In imitation of L M Montgomery...

 "The evening was still. Across the field, the Haseley woods stood silhouetted against the burnished gold of the dying sun, their black outline softened and blurred in the fading light. Close at hand, holding sway over the darkening garden, stood the maritime pine, its branches uplifted in a wild, proud stance before the silky backdrop of the violet-coloured twilight sky; and behind it, looking so close to the earth that one could almost reach out and touch it, a delicate sliver of silver moon shone brightly, cradling the dim round shadow of the old moon in its arms..."

A warm wind doth blow...

"Where has the winter gone?
The warm winds have sent it away.
The ice has thawed,
The skies have cleared,
And spring is dancing once more."

Which is a little premature, perhaps, but not much...

After a week or so of proper, sharp, wintery weather, with flurries of hail and snow, and hard frosts that froze the pond over, the weather has warmed up again; my thick aran cardigan has returned to the depths of the wardrobe, and winter-visiting red polls have disappeared once more from the bird-feeders. Even the roses, after a few mornings of frost-bite, and have continued to bloom. What a difference from last year, when by this time we had become snow-bound for the second time.

Wheezles and Sneezles

"Christopher Robin

Had wheezles

And sneezles,

They bundled him

Into

His bed.

They gave him what goes

With a cold in the nose

And some more for a cold

In the head."

A A Milne

I have the beginnings of my first winter cold. Could it be the result of too much star-and-moon gazing out of my single-glazed bedroom window in the early hours of the morning? I did notice the other night, as I drew back the curtain to look in awe at the brightness and beauty before me, that a sheet of exceedingly cold air seemed to be lying in wait. However...
The scene that met my eyes, as I braved the cold air, was quite clearly a stage set:
A smooth lawn, pale grey in the moonlight, lay spread out before me, with two apple trees set diagonally to each other half-way down. The deep shadows of the great pine, that rose up majestically behind, spread over the whole; and everything was so still, and the bright light of the moon, that lay fat and serene amongst the stars, seemed to make everything almost as bright as day, only in a colourless, grey-ish green sort of way, that the entire affect was slightly surreal. It was the sort of night when I could quite easily believe in the reality of Tom's Midnight Garden.

"The sky was so blue today, I just had to be a part of it..."

Yet more roses!

"The sky was so blue today, and everything was so fresh and green, I just had to be a part of it; and the Untersberg kept leading me higher and higher, as though it wanted me to go right through the clouds with it."
 - Maria in The Sound of Music

This morning we had the first real frost of the season. Well, it wasn't quite the first frost - we had a few light ones about a month ago, but this was the first one to mean business; and I very much hope it heralds the beginning of some real, prolonged wintry weather; all this unseasonal warmth was beginning to get unnerving...

 Take this week for instance. The sun has shone so strongly, and the sky has been so blue, that it has been simply crying out to me to be a part of it, and if Maria could not withstand such temptations, who I am to refuse them? I did not even try...

And while I was imitating Maria (as well as I could for a distinct lack of mountains) I thought I might as well imitate the spirit of Elizabeth von Arnim in her German Garden again. So I sat on the patio, well wrapped up in a Royal Stuart shawl, and did some sketching. All I needed to complete the picture was a little snow and some big furry gloves...

"Season of mists..."

We have been having the most beautiful late-afternoon skies recently. The sun has started setting right at the end of the garden, instead at the end of our neighbours garden as it does in the summer, and it seems to be bigger, too. Every evening (unless it's overcast) I can see it hanging in a great big orange ball, low down behind the skeletal branches of the trees; to either side the colour seeps out along the horizon, orange, golden yellow, pink, lilac, fading out at last to a pale blue.

The mornings are beautiful too, only in a different way. Most days now I awake to a thick mist lying over the fields, making the woods behind look all blue and smoky and mysterious; and up above (again, so long as it's not overcast) the sky is a translucent pearly blue backdrop behind the sun-stroked pine tree, with little golden wisps of cloud draped here and there, in a careless, artistic fashion. I do love autumn!

The Old Man...

"It's raining, it's pouring, the old man is snoring;
 he went to bed and bumped his head,
 and couldn't get up in the morning."

Which, along with the traumatic tale of Dr Foster's catastrophic attempt to visit the town of Gloucester, only goes to show what a perilous business rain can be...

"This is a changing world, my dear..."

