Bliss

When I was visiting the hairdressers the other day (no, contrary to appearances I don’t cut it myself with blunt Felcos) a conversation ensued about reading.  It went something like this:

Other customer to her stylist (she was having sun-kissed highlights so in for the long haul):  “No I don’t need a magazine thank you, I have bought a book with me” then looking over in our direction “have you read this one? its a real page turner”.

My hairdresser: “I don’t read books”

Me: “What?  You don’t read books, you heathen, desist from hacking at my hair this very moment, get straight to the library and mend your wicked ways!”.

Of course I am not really that judgemental, but I did suggest that she might give it a go, she might even enjoy it.  Personally I have had gleaned so much pleasure from books that I am always ready to champion their value.

I have always enjoyed reading, since an early age I have been an addict.  I would diligently read to my, less than keen, younger brother.  Whether he liked it or not.  Mostly not.  I have rarely faltered.  I have read and read and read.  Classics, contemporaries, experimental, poetry, fact, fiction, fictional fact, concise, verbose, funny, tragic.  On only two occasions has there been a gap.  Once, whilst travelling in Europe, when all our possessions were carried on our backs, our books were soon read and left for others to find.  When we reached our oasis, the magical hamlet Brugaroilles, we read the book shelves from left to right.  Alistair McLean, Daphne du Maurier, Christopher Lloyd and John Irvine, a few of the authors we systematically swept through.  There was also a short period when I found it impossible to read.  It was when I had just began writing myself and found reading established, published authors, disconcerting, the urge to compare irresistible and daunting.  I soon recovered from this small vanity.

This hunger hasn’t waned.  Scattered around the house there are those in waiting.  Piles of assorted books, their contents hidden for the moment.  When I am chastised I try to explain that to me they are like a box of chocolates.  When the current book is finished I relish the joyful decision as to which should be sampled next.

However, unless I am travelling, I rarely read except at the end of the day in bed.  This has become an unswerving routine.  I have to be very tired to miss it, even just two pages, even if I have to re-read them the next day, it is essential.

Today was different.  With chore list abandoned, I sat silent, unhindered or disturbed, and read one hundred pages of Cider House Rules.  It was bliss.

A meadow of snakes

The hail is flamenco-ing on the velux and I am remembering happy days.

This photo was taken at the very end of March 2016 at Holbrook Garden. I was visiting this wild and wonderful garden with the grand dame of Little Ash, Helen.  A meadow of Fritillaria meleagris, the snake’s head fritillary, was particularly spectacular, with its nodding heads of mottled purple interspersed on occasion with an albino specimen.  Great beauty indeed.

Still Counting

I have fallen a little behind with my photograph sorting/deleting/labelling/archiving/tedium.  Excuses, I have a few, but then again, too few to mention.  Here is another picture, a slightly nibbled abutilon, just to show that I am making a pathetic effort.  It was taken this time-ish last year on a visit to Knightshayes with the lovely Torrington Tina, Hero and Moo.   As I remember it was a wonderful day.

The Elixir of Life, am I right in saying that it has actually been invented?  If anyone can get their hands on any please give me a nod.  Perhaps Amazon or BJ’s?  It might be needed if I am ever to finish this job.  Are you still counting John?

999,997

Daffs

We don’t often have cut flowers in the house.  It is not that I have anything against them, and I invariably admire them in others’ homes, it just seldom happens.  Embarrassingly I have friends who are growers and naturally always champion British flowers.  As we have a very small garden any blooms are best left in situ and for some mysterious reason I am seldom bought them.  At this time of year I relent.  The moment I see the first daffodils of the year I am lost.  The sight alone of them bundled up, still tight in bud, brings a thrill.  To me they represent a corner turned.  Once safely transported home, hopefully still with all their heads intact, they are ensconced in my favourite vase.  Over the next few days they gradually unfurl their petals releasing their welcome perfume, reminding us of what joys are to come.

The Songs

All I can tell you about this photo is that I took it in January last year when we were holidaying in Cornwall.  It is strange to write “holidaying in Cornwall”.  Of course it is exactly what we were doing, but as someone who spent my formative years in West Penwith (and yes those years did a great deal of forming) then I would like to think there are special tendrils pulling me west.  Is it natural to crave to return to the source of the stream?  I don’t know.  All I do know is that I feel more of connection with Cornwall than to anywhere else in the world.  Sometimes I envy those with a strong heritage, born and bred, but in reality I imagine that there are more of us gypsies out there, those who never quite belong anywhere.  Citizens of the world perhaps.  Surely that can’t be a bad thing.   It is just that sometimes I would like to be able to sing the songs.

Parrotia persica

With the good must come the bad, the cloud before the silver lining arrives, the doughnut that missed the jam nozzle.  A month off, but a million photos to catalogue.  Here is a photo taken this time last year.  It is a blossoming Parrotia persica  or Persian Ironwood, taken at RHS Rosemoor.  The flowers have no petals and are tiny, but appearing in profusion, before any foliage masks their beauty and being of the deepest darkest red they are a sight to behold.

One down, 999,999 to go.

Straggler

Winter is traditionally horticultural ordering season; seed, plants, bulbs.  Take your pick.  Catalogues have arrived with their evil photos and delicious descriptions, emails regularly pop into your inbox tempting you to (with one click) enter their wicked world.  Combined with opportunity aplenty to peruse at pleasure, this adds up to a very slippery slope.  I am talking black ice and cold custard and Vaseline.  Yes, that slippery.

I am resisting ordering more seed as I am expecting my Hardy Plant Society delivery soon (40 packets) and my seed tin is already threatening explosion.  A couple of months ago I panicked at a 50p a packet sale and bought too many to admit to, including at least 5 packets of California poppies.

As for for plants, until I learn to look after them properly I am definitely not buying any more for myself.  My fingers may have been crossed as I typed that.  Metaphorically of course.  Otherwise it would have been very tricky.  And of course that excludes the species dahlias that will be arriving in the spring.  And any other unavoidable accidental purchases or gifts.

However, the recent kind donation of a variety of terracotta pots has given me a valid excuse to buy some bulbs to fill them.  To be more accurate, bulbs and corms.  I’m ever keen to try things I haven’t grown before so for that reason I have chosen Bessera elegans, Chasmanthe floribunda, Nerine undulata, Leucocoryne ‘Andes’  and Zephranthes rosea.  They won’t arrive for a few months, and by that time I am bound to have forgotten which beauties I picked.  Even now I can anticipate the thrill of opening the box of delights.

The stragglers, like this dewed arctotis, are most admired on these dull days, for both their perseverance and optimism.