Off The Edge Gardening

It has begun.  The snowy beast has arrived.  Two days, very unfashionably, early.  How rude!

Last night, not long after returning from yoga, all chilled but warm, my neighbour rang.  “Look out the window!”  There is was, where all had been clear half an hour previously, now there was a carpet of white, with more falling.  This morning we were woken early by excited children playing outside.  Unless they are of the ski-ing persuasion, I doubt whether they have seen snow before.  On the National News they said that it has snowed in Rome for the first time in six years.  No mention of Ilfracombe at all, I am sure it has been just as long since a proper downfall. Very remiss.

Later we walked into the town, to panic buy crisps and gin.  We passed well-wrapped families clutching boogie boards and leading puzzled pooches on their way to Hillsborough for some surf sledding.   Deciding on a slightly safer occupation, we had a leisurely lunch and wandered around the harbour before the trek back up the hill.  There were smiles on faces and more than the usual “hellos” and “good days”.

Snow on the seaweed, not something you see every day.

The day started with a van parked across our driveway.  I should have taken it as a sign.  But I didn’t.

When I win the lottery/premium bonds/marry a Rockefeller the first thing I am going to do is employ a chauffeur.  The thought of never having to worry about driving a car again is a fantasy of mine.  I passed my test late, in my 30’s, and on my third try.  My friends at work edited the congratulations card each time, from “I knew you would do it first attempt” to “Nailed it this time” then “Thank goodness, we are getting bored now”.  They even kept the same celebratory balloons, by the time I received them they were a little wrinkled and deflated.  I knew just how they felt.

I am not a confident driver, but needs must and although a little cautious I don’t think I do too badly.  This morning, half way to The Mantle’s estate I came across a road closed sign and indeed a closed road.   In a mini-panic I called His Lordship, who suggested I took the road to Kentisbury Ford.  I took the road to Kentisbury, surely that was close enough?  It seems not.

The fact that there were no other vehicles on this road should have been given me a clue.  But no, like a lamb to the slaughter off I headed into the abyss.  A few country lanes, child’s play.  Since moving to North Devon I have had plenty of practice.  One skinny road is pretty much the same as another.  And all would have been fine if I was driving a Four x Four rather than a Ford x Focus.   At first it wasn’t too bad.  A drainpipe road, no problem.  A narrow stream of ice running down one side, easily avoidable.  Then at the top of the hill, I screeched to a halt, when I spied this.

No No Nanette, was my initial reaction.  Then, I need to get out of here fast before a tractor hurtles towards me with some of those spiky things on the front.  A quick reverse into a field (yes the gate was open) and I was heading back down the hill past the frozen stream to the pretty hamlet below.  I pulled over to make another phone call (no signal obviously) and spotted a rather lovely church.   As I am a sucker for a pretty church I thought I would have a quick gander before I headed off to who knows where.  My coat was in the car boot, in my haste I didn’t open it to full extent and the lid came crashing down on my head.  Ouch and double ouch and darn it.

Not a soul in sight, I gathered my addled self together (I didn’t cry but almost) and opened the latched gate into the churchyard on which a sign told me I was being filmed by CCTV.  Well that will give them a laugh, I thought.  This wonderful sundial, dated 1762 reminds us to “Watch and pray Time steals away”.  True, I had better get on.

Back the way I came.  This was without incident except a little more reversing to let a smarty pants in their Land Rover Poser Edition pass.  When I reached the main road I discovered a testosterone fuelled meeting of machines.  Tankers, JCBs and lorries of unspecified use and lots of high viz.  By this point, with aching head, traumatised by curling rink road, I was not in the mood for buffoons gesturing at me impatiently.  I pulled up, turned off the engine and got out of the car.  My temper was quickly diffused by a chirpy chappy from Swansea, who pointed me in the direction of a much better route, ie the way I should have gone in the first place.  Perversely this way had two lanes, no ice and other drivers.

When I eventually arrived at The Mantles, a hot coffee was thrust into my hand, sympathetic noises were made, poorly head rubbed gently and all was well again.  Brambles were thwarted, nettles extracted, ivy destroyed.

And the way home.  Not a problem.

It’s easy when you know how.

Fresh out of school, dungareed and open-hearted, I packed my bags and headed off to college in Kent.  Although it proved to be path I was not destined to follow, with the wonders of hindsight it was time well spent.  Those that I met, similar in their innocence, have proved to be some of my most faithful and forgiving friends.  Silver lining and all that.  One lovely lass was from Scotland, often unintelligible, especially when catching up with her Walton-like family on the corridor phone.  We pooled our resources, she was the Cold Weather Expert, I was in charge of Warm Weather.  She advise me on traversing snow with elegance, I recommended sun creams and re-hydration techniques.

Now I need her advice, or an equivalent horti version.  Frost, we aren’t used to it.  It is a foreign land.  This solid earth, all day long, not shifting even in the sunshine thing.  I bought some fleece yesterday.  I am afraid that the horse may already be frozen.

Today I made cheese scones.

It was set to be a beautifully sunny day, and as my Tuesday is now my Thursday I didn’t have to go out to work.  Why on earth, you may well ask, was I messing about in the kitchen and not out in the garden doing the myriad of jobs that have stacked up in the foul weather?  The answer is quite simple.  Before I had a chance to voice my plans, the OH grandly announced that he was going to do gardening today.  Now myself and himself have been together for eons, our relationship has worked, in part, due to the fact that we do not work together.  Once, in younger, more innocent days, we tried.  The result was rather messy.  Whether making lasagne or putting together a flat pack or decorating or cleaning or gardening, it is much safer to go solo.

Over to Plan B.  I did some writing and I made soup for later and lunch for us both.  Still he was faffing.  “Don’t overdo it” I feigned concern “you can always finish off later in the week”.  But he persisted.  So I made scones.  I was very pleased with the result.  Unlike my previous attempts these actually look like they are supposed to rather than the beer mats my previous ones resembled.

See the funny little one in the middle?  That one has a name.  It is called Cook’s Perrogative.  Or should I say, “was” called.

At 3.15 I was allowed out, to grasp at the shirt tails of the day.  Still, beggars can’t be choosers.  The question is, will there be enough time to rearrange everything that he had done?