"This is a changing world my dear - new songs are sung, new stars appear; though we grow older year by year, our hearts can still be gay." - Noel Coward

The other morning I awoke to find the world wrapped in a thick autumn mist. As the day wore on, it gradually lifted from over the garden to reveal late roses still heavy with dew; above the pine tree, the thick white covering played hide-and-seek with a weak blue sky; and beyond the hedge the field remained invisible beneath its blanket.

"I tell you the truth, unless a grain of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only a single seed. But if it dies it produces many seeds." John 12: 24                                                                     

Magdalen College, Oxford

Usually October is a month of constant change - a chance for nature to adjust gradually from summer to autumn. This year however it remained late summer for weeks and weeks until, all at once, the leaves changed colour and started falling to the ground, where they lie growing in piles of firey orange and bronze, just waiting to be gleefully kicked and scattered by ecstatic children.

As the spidery sprays of bare twigs begin to appear silhouetted against the sky, which itself seems to sink lower above the rooftops - and as the evenings steadily close in, I feel as though the world is dying. Of course, I know it will come alive again in the spring, but that doesn't stop the sadness now: nature is in mourning.

I think the seasons are rather like the cycle of a butterfly, with autumn being the time when the caterpillar begins to build itself the chrysalis of winter; sometimes, what looks like death is just the beginning of greater life...

No!

       No sun -- no moon!
       No morn -- no noon --
No dawn -- no dusk -- no proper time of day --
       No sky -- no earthly view --
       No distance looking blue --
No road -- no street -- no 't'other side the way' --
       No end to any Row --
       No indications where the Crescents go --
       No top to any steeple --
No recognitions of familiar people --
       No courtesies for showing 'em --
       No knowing em'! --
No travelling at all -- no locomotion --
No inkling of the way -- no notion --
        'No go' -- by land or ocean --
        No mail -- no post --
No news from any foreign coast --
No Park -- no Ring -- no afternoon gentility --
        No company -- no nobility --
No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,
   No comfortable feel in any member --
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
   No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds --
       November!
                                                    Thomas Hood

Trafalgar Day

Last night I discovered that today is Trafalgar Day: the anniversary of the day on which Admiral Nelson lost his life, after leading the British navy to a glorious victory over the French and Spanish during the Napoleonic wars. Did you know Nelson had only twenty-seven ships, to the Franco-Spanish thirty-three? And that, whilst they lost twenty-two of those thirty-three, the English lost no ships at all?
What a great opportunity to indulge in some national pride!

I'd like to celebrate this great day in Britain's history, but it's rather short notice to get hold of any fireworks (my first idea), and I don't have any red-blue-and-white bunting (second idea). So I will just have to settle for opening a bottle of extra-special apple juice that I've been keeping for just such an occasion, and perhaps make something special for pudding. Oh, and before I eat and drink, I will read this prayer that Nelson prayed before going into battle; the battle in which he lost his life in the cause of liberty:

“MAY THE GREAT GOD, whom I worship, grant to my country and for the benefit of Europe in general, a great and glorious victory: and may no misconduct, in anyone, tarnish it: and may humanity after victory be the predominant feature in the British Fleet.
For myself Individually, I commit my life to Him who made me and may His blessing light upon my endeavours for serving my Country faithfully. To Him I resign myself and the just cause which is entrusted to me to defend. 
AMEN AMEN AMEN”

Amen indeed!

The mosaic of autumn...

What a sudden change in the weather! From the deep warmth of summer to the chill and frosts of autumn in the space of a day; it is quite a shock to the system, but I don't complain. Every season that comes around, I think is my favourite, and this is no exception.

I don't know why it is, but with all the poems there are about autumn - some extolling it, others lamenting - I have never read one that talks about its sounds. Changing leaf colours, yes; frosts and early evenings, yes; mists and "mellow fruitfulness", yes - but nothing about the great murders of crows that are now gathering, crarking away to each other as they swoop through the sky. (Isn't 'murder' a great collective noun?) No mention either of the thin but delightful music of the robins, singing to reclaim their territory in the wet early mornings, while a low pink sun rises behind them over the fields.
Funnily enough, the seagulls aren't making much noise at the moment, but their numbers have swelled considerably since the ploughing began again. As the tractors snort and grumble their way across the fields, turning over great clods of dark brown chocolatey earth, they gather in a great cloud, rising and falling, and rising again, following in the tractors wake.

