Foot off the Accelerator

 Disengage warp speed and slooooow. 

This week, I untangled myself from a final couple of things where the stress-to-pay, or, stress-to-benefit ratio was definitely not working in my favour and gave myself some time to, well, just sit. 

Unfortunately, it coincided with a heat wave that I dealt with in the same way I do all heatwaves. With the repeated application of cold, wet flannels around the neck, sleeping in the afternoon, working earlier in the day and the repeated wailing of "oh god, this is horrible, why is this happening, I hate this, why are my feet 3 times their usual size, do we have any ice cream, no don't put that there, it's too hot for that" and so on. 

I am a JOY in a heatwave. 

My northern soul longs for cool breezes, overcast skies and a temperature that does not register higher than 25 degrees. 

The allotment is thriving without any more intervention from me than a watering every couple of days. Abundance is still the watchword and what comes from the plot makes up most of our meals. The giant beetroot and onions become a salad, the courgettes spicy fritters and the potatoes need nothing more than a quick rinse, a quick boil and a simple dressing of olive oil and lemon juice. 

It is perfect.

So I am looking forward to more time on the plot this summer. I'm working enough to pay my half of the bills and to still have time to be up there. The next step is to widen one of the beds, currently occupied by peas that are straggly and seem not to recognise the pea sticks they are right next to, preferring to spread themselves over the ground, despite my best efforts with twine. I've recently been reading up on the no-dig method, so I'l be trying that for a change. 

I have things to read and things to write. I have good food to prepare and a sewing machine to get to grips with. 

I have, most importantly of all, a course to prepare for! Oh yes. I have bitten a bullet and enrolled myself on the RHS Level 2 in Practical Horticulture that starts in September. At the moment this is exciting and I'm pushing all worries to the back of my mind. 

Mainly because I have 2 whole months before it starts. 8 weeks in which to get well. Get the un-working bits of me fixed. Get rested and well. Get rooted. I feel slightly like a plant that's only ever been watered from above. My roots are shallow and easily dislodged. Time to let them go deeper. 

N, because he is capable of occasional flashes of genius, brought me a chair hammock (you sit up in it, not lie down, which I prefer) that fixes onto the Degoba System and swings gently to and fro. I now understand why people spend hours in porch swings in the southern American states. There is something very hypnotic about that gentle to and fro. Whole hours can pass with nothing more done than watching the bees upend themselves in the lilies. 

 view from my hammock

The same lilies that I sniffed a little too vigorously the other day. "Why," I wondered to myself after I'd answered the door. "Did the postman give me such a funny look?"

Answer: lily pollen. All over my nose like I'd thrown a jar of turmeric on it. 

Classy.

Abundance

I finally broke free of my own 4 walls today and took a trip up to the allotment for the first time in 2 weeks. 14 days of fretting and fussing over what was going on without me. I walked along the meandering path past other people's plots, ducked under the branch of a damson weighted down by its own fruit, and navigated the squelchy bit by one of the site taps.

I was momentarily distracted by the sight of those perfectly formed pale pink sweet peas you can see above, that (calloo calay) I could actually smell. And then I looked up to see this...

All this...abundance.

It was a veritable dazzling of green, of ripening. Of colour and sunshine. Of, yes, weeds and over-long grass but also spinach, courgettes, wineberries, flowers. 

Of tiny tomatoes nestling under big green leaves. Of long french beans drooping under their own weight. Of leeks that have tripled in size and beetroot that are pushing their way out of the soil. 

Over on the wild oregano, there was a dance of bees, butterflies and other pollinators. It was joyful, spontaneously choreographed, a hum and bustle of activity. 

I don’t mind telling you that I nearly cried at the sight, sound and smell of it all. 

Yes there is much work to be done to catch up with myself but there is so much more to sit and marvel at. If you need me this summer, this is where I’ll be.  

My Week in No-Taste

Bed linen. Beer. 

It seems rather ironic that the title of one of this week's most read posts (according to the inscrutable Blogger Stats) is My Week in Taste. Ironic because 2 days after developing Covid, I lost my sense of taste and smell. 

Sweet peas. Smoke from a bonfire.

My nose is not blocked, I am breathing freely, but an olfactory sense of what's going on around me is totally and utterly gone. Several times a day I bury my nose into what I know should smell good and then sigh when nothing registers. 

