The violet – a tiny treasure.

Spring has so many stunning flowers: bold brassy daffodils and delicate fritillaries, sunny bright aconites and elegant narcissi to name but a few. But it’s often the shy little numbers that lurk in the shadows that tweak at my heart. The violet – Viola odorata - is one of them.

Not for nothing is the phrase for a shy, modest sort, ‘a shrinking violet’. The shrinking violet was the one on the edge of the dance floor, the modest little woman who never pushed herself forward. Pretty, simple, not showy.


And it’s the same in the borders of the garden, under the hedgerows and on the banks by the roadside. Out walking, cast your eye down and at this time of year and you can be surprised by a little group of violets. But not all of them are violet: those in the garden may be deep mauve or pale lilac, or you may even find white ones wild in the verges.

The Victorians were heavily into the symbolism of flowers - white violets were for candour – and the violet is known as a symbol of love. A hundred years ago an admirer might buy his girl a small posy of violets to pin on her lapel.

Grown en masse in Dorset, Devon and Cornwall especially for the market these little corsage produced healthy rural businesses. They were gathered in the morning, tied in bunches, packed in boxes, transported by rail to London for sale that same night.

But many tiny bunches were gathered in the fields and hedgerows that bordered cities too. They were also sold the same day, on street corners and outside theatres. More often than not they were the only livelihood for many a poor soul.

And in the days before refrigeration such a tender little bloom had to be sold immediately, before it drooped and died. The simple small token of love would be unpinned at home and put in a vase to be admired the next day. I remember that my grandmother had a tiny crystal vase especially for putting violets in to keep on her dressing table.

But Violets have hidden depths too: they can be used in all sorts of ways we have lost touch with today. Candied or crystallized – dipped in egg white and coated in sugar – they were used to decorate cakes and make into sweets. The dark green, kidney shaped leaves can be added to salads and the flowers too are edible. As a salad garnish they add colour and interest, and the flowers can be used to make salad dressing.

In the past violets were used extensively in cosmetics and toilet water. The flowers and leaves were steeped in water until they had rendered up their colour and scent. Medicinally they were made into teas or syrups for coughs and colds, and used as ointments and poultices for a variety of ailments.

Because the flower was popular in Victorian times so the name Violet became popular too. But the colour violet was also considered a powerful symbol in Victorian and Edwardian England possibly because of its closeness to purple, the colour that symbolises royalty. The Suffragettes used violet as one of the colours of their flag and it came to stand for the word Vote in their motto, Give Women the Vote.

So, remember that the little shrinking violet is no insignificant flower. Like many a small thing, they can pack a punch. Choose a moist patch in your garden, in dappled shade, and plant yourself a few violets. The sight of these simple little flowers in spring will be something to treasure.

Lucy
www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com

Winter weather

Arriving back in the UK from the sunny clime of South Africa it was a surprise – although it is February - to land on snowy tarmac in Surrey. It’s Middlesex actually but art is all. No, really, sorry about the alliteration: naff, I know, but somehow it just slips out. I mean, one mention of the word sun, and the words sand, sea etc just trip off the tongue. This time it was sunny, South and, well there it was, snow, just asking to be part of it.

Well, you may wonder, what was she up to in said sunny clime? It was part research (all will be revealed in time), part R&R. Weather? Well, OK, whilst we’re on the subject…..the Midlands of Kwazulu-Natal were misty and damp. Not quite what I had envisaged. No wonder the Drakenbergs are so green and beautiful.

Durban was tropical (humid) and the Zulu battlefield sites were hot in the day, nippy at night. But St Lucia Lake was just right: not too hot and not too cold, neither windy nor wet. Then Cape Town, sunny and bright as is usual at this time of year. All in all, a welcome break from the weather at this time of year at home.

Kent is usually wet and frostily cold in February: the days are short, the evening long. Christmas festivities have faded and Spring seems a long way off. Snowdrops have surfaced and look as pretty as ever, but colourful crocuses and cheery daffodils are only little green shoots. Not even a promise of joys to come.

In fact the only excitement weather wise is the romantic thought that we might have a little snow. You know the sort: sprinklings of it on rooftops, thick white powdery stuff on the grass, butch little snowmen. Snowball fights, sledge rides, hot chocolate and muffins by the fire.

In actual fact, when we have snow its more like: slushy piles on doorsteps, solid frozen stuff on the paths, big butch gritters. Cars are snowed in, buses don’t run and bread sells out in the shops. Hey - we are warned - don’t go out unless you have to. Avoid the roads, take care not to slip, stay warm. But still we think fondly of snow.

Up North, of course, they’re a hardy lot, used to the snow and ice and digging their way out of trouble. Down South we’re wimps: we only have snow that lasts for more than a day or two every decade or two so it’s hardly surprising that we’re not geared up for it. This year there was simply much more of the stuff than usual.

This is an event, an unusual and not very serious one at that. But what do we get: newspaper headlines of blame, panic and sensationalism. Schools are closed! People cannot get to work! Shops lose takings! Councils have run out of salt and grit! Oh, come on, please, the country hardly ground to a halt. Telephones rang, orders were placed, many were able to work at home and kids had the time of their life.

We cannot store huge quantities of salt for an event that only takes place every decade at most. And I’m not sure we want to use salt on every road. On motorways, yes, it’s effective and quick. But the run-off on rural roads causes terrible damage to the ecology. Grit is what’s needed, and that should be used often in winter when ice is a more frequent danger.

The worst of our damp weather is not actually the snow itself: it’s the crazy gang who drive too fast and the kids who have never learnt that ice on ponds is too dangerous to walk on. And the biggest danger of all is the aftermath of snow which, in Britain, is often flooding. Our resources should be spent of measures to alleviate that.

I think that every child should have the memory – the day we couldn’t get to school because of the snow – of chucking snowballs and sledging on tea-trays. Admittedly, once an adult the whole process can be a bit of a pain but many a parent is only too happy to join the kids. So, enjoy what there is to enjoy about snow ....before it all turns to slush.

Lucy
www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com
LucyAnnWhite@googlemail.com

Jack Frost

Only a week ago I was collecting holly to deck my boughs, humming a cheerful carol - “The holly and the ivy, when they are both full grown,” – and thinking how lovely everything looked in the sunshine.

And now I’m freezing! Too smug, we’ve been punished by the spirits with a toe numbing blast of cold weather. Just in time to see the old year out, or the new one in, depending on your perspective. But there is up side to the frost: everything in the garden looks so magical - chillingly beautiful.

I pull the bedroom curtains and there below me is an alien vision – every single element is frosted white: the trees, the shrubs, grass, plants and climbers. The deciduous trees are the most eye catching at first glance, bare branches silhouetted and dramatic.

The garden is – not to sound too corny – a winter wonderland. I can see where those Hollywood visions of winter landscapes come from now. They always look confected to me but now, as I look outside, I can see that they are based on fact. The garden is straight out of a fairytale.


Later, on closer inspection, every element has been transformed. Ivy leaves have silvery glass edging like sugar frosting. Each leaf stands out in relief, no longer one of many but each a tiny work of art. Their veins – hardly noticed when glossy green was the over-riding effect – appear more pronounced, a fine filigree.

And the bright green that was the Arbutus tree of last week now has what appears to be tiny glass bead decoration. The ‘green’ of the garden has been transformed by Jack Frost, the winter painter and decorator.

A corkscrew hazel – always an interesting outline – is even more charming than usual. The leafless branches stand out against the sky and the catkins that hang from them remind me of twinkling Christmas fairy lights.