Autumn is such a bits-and-pieces, patchwork of a season: part summer, part winter, it combines the mournful lament of late summer, with the expectation and anticipation of early spring. It think this quote from Stanley Horowitz describes it very well: "Winter is an etching, spring a watercolour, summer an oil painting and autumn a mosaic of them all."

It Shouldn't Happen to a Willow Warbler

Better Late Than Never...

Today I awoke to grey skies and a world wet from last night's rain. At least the weather matches the changing colours of the falling leaves; I was getting a little worried by that Indian Summer we had! Not that I didn't enjoy it, of course; it was delightful to have, at last, the summer weather that had been so notably absent from July and August. What with those big blue skies without a trace of cloud, and heat that became almost unbearable if you sat out in it too long, I was actually able to wear my summer dresses - I have never in my life had a birthday like it!
It reminds me of my favourite Psalm:
"[The sun's] rising is from the end of the heavens,
  and its circuit to the end of them,
  and nothing is hidden from its heat." 19 v 6

One day during that spell of heavenly weather I was sitting in our little outside study with the door open, when to my surprise a robin flew in, perched briefly on the edge of the desk, and flew out again. Well, that was a little exciting to be sure, but it didn't last long, and I returned to my work.
The next thing I knew, another bird had flown in and landed on the window sill. It tried to fly out through the glass, and on finding it couldn't, it panicked, and flew further into the room, coming to rest on a row of books in front of a window which doesn't open. There it sat for some time, panting for breath.
As soon I saw it, I recognised it for the Chiffchaff or Willow Warbler which I had first seen in the garden a week earlier. At the time I had been unable to identify it exactly, as I couldn't see whether its legs were black (Chiffchaff) or flesh-coloured (Willow Warbler). Now, here was my opportunity, handed to me on a plate!

Misadventures of a Willow Warbler

Rather annoyingly the bird had flown behind me, but by twisting round in my chair I managed to get into a position where I could see it. As it sat there, panting quietly, I could see its flesh coloured legs clearly, and so knew it was a Willow Warbler. We sat there quite still for about ten minutes, and then I thought I had better start helping it to get outside again; the study was hot, and I didn't want the the Willow Warbler to get over heated. I got up and moved towards it slowly, hoping to 'shepherd' it in the right direction; and, after a few mishaps (such as falling down behind the row of books several times), it got itself to the door, and flew out into the sunshine. I thought I had seen the last of it...

That afternoon, my mother heard a thump on her window: a bird had flown straight into the glass. Out we went to investigate, hoping against hope that it hadn't broken its neck. There, sitting on the gravel beneath the window, and gently panting away, was my friend the Willow Warbler.

Exmoor

Exmoor - the heather-covered country of Lorna Doone, wild ponies, and Porlock hill...

In my opinion, Exmoor has it all - forest covered hills, rolling green fields, beech woods, moors,  heather, wild ponies, roaming sheep (not to mention the occasional highland cattle), cliffs, beaches, and stunning seascapes. Who could ask for more?

I have never enjoyed swimming in swimming pools (and have besides, a fear of being out of my depth), but one of the joys of my life is paddling - sometimes amounting to wading, if there's been a lot of rain - in the icy streams of Exmoor. Everything about it, from the bone-cracking cold, to the balancing act of finding a secure footing on the stony bottom, to the purity of the water itself, lends it an interest and mild excitement simply lacking in the sterile atmosphere of a man-made pool.
As to the bone-cracking iciness - I don't know why it is, but the streams down there do seem to be particularly cold. I went paddling in the streams in Yorkshire a couple of years ago, at the same time of year, and they were positively warm; well, perhaps not actually warm, but certainly mild compared to the invigorating coldness of those on Exmoor...

I asked my parents which town they would rather live in if they had the opportunity: Lynton - at the top of the cliff, or Lynmouth - at the bottom. My father chose Lynton, as he said he would always prefer to be high up than low down. My mother, on the other hand, said she'd rather live in Lynmouth, in order to be as near the sea as possible.

Cliff-top view over Lynmouth bay.

After taking a walk along a cliff path looking out over Lynmouth bay, with the heather-covered slope tumbling straight down beside me into the water, and the late-afternoon sun reflecting off the silvery sea, I decided with my father. Living down in a valley all the time would make me claustrophobic; let me glory in the heights, and gaze down on nature's splendour from above!