Mabel's fur. Mandarins and oranges.

I can get a sense of salt or sweet foods. The mackerel pate I whizzed up - a welcome salt tang somewhere among my taste buds but the deep delicious umami of the fish is missing. Likewise, the mango. I know it should taste sweet and my eyes know it but my nose and my brain refuse to work together. 

Nail varnish. N's neck.

The temptation is to keep breathing deeply, at the risk of hyperventilating, but I am trying not to, aiming instead for that wonderful moment when I walk past something, breathing in as normal and think "oh, there you are!"

Cheese on toast. Coffee

It's also tempting to keep eating until my taste buds are galvanised back into action but as everything tastes like cardboard, that’s not a course of action that appeals.

Grass. Geranium. 

Today, I started receiving the faintest of tingles in my nose, preceding the shy arrival of smells. Scents that glanced at me as they passed by, as if flirting. 

Candles just puffed out. Canals on hot days. 

I’m taking in careful breaths. If fragrance were a muscial score, I am currently only picking up the bass notes.

Wet soil. Whisky.

Here's to all the smells in the world. The ones we want, the ones we tolerate and the ones we try to chase out of our homes. 

Tarmac. Tobacco.

June Reading

A little while ago, when recording a podcast epidsode, one of the regular contributors said that they had started reading The Mirror and the Light. I admitted that I couldn't face it because I knew what was coming. 

As does anyone with the merest smattering, a thin Marmite spread if you will, of Tudor history knowledge. It's not spoiling the book to say that Cromwell dies at the end of it. I'm not sentimental about what sort of man he was - but having been drawn into being invested in him for 2 massive tomes, plus Mark Rylance's performance in the BBC adaptation, I was not keen to bear witness to his fall from grace. 

And what a fall from grace it was. Merely weeks after being made an earl, he was arrested on charges of treason, facing the worst form of execution, friends melting away like butter on a hot day and enemies churning the water relentlessly. It was a life bookended by ignominious circumstances and told in exacting detail.

 

Anyway, after being lulled into buying it by the wonderful tones of Anton Lesser reading it out (also BBC - radio this time), I took my sweet time about reading it. A couple of pages a day, a paragraph here, a sentence there. Nibbling my way to the end. Which I finally reached a week ago. 

It really is an incredible piece of work, regardless of how you feel about the Tudors, Cromwell or Mantel. The level of detail is extraordinary and I do wish I'd had it at the time of my A Levels - the machinations of Henry's court is so much more clearly explained here than I remember it being from set texts. 

Obviously, there has to be the disclaimer that this is a work of fiction and Mantel imbues him with a sensibility we will never know if he really had or not. But it probably would have been a better source than Blackadder Series II, which at least one friend used as a reference point. 

All that said, and due reverence paid to Mantel and her diligent research, would I read this again? Probably not. 

Unlike Take Courage, which I've read twice before. Don't know much about Anne Bronte? This is a good place to start. She's been underrated for too long and this is a step to redressing that balance. She is my favourite Bronte sister and the only one who tells life like it is, with a clarity and spareness that's a shock after the overblown Gothic drama of the others. She's the cool drink of water amongst the flaming brandy glasses. 

 

Braiding Sweetgrass was another I'd avoided for a while, having seen it toted once too often on Instagram as the book du jour by others. I am ever one for swimming against the crowd but this time I'd denied myself a treat and shame on my inverted snobbery. Lesson learned. 

 

I had an almost emotional reaction to parts of her book, for reasons I haven't yet deciphered. I'm still thinking about it, about the suggestion that there could be "a different relationship, in which people and land are good medicine for each other." This is the week where the sea was turned into a literal boiling hell thanks to people. 

A week in which I contracted the cirus that's laid waste to so many, and which makes the final sentences so very relevant: 

"Gifts of mind, hands, heart, voice, and vision all offrered up on behalf of the earth. Whatever our gift, we are called to give it and to dance for the renewal of the world. 

In return for the privilege of breath."

This is the Time

Now I've managed to get that feeling out of my system - and off my Instagram feed - I have been feeling much better (bar the potential case of Covid I've developed...waiting on proper test results for that one, not just the lateral flow versions). I've found it's very easy for me to become overwhelmed recently and things that I could have shrugged off or battled through, I can't. 

More importantly, I don't want to. And I don't see why I should have to. 