The old stone ball – long ago toppled from some grand entrance pillar – looks like it’s been given the designer treatment. The moss that grows on the crumbly parts of it is more defined, more textured. It’s taken on the aspect of crusted moonscape and is eerily attractive.

And look, on an old pane of glass (that has no right to be propped up against the garden room wall) has had the Jack Frost treatment. Fern-like outlines and curling, curving shapes make a most beautiful decoration on it – there is little that can improve on nature.

I look, I admire, but then – the veritable wimp – I slink inside for a nice hot cup of tea. Beauty can give a frosty reception and be a cold companion. And so from the comfort of the fireside I appreciate Jack Frost but hope that he’s off to cast his spell elsewhere tomorrow.

Lucy
www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com

Put your faith in trees, not paper

In an uncertain world there are some things that are givens and the best of these have had as little to do with man’s tinkering as possible. One of them is the oak tree - a symbol of merry olde England if ever there was one. In a world that's in a constant state of flux at the moment it’s reassuring to learn that a natural feature can still be relied on to enhance our environment.

Oaks were native to Britain in the prehistoric era before they were finished off by the ice-age and driven southwards to warmer climes. Then, gradually, they made their way up from the Med into northern Europe again.

The tree was sacred to the Anglo-Saxons and Druids and by the middle ages the native oak, Quercus robur, grew extensively in woodlands throughout the south east and central areas of England. For centuries it's been used for timber framed houses and barns, cathedrals and churches: the wood warmed houses, the tannins preserved leather, ships were built of oak timbers.

But although we can now manufacture materials as durable as oak and more stable it is good to know that the oak tree still has a vitally important role to play. As far as biodiversity is concerned, the native oak tree supports more wildlife than almost any other tree. Over 400 species of insects and fungi can exist on one specimen which in turn attracts a wide variety of feeding birds and many small mammals.

The Turkey Oak, Quercus cerris, a native of southern Europe and further east, was re-introduced to northern Europe in the eighteenth century. It reached Britain in 1735 at the time of Trafalgar in an attempt to boost oak supplies for ship’s timbers. It is possibly the fastest growing of all oaks in this country and is easily identified by the winter buds and the acorn cups being hairy.

As our climate changes we have come to realise that the return of this oak may help our birdlife survive warmer temperatures. The Turkey oak’s particular claim to be truly beneficial is because gall-wasps like to lay their eggs on it. A gall forms round the eggs to protect them and birds (those such as tits which are now laying earlier in the year due to a warmer climate) rely on them to feed their young.

The oak has always featured in literature and here is a rhyme by Geoffrey Grigson that demonstrates just what a large part it played, from cradle to grave, in the lives of men throughout history.

THE CAULD LAD OF HILTON
Wae's me, wae's me!
The acorn is not yet
Fallen from the tree,
That's to grow the wood,
That's to make the cradle.
That's to rock the bairn,
That's to grow to a man
That's to lay me.

And it is still playing an important role in all our lives: it’s a small ecosystem all on its own and something we can continue to put our faith in. No matter what state your finances you can now gather an acorn, plant it deep in the earth and watch something worthwhile grow.

Lucy
www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com

Chelsea Flower Show

The Chelsea Flower Show opened yesterday, but only to the Queen and the Royal Family, the great and the good, the famous and not so famous like the press….and lucky old me.

As I explained about the show last year - just read the Chelsea blog of May 2007 by looking through my archive – and you can see it all on television anyway, I’m going to take this opportunity of doing a bit of professional soap-boxing.

If I’ve heard the remark, “It’s very green this time”, or, “There’s not a lot of colour in the show gardens”, once this year then I’ve heard it ten times. And I can only repeat what I say in reply: “Gardens should be green and green is a colour”.

But of course I know what they mean: some people like riotous clashing colours, others like toning shades of pastels or vibrant hues in their beds and borders. But these colours would all be unbearable without the background green of the leaves or grass. In the marquee and in many of the show gardens small and large there were some amazing flowering plants, whether bulbs, perennials or annuals. All were quality plants which were breathtakingly beautiful, spectacular, delicate or just plain pretty.

But a garden of green can be colourful and interesting in its own right. There are very many greens: pale, bright, dark, light, yellow, acid, variegated. And there are very many textures to leaves: crinkled, smooth, glossy, matt, ribbed, rough, feathery. Shapes? What about leaf shapes: round, linear, heart-shaped, oval, dissected, palmate. Then the very form and size of the plant adds an enormous interest. And put together these all create a pattern, or lots of different patterns, that add interest by their contrast or complimentary qualities.

So an all green garden can provide colour, texture, form, pattern, shape and size. Just look at the garden designed by Tom Stuart-Smith for Laurent-Perrier: this is one of the show gardens described by many as Very Green, and Not a Lot of Colour. But it is the most interesting garden because the designer has combined all the above with an interesting layout, real attention to detail and the use of top quality plants.

Although, look again, and the design does include either subtle hints of another colour – mostly white – or occasional splashes of something other than green as a highlight. And there is drama: the trees he has used for height - hornbeams – are pruned in a highly unusual way. Water is there too, always a pleasing component, and its smooth, dark surface reflects the different elements. Believe me, the garden’s a knock-out.

Of course gardens of the past were often very green: look at the clipped edged beds and hedges of eighteenth century gardens or the landscapes of Capability Brown, all sinuous shapes of smooth green and clumps of trees. And those classical gardens of Italy with their evergreen box and yew in pots or tubs of green leaved fruit trees. We are drawn to those landscapes: we love our parks with their grass and trees, our urban street trees, our countryside hedgerows and verges. Why do we like them so much? Why have these landscapes such a timeless appeal?

Those designers of yesteryear knew what we seem to have forgotten with all our choice of flowers and bulbs: that green is a very calming colour, a colour to refresh the spirit and the rest the mind. And we all seem to need a bit of that nowadays.

Lucy
www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com

Ancient Trees: part of our heritage

Kent and East Sussex – the region of South East England known as The Weald - are still amongst the most wooded counties in England. Although the wildwood which once covered the counties vanished centuries ago it left in its place woods of hornbeam and oak, areas of wood-pasture and small coppice woodlands (See my blog archive,Coppicing, 5 August, 2007).

Traditionally livestock would have grazed within this woodland – an historic land practice since medieval times – which eventually resulted in much of it wood-pasture. The legacy of this practice is the historic park of the type that can still be seen at Knole, a favourite hunting park of Henry VIII and later home of the Sackville-West's.

Venerable – ancient - trees are as much part of our heritage as the old manor houses and stately homes we treasure. An oak or yew tree starts to become of interest when it is perhaps 500 years old: they could live to well over 1000. But a beech or hornbeam has a shorter life-span: a 200 year old tree is beginning to be interesting and may well live for another 200 years or more, although there are some over 700 years old!

Measuring the girth of trees is often used as a method of calculating their age: generally if it is large for the species it is most probably of considerable age. If in addition the trunk shows signs of hollowing, decay holes, bark loss or bark deeply creviced then the tree is quite likely to be a veteran.

Counting the annual growth rings – the most reliable method of calculating the age of a tree - is obviously only possible once it's felled. But even then the tree may be so hollow with age that it's difficult to do. Another method of deducing the age of a tree is by counting the number of interdependent wildlife species it supports: birds, mammals, a multitude of insects, fruiting bodies and fungi.

Where I live, hornbeams were used to mark parish boundaries hundreds of years ago. These lines of ancient hornbeams are a distinctive landscape feature which gives the parish a special character, a regional identity and sense of place.