So Tall

When my cousin was staying over last Christmas, I sang her some of my favourite Bluegrass songs. After she'd sat through about five of them she said to me, Can't you sing me some cheerful songs? To which I responded that This is Bluegrass - there are no cheerful songs; except for a few about whisky...
So I sang her some songs about whisky.

This conversation got me thinking about the depressing content of country/folk ballads in general, and ones about infidelity (and there are a lot) in particular, and one thing that came to my attention is that in all the songs, no matter which party is guilty of being unfaithful, the outcome is certain: whether she be murdered, or die of a broken heart, it is the woman who always ends up dead. This seemed to me to be rather imbalanced; so, admittedly at the expense of my own sex, I attempted to right the wrong, and to this end I wrote So Tall.

...You can listen to a recording of it in Little Grey Rabbit's Music, in the column on the right...

Nature's Bounty

"Have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful,

or believe to be beautiful."

William Morris

This week I have been foraging in the hedgerows. First I collected damsons; I actually set out to find blackberries, and did indeed pick a fair number, but the damson tree I passed on the way was a delightful bonus. It was growing very close to the lane - no inconvenient ditches to straddle, as happened later on with the crab apples - and its branches were fairly drooping with the big purpley-black fruits. They looked so beautiful, and I reached up and gathered great handfuls of them. After sitting around for a day or two looking attractive, they were made into damson 'cheese' by my father. It's not really cheese (obviously), but a very thick, rather solid sort-of spread, and it goes well on oatcakes.

The next day I went for a walk past a big horse chestnut tree, and spread out beneath it on the ground were lots and lots of rich, brown, glossy conkers. They may not have any edible uses, but I couldn't resist! They are so round and shiny and satisfying that every year I am tempted to pick far more than I have any space for. My father says I am a conkaholic...

Actually, I have recently discovered that conkers do have a use, though not an edible one: they keep spiders away. Apparently this is caused by the conkers giving out some sort of chemical that spiders pick up on, and they hate it. So if you put conkers on a windowsill, or on the floor in a corner, it will rid a room of any current spidery inhabitants (and discourage any new arrivals). There now! Useful and beautiful: William Morris would approve...

"Harvest now is over..."

"The harvest now is over, the summer days are gone."
                                                                          Mendelssohn's 'Elijah'

"...and the windows of heaven were opened." Genesis 7 v 11b

In between bouts of ridiculously heavy rain we have had spells of glorious sunshine. During these blissful intervals of warmth the farmer has been harvesting his crops; first he reaped the wheat, and then the oats, and now after weeks of being surrounded by a golden haze, the fields around us are rapidly becoming stubbly and brown.
One morning recently I woke up to find condensation on the inside of my window. For many days past (unless the sun is actually blazing) there has been a distinct chill in the air that nips the nose and sends shivers up the spine; the brambles in the lanes are heavy with glossy blackberries, and the apple boughs are laden with fruit; surely autumn is almost upon us...

Ten Cute Sparrows, Sitting in a Row.

I used to think that sparrows were the most ordinary, uninteresting birds, but since a couple of pairs started rearing their young outside my bedroom window (a cunning ploy on their part, I am sure) I have become completely sold on them. A few months ago a brood made their debut appearance on the square of lawn right in front of my window, where they dashed about in feverish haste, desperate still to be fed by the parents (so desperate in fact that one pursued an adult dunnock around for some minutes, before realising its mistake). Such adorable little balls of pale grey fluff could not fail to melt my heart, and they shot straight to the top of the baby bird Cuteness list, toppling the baby robins from what had seemed a secure and unshakeable first place.

The other day, a second brood appeared - actually I think it might be two broods, there are so many of them (I counted fourteen under the bird feeder the other day, including adults) - and they are as cute as the last lot! After a few days of pleading with their parents to be mouth-fed, they have been learning to forage for themselves, some attempts being more successful than others (the attempt to eat grass seeds that were still attached to a piece of grass three times the length of the sparrow didn't work so well) and last Friday morning about ten of them experimented with a First Wash in the bird bath. The sight of those sparrows all wet and bedraggled would certainly have melted my heart, had it not been completely and utterly liquidated already. Afterwards they lined themselves up in rows, some on the wooden fencing surrounding the oil tank, some on top of the oil tank, some on the outermost branches of the privet hedge, and still others - the most intrepid ones - perching on old twigs of dead ivy on the end wall of next door's house, and preened themselves dry in the sunshine.