Yes! An epiphany regarding my own welfare! At the grand old age of 44 and 11 months and 2 weeks (yes, it's my birthday soon). But still, better a late epiphany rather than none at all. Needless to say, this epiphany has N quaking just a little bit as I fix him with a gimlet eye and say "Up. With. This. I. Will. Not. Put."

To be fair, the "this" usually refers to the empty, used cereal bowl sat on top of the empty, waiting-to-be-used dishwasher rather than some terrible thing he's said or done. 

But I cannot, for the life of me, work out why men and children behave this way. I suspect that's a question for psychologists. As the mother of a son, I've noticed he does the same thing but that's related to the deprived years sans dishwasher that he no doubt regales colleagues with. Truly, first world problems.

We spent last weekend with said son, who I haven't seen since Dad's funeral in March, and it was splendid to see him again. We also caught up with friends that we've been remotely quizzing with for over a year but had yet to meet in person. I managed not to cry. But I do miss my boy.

 The weather turned against us as we hit the M42 and by the time the North-East borders had been crossed, it was settled into persistant mizzle and winds that threatened to lift gazebos from their fastenings. A sea fret had arrived and refused to budge. Still, we managed to see a couple of beaches, pick up some interesting pebbles (apparently the Kid's boyfriend now refuses to walk along beaches with him because he keeps stopping to look at pebbles. I am very proud), eat at a couple of pubs and generally just enjoy ourselves away from the house. 

Chonky Thor (who we're now calling the Great Boo mainly so we can cry "Great Boo's Up!" in homage to Blackadder on a regular basis) and Wee Mabel went into a local cattery. Tucked in by a river, by a medieval bridge, surrounded by trees - it quite made me want to give up everything and open a rural cattery. They forgave us within an hour of getting home. In fact, the owner sent us pics of the Great Boo enjoying being petted. Traitor.

Speaking of giving everything up, I recently had to step back from a work contract. In most part due to the aforementioned epiphany. I hate stepping away from things like that but sometimes you've got to acknowledge when you need to rest. 

And relax. 

I'm not much of a one for poetry (just say what you mean!) but this one, pinned to the wall by my desk, is really calling to me at the moment, especially the first 3 lines. I think I need to take its advice. 

this is the time to be slow

lie low to the wall

until the bitter weather passes .

 

Try, as best you can, not to let

the wire brush of doubt

scrape from your heart

all sense of yourself

and your hesitant light. 

 

If you remain generous,

time will come good;

and you will find your feet

again on fresh pastures of promise,

where the air will be kind

and blushed with beginning.  

 

The Green-eyed Plot Monster

I didn't really feel like doing a "May at the Allotment" post this month. It had been so wet and dreary, plus I was beset by a feeling, which was quite annoying. 

Honestly, I don't spend much time on social media, so I've never had fear of missing out (FOMO for any readers under 30), or comparison envy. I don't post selfies because I don't need validation of how I look from strangers, and I certainly don't need criticism from the same either. 

 

Twitter is where I post work stuff, Instagram gets random pictures of bugs, pebbles and trees, Facebook is where I get updates from the allotment group about any spare plants or pallets going free. Mostly I try not to let the endless noise get to me. 

Nevertheless this feeling persisted. 

It took me some time to work out what was triggering it. 

 

And when it did, I was annoyed with myself. I had fallen for the oldest trick in the book. I WAS comparing myself.

Not to ridiculous eye brows, body shapes that will never be mine, or fancy-schmancy goods that I would simply break or lose or give away. Oh no, I was comparing my allotment, finding it wanting and then stomping around in a black mood when I reached my own plot and it didn't match what was coming through the screen. Plot holder envy had taken hold of me.

I was following people who had been plotting for a lot longer, or who had more spare time than I had, or who had decided to make a career out of their allotmenting escapades, chasing compost (peat-free) sponsorship deals and adding the hashtag #blessed to their posts. 

 Seriously, no # makes me want to boke quite as much as #blessed. 

That aside, good for them. More power to their green fingers, their greenhouses and their green Hunter wellies. I sincerely wish them well but I'm not following them any more. 

My plot, as much as it is my happy place, is my hobby. Being there should be an exercise in pleasure and enjoyment, not dissatisfaction and malaise. There is no point comparing it with others because I don't have the time, resources or skills that they do. Everyone works to their own abilities, paces and times.