And these hornbeam are not only a feature of our parish boundary but also indicate the work and life-style of our ancestors. Since the 9th century 'dens' were used for grazing swine. The pigs were driven along the drove roads to fatten up on the acorns and beech mast in the woods at the dens: such woods that pre-date 1600 are now termed ancient woodland.

Pollarding oak and hornbeam was a traditional form of woodland management since that time, when the trees were regularly lopped (pollarded) in late winter or early spring to above the height of grazing cattle. The leaves and twigs were used as fodder for sheep and cows and the branches saved for firewood. And in the open landscape large single trees were often pollarded too, on a regular cycle, to create an annual supply of fire wood.

We often have an emotional or aesthetic response to ancient trees: romantic, awesome, beautiful. But there's a growing awareness of their historical, cultural and ecological importance too. If we value all this we must care for our ancient trees; nurture and love them. Only in this way will they remain an integral and important part of our heritage. So go on, hug an old tree!

Lucy
www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com

Lark Rise to Candleford

Sunday night is one of my television nights mainly because I look forward to watching an historical literary adaptation for the small screen. Lark Rise to Candleford fitted the bill, in a gentle, easy to watch, curl up with a cup of cocoa and suspend belief sort of way. But it's finished.

This long series followed on from Cranford which kept those of us who enjoy such stuff making sure we bagged the sofa for Sunday evening. Cranford it was not: see my blog archive 2007, posted on 30th December. In the televised Cranford there was real depth of characterisation, humour and the sense that true social change was taking place as the story unfolded.

Flora Thompson's, Lark Rise to Candleford, is a very different creature from Elizabeth Gaskell's novel. Flora Jane Timms (1876-1947) was born in the small village of Juniper Hill (the fictional Lark Rise) on the Oxfordshire border and left school at fourteen - as was usual - to work in the post office in the village of Fringford (later depicted as Candleford Green). She married in 1903 and moved to Hampshire where she and her husband ran a post office.

Lark Rise to Candleford is a semi autobiographical trilogy based on her Oxfordshire childhood and three communities, a hamlet, a nearby village and a town. The first story, Lark Rise, was published in 1939, followed by Over to Candleford (1941) and finally Candleford Green in 1943. These were re-issued as one volume Lark Rise to Candleford in 1945.

The books all describe village life throughout the year and the events depicted in them mirror much of Flora's experience. The central character is Laura Timmins, and the story starts when she leaves her hamlet of Lark Rise to work in the post office of the larger Candleford. Every television episode had its own little drama and on the whole these stood on their own. In the book the trilogy finishes when Laura leaves to sample life in the outside world, but the TV adaption has the post mistress fulfil this ambition. In fact this is what Flora herself set out to do.

As a record of ordinary rural life her books are an excellent record – do you remember Country Diary of an Edwardian Lady? Well in this respect they are very similar. But, although in Flora's novels we do see characters riding the newfangled bicycle, we are hardly aware how much the railway transformed transport and the relationship between village and town (it’s a shocking event when this occurs in Cranford).

Nor should the reader or viewer look to these novels to portray complete historical accuracy. Although we are very aware how the telegraph impacted on communications, we are little aware of the mass migration of rural workers to the cities. In Gaskell's novels, however, this sort of social change is always apparent and often the basis of the story.

The stories in Lark Rise to Candleford are set in the last years of the nineteenth century and Flora was over 60 years old when she wrote them. She, too, possibly saw that time through rose-tinted spectacles. They are gentle reminiscences of a time and way of life long past. And I, for one, will miss this sentimental, nostalgic series that was so easy on the ear and eye; that and having the sofa to myself.

Lucy
www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com
lucy.ann.white@hotmail.co.uk

Mad March On

March, the first month of spring, when everything is budding and promising more. Even the Middle English name of the month, March, sounds positive: a determined and regular moving forward.

In past years we've seen hares in the fields around here: the brown hare breeds in spring and - if you are very lucky - you may see them 'boxing' and chasing around which is why they are referred to as mad March hares.

The hare is a magical and mythical animal (see blog archive Hare Today, 3 June 2007) and the sight of one never fails to thrill me: not long ago they were seriously endangered because of new farming methods but fortunately they are now on the increase thanks to changes in agriculture and protected habitats.

But apparently these mad hares are actually the females fending off unwanted advances from males, and who can blame them, nothing mad about them at all. From as early as the 1500's hares were considered to be mad for this behaviour – the term 'hare brained' is associated with it – and Lewis Carroll, in Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, didn't help with his chapter A Mad Tea Party which included March Hare and The Hatter acting very oddly and excitedly.

Of course, little, sensible, sleepy Dormouse was there too, which reminds me, last week as I walked Freddie up the road the dormouse boxes that were left in the hedges as part of an ecological survey were being collected: sadly, most of them were only inhabited by wood mice. Here again the reintroduction and conservation of hedges is so important: they shelter and create safe wildlife corridors for small creatures like the dormouse.

On our walks I look out for all the small spring flowers in the verges too: palest lemon primroses – there is something quite innocent about them isn't there – look charming as do the tiny violets, both white ones and purple. These hint at a time long past when they were collected and made into bunches, sent to the city and sold as mini corsage for ladies to wear on their lapel.

And in all the front gardens I pass – peering over the fences is one of the pleasures of walking – are beautiful spring bulbs and early flowering trees. The snowdrops are over but daffodils are out in their hundreds and are the most cheering and marvellous of sights: it always reminds me of Wordsworth's poem 'When all at once I saw a crowd, a host of golden daffodils' because en masse the unexpected sight of them is stunning.

The crowds look spectacular when they fill a bed or an orchard but for smaller spaces and in windy sites I particularly like the miniature daffs like Tete a Tete or February Gold. Narcissi too are a favourite of mine, firstly because they are more delicate than the large trumpets but also because of their wonderful scents. I can't bear to pick any of them from my own garden but buy them for the house – I like a whole jug full, they're so cheap – because I don't want to dilute the sight of them out of my windows.

I have some miniature ones in my front garden – a spring garden, because I think it cheers people in chilly weather as they walk by and because I see them whenever I go in or out. And flowering with them are some of the later Lenten hellebores - the claret coloured ones such a good contrast. Their sophisticated and stylish flowers also contrast with the bold simplicity of the daffodil trumpets.

And now some blue hyacinths (old potted ones I stuck in the ground) are beginning to open, later to be followed by their baby cousins, grape hyacinths (muscari), whilst ground covering pulmonaria flowers are already out: all these blues will look lovely next to the daffodils, opposite sides of the colour spectrum. Something to look forward to late in March.

Organic fruits of their labours

It's that time of year when the stock cupboard begins to come into its own. When the conscientious and capable vegetable gardener or allotment holder can see the fruits of his labour neatly piled on the slate shelf of the pantry to last through the winter months. (I know it will probably be stashed in the pull-out kitchen unit or the fridge but I do like the thought of a good old fashioned pantry.)

Unfortunately, I'm not one of them. Most of our apples are windfalls, the pears are usually too small; the plums are eaten by the wasps and the squirrels always get the cobnuts just before I do. I like cobnuts, they're a local crop around here and I felt we should have some. I didn't want a nut plat – too big and I don't have the pruning skills or the sheep to keep the grass down under them - but I did fancy an avenue of nut trees under-planted with primroses and primulas al la Sissinghurst.

But, I opted instead for a cobnut hedge: not as grand but easier to upkeep. This has been a great success from the point of size, ease of pruning and lovely catkins but a real dud for harvesting. I do try: I watch and I wait. I think to myself "those nuts are nearly ready, a little bit pale, just another day or two" then when I go out, basket in hand, I find that those pesky squirrels have beaten me to it and swiped the lot. They get up earlier than me, that's my excuse.

