Now I am not a Chelsea Flower fan, the amassing of thousands of flowers and plants just confuses me, the spectacular garden layouts leave me cold, in fact I have not even bothered to look at the show on TV but I do like the old fashioned roses from David Austin. I love a rambler tumbling over some trellising, maybe interspersed with a honeysuckle, wanton rampaging beauty, but of course there is the tying in, cutting down spent blooms, and the inevitable crossness as the long wands get tangled in hair and clothes...
Today monday, too many headaches at the moment, so I will note what gives pleasure in the garden, first of all we have 'the little brown creatures' in our garden, young starling fledglings and tiny balls of sparrows sit on the fence waiting for their mother to feed them seed. The starling babes badger their poor mothers but are in the process of being taught..... Last night a call from next door, one fledgling not being able to fly, we tried to catch it but it went into their double garage amongst a great mass of bikes and other things so the chase was given up and food left. My doves still give great pleasure, the female, lay on a sunny lawn the other day, wings slightly spreadeagled to catch the sun, and the male gently preened her, of course it could have been the other way round. Found a broken egg yesterday on the driveway, such untidy nest builders, bet it just rolled out.
Feathery fennel with its dainty bronze fronds uncurling sits above the grey of sage, whilst next door saladings compete for space in the green tubs.....
|the cranesbill sits behind the demanding upturned faces of the pansies|
My new little patch, (dug and planted on Earth Day) got given it because the lawnmower can't get round the bushes! now sports runner beans and some wild flowers seedlings.
Reading at the moment Madeleine Bunting's book called The Plot, a biography of a small piece of land that her sculptor father bought and then built a small chapel upon. It is in Yorkshire, just off the A170 near Scotch Corner, and it is more a history book of the area. Tales of the old sheep/cattle droving tracks as they were driven down to the larger cities, the men staying for a few days to spend their money, whilst the dogs were sent home to be fed by the local innkeepers as they travelled on their way.
To quote Herbert Read on the moors;
"Mountains I have no love for; for they are accidents of nature, masses thrown up in volcanic agony. But moors and fells are moulded by gentle forces, by rain, water and wind and are human in their contours and proportions, inducing affection rather than awe"
Perhaps he should have gone on to say that caught up on the moors in stormy weather was perhaps not the best place to be, or indeed in snow, the prehistoric way marking stones that follow our favourite road across the moor tells a different tale.
|A mullien finding itself overlooking the Somerset Downs.|