our room, driven by a raging wind, the sound both welcome and soothing. We gasped at the sight of dolphins and seals close to the shoreline. We went to the opening of an enchanting pottery exhibition and met some fine earthy folk. We ate haddock and chips in a relic yet to succumb to the relentless march of healthy eating. We visited art galleries. We wandered through an exotically planted sculpture garden ducking into a bougainvillea sheathed shelter when the persistent rain turned up a notch. We met with old friends and laughed and recollected. We had a wonderful time.
On the way back I reminisced alone this time, remembering the many times I had sat on this train and cried. So fresh was the feeling of being wrenched away to another world, far from my power source, that another tear came to my eye. In my heart there is a ember which is dense as a black hole. This is where my home town lies. It takes only a gentle south-westerly to reignite this flame.
When we opened our front door I was pleased to be home. I was also sad to leave my home.
Off The Edge Gardening 