I give away most of our fruit now: I used to make jellies and jams, chutneys and bottled fruits but I'm afraid the word processor has taken over from food processor. Now and then, overcome by a flurry of guilt and 'waste not, want not' ness, I go into overdrive and freeze the mountain of beans or make the elderberry cordial but this year I gave away most of our fruit.

Still, it is lovely to be rewarded with a perfect jar of apple and mint jelly or quince jam. And when friends come to supper and bring beautifully packaged pots of redcurrant jelly, blackberry or blackcurrant jam, gooseberry or apple chutney, I feel a sense of achievement for them and love the home-made gift.

At the same time, our egg consumption has slowly decreased over the years: once there were chickens and geese – sometimes guinea fowl, ducks and quail – but these have all gone. But when a friend brought round the most beautiful coloured chicken eggs as a pre-supper gift, I was loathe to cook them they looked so lovely. Gone are the days when most households had chickens.

My grandmother used to preserve eggs in large stone pots and often they were pickled: something to last through the short winter days when the chickens were out-of-lay. And of course, at this time, the oldest birds would be sacrificed to the pot. Now electric light means chickens produce eggs all year round and anyone hearing the term 'the old boiler' would think it was a central heating question not an elderly fowl.

Talking of which, the geese near here are shortly to be despatched for Christmas dinner (see them on my September blog archive) but the beautiful pigs that I've watched on my walks get bigger by the day have already gone to market. In the past, a big, pink pig was kept in everyone's back yard, whether country cottage or tiny terraced house; a long forgotten fact. It would have meant meat for the family throughout the winter and not a part of it was wasted. But these particular little piggies will be organic pork by now, an expensive treat for a wealthy shopper. And you can bet your bottom dollar that there were no chitterlings, brawn, cheek or jellied trotters made from those parts not considered prime.

Times move on but it's heart warming to see so many interested in 'growing their own'. And not all are lapsed and unorganized producers like myself: I only hope that they're encouraged by the process of production and enjoy the fruits of their labours.

Lucy
www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com
lucy.ann.white@hotmail.co.uk

An apple a day

Apples come in all sorts, shapes and sizes and that, say the supermarkets, is the problem: they don't stock locally grown apples because we – the customers – want blemish free uniformity. Apples must be either green or red, glossy and symmetrical: forget the flavour. But October apple festivals and farmer's markets show that this is not true: not only do we want the tasty old varieties, scabs and all, but we're prepared to pay for them.

Henry VIII encouraged his gardener to produce better fruit, which he set about doing in his nursery close to Brogdale in North Kent. In 1806, the Horticultural Society in Chiswick, London recorded 1,400 varieties of apple: the society moved in 1875 to Wisley and then to the horticultural research station at Brogdale in the 1950's.

This is now the Brogdale Horticultural Trust (www.brogdale.org) where the National Fruit Collection is and where research into gene bank, grafting, stocks, plant identification, cultivation and so on is undertaken. A guided tour of the Trust is not only informative but fun too, viewing the orchards from the back of a tractor trailer, and there are unusual varieties of the fruit for sale in the shop there.

But the government puts minimal value on this sort of research: little investment is forthcoming to fund this most well-known fruit. March 2008 is crunch time: the management trust is out for tender and then…...who knows.

The cultivation of the apple (Malus domestica) is part of our national heritage; apple orchards part of our historic landscape. The sight of Kentish apple orchards in glorious bloom – snowy white froth or pink tinged petals - is absolutely beautiful and draws coach loads of tourists. Generally apple trees tolerate a wide range of soil types and like the British climate, some varieties doing better in one part of the country than another.

In Scotland 'dooking for apples' was a favourite game at Halloween: children, hands behind their backs knelt down and tried to catch an apple from several floating in a tub of water. If you caught the apple you kept it: more often than not a good soaking was had, everyone falling about laughing at the efforts. We loved it. In England it's called 'bobbing for apples' but this old game played around Bonfire Night is less well known now. The eating of toffee apples, though, remains as popular as ever at this time of year.

As a child my parents grew varieties of desert and cooking apples, the rows of trees set out in rows on a north-south axis: one for every month of the winter. And every day we took one to school for break. Beauty of Bath, Laxton's epicure and fortune were eaten straight off the tree; Worcester pearmain would last till October, as would Ellison's orange and James Grieve. From the last half of September until November we would eat Laxton's fortune, pioneer and Lord Lambourne.

Then Cox's orange pippin - so often eaten too early - was best from late November until February with Laxton's superb ready late in December right round to March. In supermarkets we expect to find our favourite apple all the year round: lost is the concept that the apple changes as it matures which gives it a quite different taste and texture. Some apples best cooked in November have become eaters by the following March.

Apart from cider making (see my blog archive April, 30) the preservation of the fruit was always part of the housewife's work in centuries past: apple chutneys and jellies were made as was apple cheese. Apple sauce accompanied roast pork, apples were casseroled with game birds and a roast goose was stuffed full of them.

In the United States apple pie is considered as American as can be, and why not: the golden delicious apple was discovered in Virginia, 1895, and the variety Jonathan even earlier in the 1820's. But in England, where hundreds of apple varieties have been grown since Roman times, we've lost our appreciation for the many famous varieties of the past and the methods of cooking them.

During my childhood Sunday lunch was always accompanied by a pudding and ten to one it would be made of apples. Early Victoria was used for apple crumble, cobbler or Charlotte because it cooked down to a soft consistency: for apple pie or stewed apple Reverand Wilks was favourite because it kept it's shape. And for baked apples – stuffed with currants and brown sugar and served with custard – it was our Monarch, Warner's king or King Edward VII varieties that we used. Nowadays in supermarkets there is the ubiquitous Bramley, rarely any other.

We can buy attractive, clean, blemish free apples wherever we shop: what we cannot necessarily buy is flavour, distinctiveness and variety. But, nevertheless, they remain packed full with other good things: an apple a day still keeps the doctor away.

Lucy
www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com
lucy.ann.white@hotmail.co.uk

Summer Is Over

Summer is over: as I walk up the lane behind my house the signs are everywhere. Purple damsons covered in a powdery bloom have fallen from the trees - no-one picks them now – and lie scattered like marbles. In the hedgerows brambles shoot out all over the place, their tips weighed down by tumbling blackberries: I pick the most succulent and they taste sweet.

Trees laden with apples, pears and quinces can be seen in the gardens I pass and shiny copper conkers lie along the edges of the road, their prickly cases split and discarded. I can't resist picking some conkers up - so smooth and glossy – and I pocket them to display or give little boys to play with.

The wheat has been harvested for some weeks now and as we walk through the stubble, crows and pigeons fly up, hen pheasants scuttle away and a cock rises and calls out for them to follow: fortunately Freddie is on the lead. As we go up towards the farm the geese – now very large and snowy white – stick out their chests and march towards us menacingly, honking loudly. I warn them not to push their luck, it may not be long before they meet their maker.

Passing the barn there are already trestle tables and benches of straw bales laid out for the Harvest Festival Supper (Shepherd's Pie and Blackberry & Apple Crumble). It's harvest end, tomorrow is Michaelmas, the Archangel Michael's feast day, and the Quarter Day on which landlords traditionally collected the rents.

It was on this day that servants were hired, farms changed hands and magistrates were appointed. And many tenant farmers presented their landlord with a goose as a gift or sometimes in lieu of rent. A goose was a gift to prize: dried, salted or pickled it would last through winter and roasted goose was a meal to celebrate with. But a goose produced more than just food.