Addendum to "Christopher Robin!"

The other day I read an article in The Sunday Times by an Englishman who went to live in America when he was 21, and only recently returned. He talks about all the things he has been rediscovering about England, and at one point he says: "I'd forgotten how it is possible for a shower to last 40 seconds and cover only half a street."

I rest my case...

"The moon was a ghostly galleon..."

"The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding -
                   Riding - riding -
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn door."
                                                     From 'The Highwayman' by Alfred Noyes
                                        

The moon is almost full. During the last couple of nights she has climbed her way up through the pine tree, giving tantalising glimpses of light through the black mesh of pine needles, until she appeared at last, elegant and regal, surrounded by a hazy mist, and artistically draped in wispy lengths of cloud.
What is it about the moon that is so magical? Even though science has now told us that she has no light of her own, being instead a reflector for the sun, it takes nothing from her ethereal majesty. And why is she a 'she'? Though there can be no doubt at all that it is so. The sun, big and brash and attention-seeking (we hope!) makes himself the king of the day; he rules over the world with overt confidence (and covert insecurity). But the moon, ever calm amidst the storm, noble and pure, who caresses the sleeping world in a gentle, soothing, perfumed light - she is surely the undisputed Queen of the Night.

Beanz don't always mean Heinz

Yesterday I picked the very first of my runner beans and we had them for supper. They were tender, juicy, succulent, and oh, so tasty! I think it must be the first time in my life that I've ever eaten all my vegetables before touching anything else on my plate! This vegetable growing is definitely a good thing, once I got over the trauma of having to destroy caterpillars.

It really goes against the grain to destroy something that I know will grow into such a pretty creature, but there, such is life. Either they eat, or I eat, and after losing three whole cauliflowers to them I have now become ruthless.
Speaking of caterpillars, the most ghastly thing happened the other evening. I picked some curly kale and most unfortunately forgot to soak it in salt water before cooking. When supper time came, I spooned some onto my plate, and found two freshly steamed caterpillars lying amongst the leaves. I did not eat any curly kale that night.

Beetle poetry...

Today I picked my very first home-grown cherry tomato. It is a little on the small size I admit - hardly likely to make first class at the Horticultural Show later this summer, for instance - but it's mine, and I'm proud of it!

I met Alexander Beetle in the back porch this morning. He shot out from the peanut bag as I got it out from behind a low-wooden chest, in order to refill the bird's peanut feeder, and oozled his way quickly under the shoe rack.

Are you acquainted with Alexander Beetle? Let me introduce you....

"I found a little beetle, so that Beetle was his name,

And I called him Alexander and he answered

  just the same.

I put him in a matchbox, and I kept him all the

   day...

And Nanny let my beetle out -

  Yes Nanny let my beetle out - 

    She went and let my beetle out -

      And Beetle ran away.

                  

She said she didn't mean it, and I never said she did,

She said she wanted matches and she just took off

  the lid,

She said that she was sorry, but it's difficult to catch

An excited sort of beetle you've mistaken for a 

  match. 

 

[......]It was Alexander Beetle I'm as certain as can be,

And he had a sort of look as if he thought it must be 

  Me,

And he had a sort of look as if he thought he ought 

  to say:

"I'm very very sorry that I tried to run away."

And Nanny's very sorry for you-know-what-

  she-did,

And she's writing ALEXANDER very blackly on the 

  lid.

So Nan and Me are friends, because it's difficult to

  catch

An excited Alexander you've mistaken for a match."

                                                   From 'Forgiven' by A A Milne

Robin RED-Breast (at last!)

A couple of months ago, at the beginning of May, I watched two newly-fledged baby robins foraging about outside my window. They seemed quite independent, despite their youthful appearance - the most noticeable part of which was a complete lack of any red on the breast. All they had was a rather mottled area in a tawny sort-of colour, showing where the fine red breast would eventually be; and instead of the smooth greyish-brown tailcoat of their parents, their backs were covered in a gently speckled brown.
I had no idea that they were not born with the redness already present, and wondered how long it take for it to appear, and in what manner.

