Gardens - Sanctuary Sometimes

How lovely it is to relax in the peace of a garden with a cup of tea and a good book. This desire doesn’t happen much in my easy-care outside space. It is pleasant enough, on a warm afternoon, to sit out by the flower beds and planters, admire the emerging seedlings, the fruits of my labour and settle for a quiet read. I have to choose my moment. We live in a busy neighbourhood, popular with families and there’s always someone having noisy work done. One day recently, hoping for a calm half hour, maybe longer, before children play out after school, I sat out there on our new garden bench. Within minutes, an electric lawnmower was started up close by. Not my lucky day. We have to live and let live, of course – or move to somewhere remote, north of the border – so headphones might become my new best friend for these occasional summer moments.

There is a walled garden in the grounds of the lodges where we like to stay in Dumfries & Galloway. We always go for a stroll and take an interest in what’s going on as we look round. We’ve watched it develop over many years and it is nice to follow the seasonal changes. On a sunny lunchtime last November, we enjoyed a picnic in a sheltered spot. Get the timing just right and there will be red kites circling above, coming to their feeding and conservation station nearby.

It was a warm summer day when we decided to go to Threaves Gardens in Castle Douglas. Dogs are not allowed, so we’d been denied this excursion for years. This time, it was just the two of us. Our beloved springer had gone over the rainbow bridge to doggy heaven and we were visiting new places. The gardens are beautiful and much bigger than we expected. We were as far from the shelter of the entrance gift shop and cafe as we could possibly be when the blue sky turned cloudy, quickly becoming dark, then a heavy downpour caught us, and others. We can’t rush so we just got wet. Another visit on a dry day would be good, to see what we had to miss out.

A poem from A Child’s Garden of Verses, by Robert Louis Stevenson, a favourite poetry book from my childhood,

The Flowers

All the names I know from nurse:
Gardener’s garters, Shepherd’s purse,
Bachelor’s buttons, Lady’s smock,
And the Lady Hollyhock.

Fairy places, fairy things,
Fairy woods where the wild bee wings,
Tiny trees for tiny dames—
These must all be fairy names!

Tiny woods below whose boughs
Shady fairies weave a house;
Tiny tree-tops, rose or thyme,
Where the braver fairies climb!

Fair are grown-up people’s trees,
But the fairest woods are these;
Where, if I were not so tall,
I should live for good and all.

                        Robert Louis Stevenson 1850 – 1894

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Knitting - In, Round, Through, Off

 

 Filling the bird feeders is my first job of the morning. Three fat-ball holders and two seed holders hanging on branches of the surrounding fir trees provide a feast and it only takes a minute for the birds to descend and squabble over perching rights.  I watch from the window, sipping strong tea and half leaning on the radiator.  Sunshine and a cloudless blue sky promises a beautiful autumn morning.  Earlier, I had seen the cows by the gate at the end of the meadow. They had wandered back up the hill now. I’m happy to stand for a while and drink it all in, never tiring of what I see and enjoying the changing each season brings.

I’m not at home. This is Dumfries and Galloway. My perfect place for some much needed rest and relaxation, and my birthday in a couple of days.  I am trying to make myself unwind, determined to make the most of this longer than usual stay, but I’m aware that just below the surface of my calm exterior, stress is bubbling.  There’s always family stuff and I’m not quite well but not bad enough to be ill.  I need to chill, so I’m thankful to have my knitting to occupy me later on and help me to relax.

Knitting has been and continues to be a lifetime occupation.  I might be repeating myself here if I’ve previously mentioned about being taught to knit by my mother and grandmother.  It was when my mother was expecting my baby sister.  Of course, the gender wasn’t known before birth in those days.  Both ladies were constantly knitting and I was taking an interest.  , One of them started me off with a few stitches on their spare needles and talked me through it in simple terms of ‘in, round, through, off’ until I got the hang of it.  I tried hard, dropped stitches, added stitches from somewhere and made a mess, probably more than once, but with their saintly patience and my determination, I’ve learnt a wealth of knitting and crochet skills that I’m constantly putting into practice.  From baby clothes to Aran sweaters, plain knits to complicated, I’ve done it all.  It is Christmas jumper time again, which is what I’m working on at the moment, for my grandchildren.  By the way, the photograph is from last year, in case you’re thinking I’m super-fast at churning them out.