Goose down and feathers – they are the very devil to pluck – made the best pillows and quilts, light but very warm. In days gone by their wing feathers were used for arrows and quills and their fat was used to keep bodies warm and waterproof a variety of things. Nowadays, gourmets will tell you that their fat is the best in which to roast potatoes.

Geese are monogamous – although some ganders may have three or five geese as a harem – and will live for up to 20 years, often pining if their mate dies. It is some years now since we kept geese: Ghandi (the gander) and Gertie were a devoted couple but sadly they didn't ever have goslings. We gave them a pond to help them perform but still nothing. When Ghandi died we found out it was due to being egg bound: which explained a lot.

For hundreds of years geese were herded for miles to be sold at the Goose Fairs in time for Michaelmas: these old goose markets have gone now, the name living on in large annual markets and fun fairs. Geese – or the eating of them at Michaelmas - have traditionally been considered good luck and they feature in many myths and fables.

In 1813 Jane Austen wrote to her sister Cassandra, "I dined upon goose yesterday which I hope will secure a good sale for my second edition". We all remember the nursery rhyme Goosey, Goosey, Gander and Old Mother Goose was a favourite character: much earlier, it was Aesop's goose that laid the golden egg.

And, according to Livy, Rome was saved by the sacred geese when they cackled and alerted them to the invading Gauls. Geese can still be seen in flocks around the whisky distilleries in the Scottish highlands where they provide a similar service, warning of unwanted visitors and threatening them off.

That reminds me of our brush with the strident farmyard geese today. I think their luck may be running out: if Michaelmas doesn't get them Christmas surely will. There have always been feasts to celebrate the end of harvest – in England the old pagan feast of the Autumn Equinox became the Christain feast of St Michael as celebrated by King Ethelred in 1014. A crisp skinned roast goose stuffed with apples, a flagon of cider and a plum cake: now there's a feast fit for a king when summer is over.

Lucy
http://www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com

Book Note: Some of Dorothy Parker's poems are excellent such as Penelope quoted in last week's blog but many are ironical (see my blog archive of 6 January, Twelfth Night). Having so recently looked up her poems again I shouldn't have been surprised to find another lovely one: what was a surprise however was to read this excerpt from Paths after I had written this piece.

I shall hear the pheasants call,
And the raucous geese;
Down these ways, another Fall,
I shall walk with Peace.

I don't know why, but it always makes me sit up when I realise that across continents and seas we have such similar experiences: even for sophisticated townies, nature and the wild touches us all.

Highgrove: organic is beautiful

When I heard that I could visit the garden at Highgrove, the country home of His Royal Highness, Prince Charles, I was over the moon. Demand is so high that the waiting list can be up to five years and only one visit per person is allowed, so for me to get 'in' was fantastic.

The garden is a delight: Charles planned it to be not only an organic landscape but a beautiful one too and he's achieved his goal spectacularly. I walked around it with a smile as wide as a frog: from a design point of view vistas radiating from the house are achieved with paths and clipped hedges whilst wild natural areas (woods and wild flower meadows) juxtapose well with more formal planting.

The walled kitchen garden combines beauty and practicality: old varieties of apple tree are pleached or espaliered whilst other fruits are fan trained on the high brick walls. The geometric planting beds have neat rows of vegetables enclosed by low clipped box hedging – a natural form of pest control.

Scented perennials, flowering shrubs and old fashioned roses spill over the gravel paths, a good foil for the uniformity of the vegetables. Everything is grown organically using compost and natural liquid manures and with no need for sprays: as good an advert for this method of growing as anyone could find.

Throughout the park there are new structures – a dovecote, beef shed, rustic oak temples, brick paths, dry stone walls – that are all designed with the vernacular in mind. The quality of these is quite obvious and the concept perfectly in keeping with the whole ethos.

One fun aspect of walking around it – which one can only do under the guidance of a knowledgeable volunteer - is picking up the clues to inspiration. A laburnum walk is pure Rosemary Verey (Barnsley House), a pair of wrought iron gates leading into a yew hedged garden is definitely Lady Salisbury (Cranbourne Chase) and the wild flower meadow could be a Miriam Rothschild blue-print.

Sadly the giant cedar of Lebanon at the back of the house is dying if not already dead. But nothing lasts forever and although The Prince regrets the loss it's a chance to plant something else in its place for posterity.

The garden pushes every ecological button: planting suits its site and is sustainable; species and methods encourage bio-diversity; endangered native species are thriving; the estate is self-sufficient in vegetables and fruits; there is an ongoing tree planting programme for the benefit of future generations which is also a healthy carbon offset.

And most of the ideas are excellent: a reed-bed waste sewage system may not be suitable for your average Joe but re-cycling rainwater is a measure that can be copied by nearly everyone. Rainwater is free and can be used to irrigate gardens: a win-win situation if ever there was one.

Composting is also big at Highgrove and even owners of the smallest gardens can recycle kitchen vegetable waste using enclosed compost bins. These hardly ever need emptying as an organic liquid is produced that simply seeps into the soil: no sweat.

But I do hope The Prince gives up his idea to produce bio-fuel from rapeseed and other vegetable fats as this is not an efficient – or desirable - use of land. It's also a poor example to set third world countries: if they make over large tracts of arable land to produce fuel(much of it for the West), they will not be able to produce a wide choice of affordable crops for their own population.

Transport can be fuelled by electricity which is produced from timber: the production of a sustainable timber supply not only uses less land than oil seed crops but it leaves arable land free for food crop production. There is often a backlash to alternative methods: think again, Charlie.

But, apart from this one small point, the garden at Highgrove and the message Prince Charles conveys with his ideas and his methods is exemplary. For hundreds of years landscapes were made by men of wealth and power but few did so throughout the 20th century: Prince Charles is an exception. His house and garden combine to make a most beautiful landscape – a real inspiration - certainly the highlight of my gardening year so far.

Lucy
http://www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com

Book Note: HRH The Prince of Wales' book, The Garden at Highgrove (published by Weidenfeld & Nicolson), is still in print and available now in paperback. Even if you have not been to the garden it is a very attractive book with plenty of ideas to inspire....tho' better still if you have been!

This year another handsome book, The Elements Of Organic Gardening, is available. It's a practical guide to organic gardening as practiced at Highgrove and other properties owned by The Prince. All proceeds from these books – and everything sold in the shop at Highgrove – goes towards The Prince's Trust for the worthy causes it supports.

Impressionists by the Sea

In England we haven't had much of a summer and not many holidaymakers could enjoy the seaside, even less the sea. As a sunny beach became more desirable with every week of August passing by, on a particularly rainy day I took myself off to London to at least get a taste of it at the exhibition, 'Impressionists by the Sea'.

The show at the Royal Academy – the blurb explains - explores "the development of the beach scene in the art of the Impressionists". Some of their predecessors – Isabey, Cazin, Dupre – painted the sort of marine scenes we've seen rather too much of lately - storms, fishermen fighting the elements, toiling peasants (do peasants toil anymore?) – while other artists concentrated on the coastline devoid of figures.

Then painters like American James McNeill Whistler and Frenchman Courbet began to focus on more restful views of the north coast of France: bays, the play of light on calm seas, a peasant asleep. These paintings were simpler, calmer, than the previous dramatic stormy scenes.

But around 1860 a few artists began painting fashionable tourists on the beaches of Normandy: Boudin pioneered the theme of holiday makers on the beach at Trouville, others followed and Deauville, Berck, Etretat and Sainte-Adresse feature in many paintings by such artists as Monet and Manet.