Most conveniently one of them has stayed around, making daily trips to the bird food dish, and generally putting himself on show, so I have been able to observe his gradual ascent to man-hood!
Rather endearingly, it started as a little round red spot right in the middle of his breast. He went around like this for a few weeks, and the red spot gradually extended outwards, getting larger and larger, until at last, just a day or two ago, he appeared proudly resplendent in a full red waistcoat; not yet as sleek as a full adult, and still a bit rough-and-ready looking round the edges, but a fine specimen, nonetheless!

Choral Evensong

Detail from a stained glass window

This year is the 400th anniversary of the Authorized Version of the Bible. One of the translators was the Rector of my parish church, and also Regius Professor of Hebrew at Oxford University, and later President of Magdalen College, Oxford. As my father is a Fellow at Magdalen, he organised a special Choral Evensong at our church, sung by Magdalen College Choir, to celebrate the occasion. 

We had the service mid-afternoon on the last Sunday in June, and it was a really lovely day. 

The sky was overcast when we woke, but the weather forecast had promised that the cloud cover would burn off by mid-morning, and lo and behold by nine o'clock the sky was a clear blue, and the sun was blazing down. 

The choir rehearsing

Come the afternoon it was turning into the best day of the year so far, and the church was full of people who had turned out to enjoy themselves. Our rector started off with an address about the translation of the Bible, and then the service began. Of course, the choir sang beautifully; they treated us to canticles by Purcell and three movements from Handel’s Messiah.

In the churchyard

My father is a dab hand at making elderflower cordial, and he made a large batch of it to be provided in the churchyard afterwards. Some stalwart women of the congregation provided biscuits and tea, and people stood around afterwards drinking, and chatting, and soaking up the atmosphere.

My parents and I had invited some particular friends back to our house for tea and cakes afterwards. The weather was so gorgeous that we spent the whole afternoon in the garden. No one really wanted to get back into a hot car again, and one family, who had come up from Southampton, stayed till seven o'clock. 

When at last they were all gone, my parents and I continued to sit outside for some time, simply enjoying the gentle, caressing warmth of a summer's evening.

 

Recipe: Chocolate Slab With A Difference!

 Non-gluten, low-sugar, chocolate dessert

 

Utensils

1 round tin, greased (I used a 4 1/2" one, with a removable base)

1 bowl for mixing base together

1 small bowl for melting butter

1 glass bowl and 1 saucepan for melting topping

Ingredients

Base: 

Walnuts

Almonds

Brazil nuts

Pecan nuts

Butter, melted
Freshly grated nutmeg

Topping:

70% dark chocolate (I used Green and Blacks)

Single cream

1tsp blackstrap molasses

Method

Take roughly equal quantities of walnuts, almonds, and brazil nuts, and a smaller amount of pecan nuts, and put them all in a food processor until ground into small pieces (but not powdered). You want enough to cover the base of your tin and be about 1/3 of an inch thick.

Melt butter in the microwave and stir into nuts. The mixture should be fairly moist, so that it will stay together once it's been packed into the tin. Grate some nutmeg over it and stir.

Press the mixture firmly into the tin and put in the freezer.

Put some water in the saucepan and place the glass bowl on top. Break the chocolate in small pieces (I used about two thirds of a 100g packet) and put in the bowl, with a little cream. Melt slowly, stirring the mixture constantly, and adding more cream whenever necessary. When all the chocolate is melted and the mixture is the consistency you want, add the molasses and stir well. 

Now take the base out of the freezer and pour the chocolate mixture on top, spreading it evenly over the base. Put it back in the freezer.

When serving, make sure you take the chocolate slab out of the freezer far enough in advance for it to completely de-frost, but not so far in advance that it melts. I cut my 4 1/2" slab in quarters, to serve four.

Serve with fresh berries and a drizzle of cream if desired. Enjoy!

"Christopher Robin!"

"Yes?"
"Have you an umbrella in your house?"
"I think so."
"I wish you would bring it out here, and walk up and down with it, and look up at me every now and then, and say 'Tut-tut, it looks like rain.'"
                                         - Winnie the Pooh


I was speaking to an American friend of mine the other day, and she said that where she lives in Arizona people think that it pours with rain all day every day in England. My friend has lived over here for a year, and she knows from first hand experience that this is untrue, but as always, there is a grain of truth in the misconception.
   One problem is that our rain is not confined to any one 'season' - it spreads itself out in a very benevolent and unbiased fashion; so it might rain any day of the year, or it might not rain at all for a whole month.