 

It is still, despite progress this year, half covered in scrubby grass, with a tangled mess of fallen elder and knotweed the council are steadfastedly trying to pretend doesn't exist at the end of it. I am still learning, learning all the time, making my own slow progress without greenhouse or polytunnel. 

And things, other than grass, grow. Tomatoes, Japanese wineberries, courgettes, spinach, beans, peas, pumpkin, potatoes, beetroot, raspberries. At home we have sweetcorn, strawberries and runner beans. Waiting patiently for me to build the brassica cage are purple sprouting broccoli, sprouts, kale. 

Today I brought home with me a tiny first bouquet of sweet peas, nigella, cosmos, lavender and daisies. The smell is amazing. While I was up there, I paused in the act of strimming and watched the bees in the wild oregeno, the crickets bounce away from me. 

It's still good here. 

Begone feeling. I'm not giving you brain space any more.

I Do Like Green Spam

I refuse to apologise for a second post basically spamming you all with images of beautiful places, green and growing things. It's that time of year. Come back to me in winter if bleak and grey views are more your thing. 

There is merit in both, of course. 

But June birthdays basically insist on lush greeness and sunshine. We'll just have to cope with it.

 

Yes, I did say birthday. It was N's last Tuesday (it was also the Kid's but he is hundreds of miles away in Sunderland so had to make do with a northern beach and 24 hours access to my credit card for his birthday. There was a spend limit, don't worry - I'm not going to be presented with a bill for thousands). 

Anyway, back to the green spam. It being N's birthday, I took him to one of my favourite places, obviously. In my defense, when asked what he'd like to do on his birthday, he seemed astonished that there was another option other than "working" and then shrugged. So. 

Behold! Hidcote Manor Gardens...

 

 Green everywhere! Wisteria on entry! Of course I brought a guidebook. I would have done on my first visit, years and another lifetime ago. Back when I was married and the Kid was small. Really another lifetime. 

Anyway, the original guidebook has long been lost in a house move or during one of my ruthless clear outs.

 

If you've never been, and know nothing of Hidcote, it's a garden set in rolling Cotswold hills (are there any other sort? I mean, come on Cotswolds, enough with the rolling). Owned back in the distant mists of the early 20th Century, by one Lawrence Johnston and his formidable mother, Gertrude Winthrop - frankly, a name that instantly makes you think of back boards, no children at the table and a disdain for untidy emotions. 

It's held up as an example of an Arts and Crafts garden. I'm not really sure what that means outside of Art and Architecture, beyond knowing that William Morris was your main man for that sort of thing (he's also one of my heroes) but I'm hoping things like that will become clear when I start my horticultural training later this year.

 

 

Whatever it might mean to gardens, what it really means to the visitor, is a garden that is so beautiful, your eyes ache with looking, your neck from the constant turning and your legs from adopting what I call the Heritage Walk. 

If you've ever been in a museum, you know exactly what that is. That specific sloooww way of walking and bending and looking that we all adopt when we're on National Trust territory. It's tough on the old muscles. Culture is the hard core workout no one ever talks about.

 

 

N had never been to Hidcote before, so this was a treat for both of us. As I reminded him on several occasions.

There were newts and potting sheds and meandering paths that sometimes echoed the stream but mostly didn't. The sun was glorious, shining down on our rapidly burning shoulders all day. The queue for the socially distanced cafe was long and the woman your standard NT level passive-aggressive.

We both got serious succulent envy, decided we need more orange flowers in our life and wondered how the neighbours would react to bare breasted statuary suddenly turning up in our garden. Possibly a little too well, so it won't. 

Besides, I can still remember similar such things that took pride of place in my grandparent's garden, along with a (un)helathy collection of gnomes, concrete animals, mottos and the occasional plastic bird. When they moved, I was suddenly presented with a great number of them. It took 2 house moves to finally "lose" the last and I'm not introducing more.

 As I type this, I'm looking down over our own, small, garden. Very much not Arts and Crafts but the honeysuckle is trailing over the makeshift arch, the wisteria is about to burst forth and the whisper of the sweetcorn leaves in their pots is very satisfying. Mabel is lying in the centre of the handkerchief-sized lawn, waving at flies with her eyes half closed. 

There are no cats at Hidcote. They really are missing a trick.