These holiday makers came down to the coast from Paris and the corresponding growth in hotels and villas along the sea front were incorporated in the paintings: there are scenes of figures strolling along the board walks in colourful fashionable clothes, sitting under the shade of their parasols, stepping out from their bathing tents.

Ah, this is my sort of seaside: sun, yellow sands, aquamarine seas, high bright blue skies, honest and upright locals, refined and elegant holidaymakers, not a piece of litter or a cart jam in sight.

Now, here's a theory: as adults we're drawn to the landscapes of our formative years. Born in rolling countryside but close to the coast, I like landscape paintings with hills, trees and meadows but I'm also drawn to the sunny beach scenes of the Impressionists.

Paintings of figures strolling on Trouville beach reminds me of Weymouth sands in summer, just as a South African may instantly think of Muizenberg, an Australian of the beach at St Kilda's. Happy memories: I can taste the salt, feel the warm sand trickling between my toes, see the boats sail gently to and fro on the bay.

But by the late 1870's the Impressionists, perhaps bored by the subject of holidaymakers, were concentrating more on landscape: figures were a minor feature. They created informal canvases showing the physical structure of cliffs or the effect of light on sea and sky. Brilliant.

Then by the late 1880's these scenes had become quite dramatic again: the artists portrayed dark rain clouds, massive cliffs, rock formations and the play of light on the sea. Fashionable figures – though not necessarily their resorts - were supplanted by fisher folk, their boats, the sea and cliffs.

Many of the Impressionists chose to paint Etretat where the cliff has been eroded by sea to form an opening. It might remind an American of the natural arch at Santa Cruz: it reminds me of Durdle Door in Dorset.

Suddenly I recall a less sunny seaside: scary cliff walks and stormy seas. I remember the wind stinging my legs when I come out of the water, the pain of pebbles under bare feet, sand in my sandwiches, grumbling locals and hordes of holidaymakers: different impressions by the sea.

Lucy
http://www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com

Note: if as adults many of us are drawn to the landscapes of our formative years, some people – at particular times in their lives - are likewise attracted to alien landscapes: landscape as 'escape' perhaps.

For example, if we're hemmed in by the city we thirst for open spaces. When our life is controlled, we may seek wild spaces; if our lives or minds are out of control we may appreciate neat and tidy surroundings.

Certainly the cry – I just need to get away – is usually from the heart no matter where away is: an exhibition of painting might just do the trick.

The moon, meteors and myths

The moon and meteors have long been the subject of myths: for thousands of years cultures have studied the stars and been ruled by their movement. Terrestrial travellers throughout the world used the stars and the moon to guide them, seafarers navigated by the constellations.

Historically farmers have grown crops according to the phases of the moon. Wheat was sown during the waxing of the moon and small holders planted their peas: all above ground crops. When the moon was waning however, it was the time to sow root crops and trees.

Now, when tending their vines, winemakers of the New World are considering the lunar activity that ancient viniculture abided by: full circle. They are harvesting their grapes as close to the full moon as possible in order that the fruit is full of moisture and flavour.

And it's not such a daft idea: after all, it's the gravitational interaction between the Earth and the moon that causes the tides to change and similarly the moon affects moisture in the soil. Depending on whether the moon is waxing or waning, so light is increasing or decreasing, affecting plant growth.

In the 20th century interest was renewed when Rudolph Steiner encouraged such biodynamic agricultural techniques as planting according to the moon's phases: it seems that seeds germinate more quickly if planted at full moon. But you ask any countryman about when to grow fruit and veg and he'll spout planting and gathering times based on the lunar calendar that were part of folklore long before Steiner gave it any scientific credentials.

The Romans were heavily into the lunar calendar as we all know and belief in the mythical powers of the planets and stars is still with us in the 21st century: so strong is it that we even organize our lives by consulting the twelve constellations of the Zodiac on a daily basis. What star sign are you? is one of the most popular openers for women (in particular) on speed dates and many have been know to reject a partner on the strength of his perceived personality: in some cultures a potential bride or groom can be rejected after consulting the stars for fear of an inauspicious match.

For more down-to-earth types however, tonight, Sunday, after midnight, there will be a spectacular shower of shooting stars through the British skies: the Perseid meteor shower occurs every year around the time of the St Lawrence's feast day on 10th August (Romans again). The show has already begun but will peak tonight. A new moon – a darker sky – should help us see the spectacle more clearly: that and the absence of light pollution.

Killjoy, I hear you groan, why mention pollution. Why can't you just celebrate this wonderful astronomical phenomenon without recourse to green issues: quite simply, because light pollution of our night skies may stop us seeing this colourful cabaret.

Light pollution is the adverse affect of artificial light on the night sky: in many cities throughout the world only the brightest of the planets and the moon are now visible. In our village we boast of having a clear night sky: there are no street lights or large illuminated signs so astronomers travel miles to study the stars on the elevated Common. But in the distance there can be seen sky glow from the nearby town and it's creeping ever nearer.

So what? Well, light pollution affects us all, star gazer or not. Lighting burns money and it uses up our natural energy resources: it harms nocturnal wildlife and it destroys our night skies which is a crying shame. There is nothing like walking home from the pub on a chilly evening under a starry, starry night: nothing more wonderful that going out into the garden after a warm day, when there's not a cloud in the sky, and seeing above you a canopy of stars. It's apt to stir mystical or philosophical (or romantic!) thoughts depending on character (or company).

Down in Devon this spring, my sister-in-law brought out her telescope. She said that it was an excellent evening to see the rings round Saturn and the mountains on the moon: sensational and spooky both. They too live in a village with an unpolluted night sky and the clarity of the images was extraordinary.

If only every night sky was as clear: it actually takes very little – and costs next to nothing - to cut light pollution in residential areas and so increase visibility. When some town dwellers move to the countryside they feel insecure without street lights, but country dwellers know that a torch is all that's necessary to find your way. And lights on gateways or porches have simply to be changed to lower wattage, put on a time switch and, most importantly, designed with a narrow beam angled downwards to minimise the affect of pollution.

The stars and the moon and the sky: we can make or mar magic.

Lucy
http://www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com


Book Note: books on mythology abound and it’s a fascinating subject. Two of the books I used when researching myths for my novel were The Myths of Greece and Rome by H A Guerber - because it was published in 1907 and therefore reflected the presentation of them at that time - and African Mythology by Geoffrey Parrinder because it included myths that linked the coming of death with the waxing and waning of the moon (go to www.nmm.ac.uk for more South African myths)

In the same Paul Hamlyn series are books about Greek, Egyptian, Indian, Oceanic and American Indian mythology and I can bet there are myths about the moon and the stars in all of them.

Butterflies and Coppicing

Britain's biggest butterfly conservation project started a couple of weeks ago: it seems that many traditional species are in decline due to the lack of ancient woodland management.

In my village there is an ancient wood: now in your imagination this wood might be full of enormous gnarled old oak trees, but not so. It's full of spindly chestnut and hazel trees that have been coppiced for hundreds of years.

Many of our high forests are the result of woodland management - such as coppicing – no longer being carried out. The canopy of these trees eventually cast deep shade but ancient semi-natural woodland that's coppiced is made up of multi-stemmed trees that only cast a dappled shade in which many species thrive.

Ancient or semi-ancient woodland is defined by the number of 'indicator' species: generally this is the number native flowering plants - ferns, lichens and native conifers -that are present on a particular site. The greater the number of these species present the more likely it is that the wood is ancient but, obviously, these species differ depending on the area.