 I found this poem,  Mrs Moon by Roger McGough,

Mrs Moon

Sitting up in the sky

Little old lady

Rock-a-bye

With a ball of fading light

And silvery needles

Knitting the night.

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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The Magic Has Never Dimmed

Anybody who knows me, knows how much I love the sea. Not sailing on it. That’s a totally different story. And not swimming in it unless it’s several thousand miles from Blackpool and calm and warm. No, my love for the sea stems from childhood day trips and holidays to the seaside. These days my contact with the sea is limited to viewing it from the prom as I take a walk, and photographing it as it rages against the sea wall.  I love it in all its forms - still and calm, glistening in the sunlight or wild in the winds that hit this coast.

Living in London, the nearest place to swim was Tottenham Lido, which was outdoor and freezing.  I rarely saw my dad in less than shirt and trousers, so it was quite an event if he took me and my brothers to the pool on a Sunday morning. I’m guessing my mum persuaded him so she could getting on with cooking lunch without us kids in and out of the kitchen. My dad never really showed much enthusiasm for the outing, emerging from the changing rooms in his knitted trunks, body white as snow, and reluctantly dropping into the freezing water to keep an eye on three excited children.  What I do remember, vividly, is the colour of the water - which I only realised later, was, of course, the colour of the floor and walls of the pool. That colour has stayed with me for sixty years. If I see it now I’m instantly transported back to those Sunday mornings, and the shock of the cold as I carefully descended the steps into the not so welcoming water.

Anyway, I digress. Occasionally, instead of the Lido, we would drive to Southend, where we had young cousins. I only remember once going into the sea there. My mum had taken us kids down on the train and we obviously weren’t meeting the cousins that day. The sea was brown and dirty, but that was no deterrent. Having donned the home sewn elasticated costume, I ran into the sea with my brothers, emerging later with the swimsuit drooping dramatically, weighed down by sand and pebbles and resembling a baby’s full nappy. I wasn’t happy and insisted on getting changed behind a huge towel as quickly as possible. 

Our main holidays were to Margate where we had another set of cousins, nearer our own age. I defy any child to have a better holiday than those weeks by the seaside. Like many a family, I’m sure, we kids scoured the horizon for miles before catching our first glimpse of the sea. It was utter magic. Before we even arrived at our destination my happiness was complete.  The cousins’ house was just up the road from the prom. I couldn’t believe how lucky they were to have the sea on their doorstep. They, however, were pretty blasé about it all.  I couldn’t get enough of the beach and the sea and the tacky gift shops but my cousin was much more interested in mucking out and riding her adopted horse. One year I went alone to stay, and to my horror, although the sea winked seductively at me in the sunshine, I was lent a bike and told to follow my cousin to the stables. Here she handed me a stinking brush and a large dustpan and instructed me to muck out the stable, while she went off on an exhilarating gallop across the fields.  Not only was I scared of the giant horse that eyed me suspiciously but I also felt very resentful of the whole situation, which wasn’t helped by the loud and constant passing of wind from a huge and smelly behind. The horse’s, not mine. 

When I saw the bikes coming out for a second day  I lay back on the bed and feigned illness. I remember a tearful phone call home and the sympathetic voice of my mum, but no offer to come and get me.  I never got my sea fix that week, and returned home vowing to take reinforcements with me next time.

Imagine my delight when, twenty years later - and quite by chance, the husband got a teaching job in Blackpool.  We moved to the seaside, albeit a good thirty minutes’ walk from the actual sea. Ten years after that we decided to move.  Our house sold and in a desperate attempt to find another we drove around the whole area, three young children bored and arguing in the back of the car, and spotted a huge house just off the prom.  For whatever reason, it had been on the market for a year and subsequently reduced drastically.  We bought it, we’re still here, thirty six years later, and I still marvel that we can see the sea from every window.  The magic has never dimmed.

The Island*

Hardly a ripple

Shallow waves lap silently at sand

Approach slowly and with a quiet stealth

A family, deckchairs, buckets, spades 

And no awareness

Of impending danger

Spades digging

Buckets filling 

Castle building

When all around

That silent sea

glints in the sunlight

Gives a little smile

And calmly meanders 

Around the group 

forming pools 

That join and fill 

And finally

Without a sound

The island is complete. 

*If you live in Blackpool you'll be aware of the way the sea comes in and fills in the dips on the beach.  Many times, over the years, I've seen groups of holidaymakers trapped by the tide.  The sea creeps in behind them and leaves them on an ever decreasing island.

Jill Reidy

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