Niche

Whilst rejecting me, someone described my work as “niche”.  I imagine it was not meant as a compliment.  I laughed, then did my puzzled face and felt a bit sad.  My writing is me, which surely means I must also be niche.  No one had mentioned it before.  But it explains a lot.

The photo is a detail from Antony Gormley’s The Planets which circle a seating area outside The British Library.  Which is full of niche stuff.

Back To It

After a month long sabbatical, today I returned to work.  I call it a sabbatical because it sounds grown up and important and as if I am doing something worthy with my time.  Researching the lesser spotted snoddlegrass perhaps or volunteering in the Home for Grumpy Old Men or maybe knitting hats for bald eagles.  None of these are the case.  It mainly involved good intent and excessive inertia.  Oh, and chocolate.

After a dreary December I was ready for a break and the thought of sog and mud free days was enticing.  For the last couple of weeks I have been restless to return.  Batteries recharged.  My clothes a little tighter.  Ready for action.

It rained, of course, but not until just before lunch.  And it was lovely to be part of the Westwell Hall pack again.  My cleaned and sharpened tools are dirty, my coat mud-encrusted, twigs are in my hair, order has been restored and all is well in the world.

 

 

GMBG – February – The Peace of Wild Things by Wendell Berry

Welcome to February’s GMBG, my monthly book:earthling dating agency.  My attempt at a good match this month is The Peace of Wild Things by Wendell Berry and Grev.

I have known Grev since I was a teenager, although in truth I don’t know him at all.  I have seen him perhaps twice in the last thirty years.  We are Facebook friends.  He is on my postcard list and I am never quite sure if he thinks this is a little odd or perhaps that I am stalking him.  Which in retrospect will only be made worse by me sending him a random book.  But I’m not, and the book isn’t random.  Let me tell you a few things that I have gleaned.  Forgive me if I am wrong.

Grev is a Cornishman, I thought I should mention that first, but he is also a citizen of the world.  He is politically savvy; he scrabbles in the mire in an attempt to find diamonds. Sometimes he despairs of folk, occasionally he is sad but, more often than not, he is very funny.  He is a musician and I have often been guided in a new direction by the tunes he shares.  He cares.  And I like him.  And he likes poems.

Wendell Berry is a Kentucky farmer who writes poetry and prose.  I cannot vouch for his agricultural skills, but his writing is exemplary.  Not only does he observe beautifully, submerging into his immediate surroundings, he is also a rebel, a revolutionary, a man who observes the larger picture and rails against it.  He can write a love poem to his wife, a tree or old friends and all are equally touching.  My copy of this book is kept close.  I delve frequently and am forever amazed by the joy his words give me.

I’m hoping they give a little joy to Grev too.

Six on Saturday – The Right Direction

February has arrived; the month of love, the last hurrah of winter, a time of increasing optimism.  In theory anyway.  The shortest of month of the year can sometimes seem the longest, plodding through to March which itself can be slow to reveal spring.  However, there are definite advances in the garden, subtle often, but all the same heading in the right direction.  Why don’t you take a look at what The Prop and all his acolytes are up to, I’m sure they will prove my point.

What better place to begin than my waterproof trousers on the washing line in the pouring rain.  I came across them when I was sorting my tools out earlier in the week.  They were very muddy and, taking full advantage of the dreadful weather, this was my cunning plan to wash them.  My very helpful OH pegged the legs up as they were caught on the pyracantha.  Could have sprung a leak.  Another disaster averted.

Next is Galanthus ‘S. Arnott’.  I think it might be a Six on Saturday law to feature a snowdrop before the winter is out.  Any SoSers out there yet to comply had better act quickly or risk the wrath of Mr P himself.

I was very pleased to find this Eschscholzia californica ‘Red Chief’ looking so healthy.  And yes, Mr T, I know you aren’t keen on these cultivar infiltrators.  Will you let me off with a foliage shot?  I’m very happy as it looks strong which bodes well for flowers in the nearish future.  I know that there is a long way to go, but a good base is always useful.

Now we have the monster that is Salvia gesneriiflora, just coming into flower.  It has almost taken over the Bed of Anarchy and bang on schedule is beginning to bloom.  Some culling will almost certainly be necessary.

Onto Iris reticulata, a great favourite of mine.  Sorry I don’t know which one it is.  Blame the labeller.

Lastly a bowed Calendula ‘Neon’, a survivor from last year, snuggling up to a phormium.  Always good to find a rogue having a go out of season.  Showing willing.  An example to us all.

All done, ’til next time!

 

Ready

I’ve been waiting for today.  It didn’t specifically have to be Wednesday 29 January 2020, just any day when in the Venn diagram of my life Willing Spirit and Blue Sky overlapped.  Today I have been sitting on the bench outside the back door, perched on my inflatable kneeling pad, coffee at my side, cleaning and sharpening my tools.  Because next week I return to work.

Readers of a certain age will understand when I remind them of plimsole whitener.  For those of you unacquainted I will enlighten you.  At the end of the school holidays our white gym shoes were painted with a proprietary rejuvenator, almost certainly purchased in Woolworths.  After application it hardened to a plaster of Paris finish which rendered any actual foot movement impossible for at least a week.  The first weeks of PE were marked by a rash of flat-footed waddling until enough cracks had formed to enable freedom.  This bizarre tradition was undertaken in order to brighten and freshen up and pretend your daps/pumps/trainers were new.  No one was ever fooled.  Still, just before return to classes, it was exactly what you or, if you were lucky, your mum did.

This was my equivalent.  I cleaned, oiled and sharpened, feeling righteous in the sunshine.  But I did not go overboard, it is very important to retain a patina.  I have learned from the whitening.  There is nothing as uncool as brand new shiny trainers.  The same goes for spotless tools.  Or is that an excuse for sloppy work?  Not at all.

And now it is done, forks and trowels, hori hori and pruning saw, mini mattock, border fork, lawn edger, pruners and of course the golden spade.  And five sets of secateurs.  Three of mine and two of OH.  I was on a roll.

Now I’m ready.  But perhaps not for anything.

Blue

Bideford Long Bridge in the morning sun.  All is calm.

A moment earlier I had been passed by an excitable crocodile of fluoresence as a stream of school kids walked past.  I heard one of them say, as they pointed to one of the moored boats, rusted and land-bound and in the process of slow refurbishment, “Is that the Titanic?”.  Unfortunately I didn’t get to hear the answer.