In Kent there are, amongst many, primroses, wood violets and sorrels growing in the woodlands; lichens, fungi and insects live on the dead wood and nightingales and dormice are resident. If the wood is too dark these species won't survive and eventually the woodland floor will become dense scrub: coppicing prevents this.

Coppicing – the word comes from the French word couper, to cut - is an ancient art that can be traced back to 4000 BC: it involves the cutting of trees and shrubs back to ground level on a regular basis to give a sustainable supply of timber.

When the trees are cut back they are known as stools: stooling results in vigorous re-growth that produces multi-stems known as poles. These poles are then harvested on a regular basis – anything between 6 and 25 years - depending on the species and the product required.

However, some wood is removed on an annual basis: if the trees have been planted close together they'll grow tall and straight and the wood used for bean poles (hazel) and the brush for 'dead' hedges. Coppiced ash was traditionally used for tool handles, oak and chestnut for fencing. And the wood not suitable for products would be used in winter as firewood or in summertime burnt in kilns in the wood for charcoal.

Charcoal burners are as old as the hills, without them there would have been no Iron Age: charcoal burns at a higher temperature than wood and so was used for smelting. But when we started using coal – and now gas, oil and electricity - for fuel as opposed to wood, coppicing declined as a form of woodland management.

Although the art is not totally forgotten: when we cut back our garden dogwoods (Cornus alba) and willows (Salix alba) to produce fresh new stems, or our Eucalyptus gunnii to produce vigorous juvenile growth, we are, in effect, coppicing. And we're coppicing when we cut back overgrown hornbeam or yew to produce fresh new growth.

As is so often the case in nature, one thing goes hand in hand with another. If woodland is coppiced it affords a wide range of habitats but if this lapses then the species it supports falls off. Coppiced woodland has sunny clearings in which flora and therefore butterflies thrive: without management the wood becomes the dark place of fairy tales and many species of butterfly decline.

Orange and woodland fritillaries are nearly extinct in the south east of England and if woodland isn't coppiced for over 5 years then the pearl-bordered fritillary will not survive. The South East Woodland Project is hoping that rare and endangered species of butterflies like these - along with moths and insects - will make a comeback if the woods are properly managed once more.

They are therefore encouraging landowners to coppice their woodland again: the charity is holding demonstrations throughout the SE of England for landowners but also for any Tom, Dick or Harriet who would like to learn the art of coppicing.

To get you started on saving butterflies, vote for your favourite one (either painted lady, peacock, red admiral, brimstone, comma or holly blue) by going onto the website www.butterfly-conservation.org.

And you can do your bit in your own back yard: go gentle on the weeding, leave the corners to take care of themselves. A tree, some native wild flowers and a clump of nettles and you've created a little butterfly heaven.

Lucy
http://www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com

Book Note: when I'm out and about and want to identify wildlife, I prefer a pocket-sized book. Butterflies in Collins gem series is a perfect example: it is a very small paperback with one butterfly or moth to the page. A clear photograph and a short description means that you can look up a butterfly when on the hoof before it darts away (with luck). It covers the butterflies of Europe but for some strange reason it's for sale in Canada: is this because the same butterflies live there?
Most enthusiasts would probably like a more detailed tome for their bookshelves: mine is an illustrated book of insects. Looking for it just now a yellowed sheet of paper fell out - Butterfly Conservation campaign 1994 - bemoaning the loss of butterfly habitats. So, if this is a trend, I should be able to recycle this blog circa 2020.

Flanders Fields: wheat and poppies

A field of ripening wheat is a beautiful sight: jade green stalks around the edges of the fields enclose the sea of wheat, a soft dun colour. When there is a slight breeze the ears sway in unison like dancers on a ballroom floor.

When it's not raining (which it's doing a lot lately) one of my favourite walks with Freddie is along a footpath that cuts right through the middle of a large wheat field. But first I have to negotiate the kissing gate without Freddie noticing either the hens or the giant pet rabbit asleep in the adjoining garden. That accomplished I can relax.

From the top of the field there's a 300 degree panoramic view: the land falls away to hedges and trees, a stream at one edge. I never fail to stop awhile and admire the wide open landscape, the large sky – a perfect scene - and marvel at how lucky I am to live in such a beautiful, peaceful place.

When the sun shines the wheat takes on a golden glow, the green of the hedges and trees in deeper contrast, the blue of the sky an excellent foil for the wheat: opposite sides of the colour spectrum. In years gone by, before fields were sprayed, the bright contrast of poppies was a lovely and common sight among the corn but now such annuals are an undesirable contaminate.

Freddie is less impressed with aesthetics. When he first enters the field his eyes scan the horizon: he's looking for prey. I pull him on and he adapts to nice smells mode. When I stop to admire the view he's happy to stay still for a minute and immediately adjusts to micro hunter: eyes to the ground, he's motionless, waiting for some movement among the stalks.

As we approach the farm we surprise the geese, lying in the shade of an elder. The downy yellow goslings of a few weeks ago have turned into handsome snowy white geese, small feathers on their necks still those of an adolescent.

They have not yet learned the art of the guard dog, either that or my dog and I have burglar's tread. Freddie shows no interest in the geese: it's possible that he's been on the receiving end of a goose's beak. It's a long time since we kept geese and I still miss the eggs but not the gander's battle cry.

Wild flowers, in muted shades, fill the verges of the road we follow: tall stems of meadowsweet wave fluffy heads of rich cream, pale pink bristles and spiky thistle leaves overshadow the small yellow flowers of rattle and buttercup in the grass.

But, ahead, one stab of searing colour. Where a car went over the hedge just opposite my house a stray poppy – bright scarlet – has appeared: some escapee seed from a neighbour's wildflower bank. The spinning car wheels did the job of the plough.

Poppy seed can lie dormant for years and years just waiting for a lucky break. I have gravel paths in the garden and this constantly disturbed surface is the perfect medium for poppies. I leave them wherever they appear, never knowing where they will come up next year. There are soft red poppies and mauve ones and various ones in shades of pink from cross fertilization. Some are frilly doubles, others simple singles.

I dry the heads of the poppies I like and plan to scatter the seeds immediately. Unfortunately, I often forget and find them the next year. Nevertheless I throw them onto roughed up bits of ground, if they come up it's a bonus, if they don't it didn't cost anything.

They look particularly good growing next to tall grasses – it's that old combination poppies and wheat. When the wheat field is ploughed it brings the poppy seed to the surface and allows it to germinate: tanks did the same on the Fields of Flanders.

July 31st is the anniversary of the main battle of Passendale (3rd battle of Ypres, 1917). Shelling, tanks and unseasonal heavy rain – very similar to the rain here this year - made the battle ground into a mud bath which was horrific and caused the death of many.

One of Siegfried Sassoon's poems sums it up, "I died in Hell – They called it Passchendaele". Not peaceful fields of wheat but Flanders fields of poppies must be on the minds of many: such a moving sight. Life and death: wheat and poppies.

Lucy
http://www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com

Book Note: the poetry of those who died in the First World War, Wilfred Owen, Edward Thomas, Isaac Rosenberg, and those that survived it, Robert Graves, A.E.Houseman, Edmund Blunden and Siegfried Sassoon, quite changed the language of poetry: romanticism was replaced with reality.

The darkness crumbles away -
It is the same old druid Time as ever.
Only a live thing leaps in my hand -
A queer sardonic rat -
As I pull the parapet's poppy
To stick behind my ear.

'Break of Day in the Trenches' Isaac Rosenberg (1890-1918)

The American civil war and then the Boer war had exposed the reality of modern warfare but it wasn't until the Great War that the true horror of it was so movingly expressed in poetry. And the poems of these soldier-boy poets, which convey the horror of war so graphically, still have resonance today.

Siegfried Sassoon (1886-1967) is one of the best known of the British war poets. His six volume autobiography is a semi-fictional account of his life, the first three volumes entitled The Complete Memoirs of George Sherston. There are at least five biographies of Sassoon and, for those good at 'googling', there is a wealth of information out there about him.

Findings by Kathleen Jamie

In a further quest for something other than a novel, our Scots groupie suggested a 'sort of book' for our July book group choice: Findings, by the award-winning Scottish poet Kathleen Jamie.

Jamie obviously loves the Scottish landscape and wildlife and this book is a series of 'essays' that investigate different themes. Whether they were essays or not was a subject for discussion: all agreed they probably were although not of the 'school essay' type. So, fond of getting it right in my head, I looked up the word in the trusty OED
essay: noun 1. a short piece of writing on a particular subject.
2. formal an attempt or effort
essayist noun 1. a person who writes essays, especially as a literary genre

On a simplistic level I thought the essays were about the landscape and nature but Jamie says Findings 'is a book about being human, conscious, implicated.' She doesn't recognise the idea of 'the outdoors' or of 'nature' because she contends that we are nature, and are not – or should not be - divorced from it.

Well, of course she's right but most readers will probably enjoy her being at one. This comes across in her writing when she feels it imperative to be part of her surroundings, to interact, to get closer, whether moving along on her bike or sitting still up close on a bank.

But whether Jamie is cycling along a lane, on an island, in a boat or by a river bank she is listening as much as watching. We hear the mewing of a buzzard, waves sucking on rocks, the wind sloughing and so the reader is given a very complete picture.

She is a curious, keen and close observer and one who loves to use her binoculars to magnify, her telescope as an eye that can sweep in close. Like a camera. And I found her 'seeing' quite detached: unemotional. Like a scientist. Perhaps that's why she can put her observations into words so clearly.

Although, now and then, we are allowed odd glimpses of Jamie's personal life and views – her husband ill, her daughter's accident, her ageing grandmother: her politics, relationship with her mother.

Jamie doesn't do God, but she has a beneficent view of the natural world and a very philosophical one at that. When her husband was seriously ill she didn't pray to God to save him but concentrated instead on the minutiae of life - cobwebs and the play of sunlight – and wondered if 'noticing', paying heed to small things, was a kind of prayer.

It takes a bit of getting used to, this Kathleen Jamie view of life: she waited for hours to see a corncrake and when she finally did, one expected her to be delighted but she merely remarks 'That's that. I do not punch the air'. However, when an unexceptional man visiting the corncrake field described the small, modest birds as 'little gods of the field' she says she felt like punching the air, obviously delighted with his appreciation of the small things upon which all of nature is reliant.

Reading the book one can understand why Jamie's a lecturer in creative writing: her descriptions of the natural world are sharp and fresh, her similes humorous and original. Corncrakes don't like bad weather and are described as 'the kind of bird who'd want to be excused games'. Brilliant.

Her ability to pare down her writing – which must be part of a poet's art – is impressive in prose and the way in which she leaves her readers to draw their own conclusions shows amazing restraint.

One of my favourite chapters was Darkness and Light, describing her visit to the Neolithic tomb of Maes Howe, Orkney. Quite apart from the wonderful descriptions of the natural landscape – sky, birds, light, wind – she also explains how five thousand years ago the Stone Age builders were so skilled they lined-up a narrow passage so that on a few mid-winter days, at solstice, a beam of sunlight fell directly along that passage and illuminated the tomb. In those days darkness – black - was not associated with death as it is now. She wishes it was still so.

In The Braan Salmon the descriptions of the salmon leaping and the water they are leaping about in is superb. The river Braan is not a natural salmon river: tourists watch the salmon and admire their brio as they try to get back upriver to spawn. Is it survival of the fittest, is a conundrum Jamie raises. Few know that, try as they might, the salmon will never achieve it. It is impossible for them to clear the falls. The fittest fish die in the attempt and those that survive are those that give up and spawn where they can.

Jamie also likes to introduce us to a wider vocabularly: there are the Scottish words, of course, which pepper the text but never exclude the reader but there were also a few words that were new to me. Which perhaps indicates her love of finding out, pushing boundaries: knowing.

Findings was thoroughly enjoyed by the whole book group: 'beautifully presented book', 'an easy read', 'a gem', 'worth re-reading', were some general remarks. More specifically it was described as: informative, clever, with a wonderful sense of place. And every one understood when one groupie remarked that she had been 'transported by the descriptions'.

So, "Beam me up, Scottie", this sort of book is a real find.

Lucy
http://www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com

Open Day

I'm rather keen on 'open days': not the sort that show you what a school is like but rather the sort that allow you to see what's entailed in an unusual occupation or life-style.

The services have always had open days: on such days the army allow their tanks to be clambered over, the fire brigade lets kids - big and small - into the cab and the Royal Navy invites the public to explore frigates - or go down into a submarine – that are in harbour.

Visiting ships as a child was always very exciting – running up and down the ladders, peering through portholes, fiddling with periscopes - and I think my siblings and I did get an inkling of what is must be like to live on a ship.

And 'open days' are as popular as ever: today is Open Farm Sunday. Leaf (Linking Environment And Farming) and the RSPB (The Royal Society for the Protection of Birds) have encouraged farmers to open their gates to give the public a chance to find out what modern farming is all about.

Over 350 farms are in the scheme, ranging from arable farms and growers to livestock breeders and farmed reserves. Its aim is to give visitors a really good time and in doing so show how farming and conservation can go hand in hand.

Farmland birds have declined enormously in the quarter of a century and many small mammals are endangered: cutting hedges after nesting is an obvious way to increase the bird population, leaving a grass margin around cultivated fields allows wildlife to flourish and using the minimum of pesticides and fertilizers ensures that wildlife is affected as little as possible.

Hedges, verges and tree lined fields – as opposed to fenced enclosures – provide wildlife corridors that allow mammals, birds and reptiles to survive. Many of the farms will be giving guided walks to show the wildlife conservation and habitat recreation they are undertaking.

The farms are varied and offer differing activities: some will have tractor rides, a chance to see cheese made, lambs fed, pheasants reared or flour milled: then tea and homemade cakes to round it off of course. Visit www.farmsunday.org to find out more about farms in your area or visit the RSPB site www.rspb.or.uk to learn about their work.

But if the great outdoors is not your thing and you're otherwise inclined then there's always an alternative 'open day' for you. For those who like the creative arts the Open Studios scheme runs every year throughout the country: it’s a chance to explore the studios of potters, sculptors, jewellers, furniture makers or artists and chat to them about their work.

South-East Open Studios – with nearly 250 studios open this year - runs from 9 to 23 June and I've already earmarked the ones I shall visit first. I'm going to concentrate on abstract art works for a change and so it's off to Rib Bloomfield's studio to see his skyscapes and Ruth Dent's to see her works inspired by nature and architecture.

And to follow through the abstract theme in a different medium I'll visit Ted Summerhayes' studio again to see his amazingly tactile, wooden sculptures. What else? I'll have another squiz at the brochure to see what I can fit in. For details of the artists and other studios open in the south east visit www.seos-art.org and for studios open in your area go to links and click on Other Open Studios.

It’s a great way to spend an hour or two and quite awesome the wealth of creativity and talent that's out there. The work of these artists may not make it into the Saatchi collection but fortunately it's usually affordable enough to make it into the homes of people like me who like original art: I do enjoy Open Days.

Lucy
http://www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com