Perhaps one reason why foreigners think it always rains here, is that our rain has no respect for summer. There's no saying for instance "I want a dry day for my wedding/garden party/village fete etc., so I'll have it in July." Even if July is the driest on record for a hundred years, you can bet your bottom dollar the one day it does rain is on the day you've chosen.

The main thing to remember is that it's changeable and unreliable. For example, there might be light mizzle for two hours during the morning; or perhaps a quick shower at two o'clock in the afternoon; or a really heavy down-pour at four; and the rest of the day may, or may not, be completely dry, and there may or may not be some blue sky.
Or perhaps you wake up to blue skies and glorious sunshine at 7:00am, only to find it overcast at 8:00am and by 10:00am it's splashing. Then it suddenly dries up in the afternoon and the sun comes come out, but just as you're getting used to it, there's another shower at 6:00pm. Or it perhaps it will rain all night and be completely dry the next day; or on the other hand it might stay overcast for three days together and never rain once.
  And of course, there are different types of rain. It would be very dull indeed if it always 'poured'. No! We have many different 'rainy' adjectives, depending on many variants: the size of the raindrops, how many of them there, how close they are together, how quickly they fall... Just think of Eskimos and snow..

"Moses supposes.."

"Moses supposes his toes-es are roses,
  but Moses supposes erroneously."

Our garden is now full of roses of all different colours. Pink, peach, and yellow, they are climbing through the hedges, tumbling out of the flower beds, and spilling over across the paths.
They make lovely flower arrangements - this one was made with pink and yellow roses, chervil, and purple geraniums. I originally cut the flowers with the intention of making them into several smaller arrangements, but when I had them laid out on the dining-room table afterwards, on a sheet of newspaper to stop the pollen making too much mess, they looked so happy all together in one group, that I left them to it.

Recently I have been enjoying reading 'The Italian' by Mrs Radcliffe. I have never gasped aloud so much at any book before - talk about melodrama! There were such terrific twists and turns of the plot as I should not have thought possible; and the heroine had so many narrow escapes and near-death experiences (to say nothing of the sufferings of the poor hero at the hands of the Inquisition) that I'm surprised my hair had not turned white by the end of it.

"Just a little rain.."

"Just a little rain, falling all around,
The grass lifts its head to the heavenly sound.."

I went round the garden with my trug this morning, cutting roses in the rain, and felt very like Elizabeth von Arnim in her German Garden. In fact, yesterday I even danced barefoot on the lawn, although I had no servants to hide from as I did so!

I do enjoy the rain. There are so many different types, and they create so many different moods.
Last Thursday it was dark and exciting: we had a thunder storm, and the crashing rumbles overhead were accompanied by thick heavy raindrops falling from the charcoal sky; they hit the windows with a steady drumming, and ran down in a great mass of rivulets.
This morning on the other hand it was much gentler - a constant mizzling which a friend of mine referred to as 'wet rain' - the sort that's so light you don't feel it, but so penetrating you end up drenched. It has got heavier as the day's gone on, but still in a rather drab, miserable way. However, I console myself with the thought that this is the sort of rain we really need. Instead of rushing down in a torrent and immediately sliding off the soil (where to, I ask?), it will all sink steadily down into the thirsty earth, and (hopefully, if they're not leaking) fill the reservoirs.

Oh, what would we do without rain?

"Let us be much with Nature"

I saw a lark the other day, for the first time in my life. It flew down in front of the car, as a friend and I were driving along, and landed in the edge of the field next to us.
What lovely birds they are! Understated, yet elegant, they serenade the skies with their joyous trilling as they hover high up in the blue, calling us to revel with them in summer glory.

Two weeks ago, when we were having long hot days of pure blue skies, I thought that was my favourite kind of weather, but last night we had some rain, and now I'm not so sure. I do love the countryside on a morning after rain. Outside in the garden, a strong wind is chasing itself through the trees and hedges, and above, huge cotton-wool clouds - about three times their usual size - are scudding across the sky. Everywhere there is a feeling of freshness and rejuvenation.

"Let us be much with Nature [....]
Discerning in each natural fruit of earth
Kinship and bond with this diviner clay.
Let us be with her wholly at all hours,
With the fond lover's zest, who is content
If his ear hears, and if his eye but sees;
So we shall grow like her in mould and bent,
Our bodies stately as her blessed trees,
Our thoughts as sweet and sumptuous as her flowers."

Extract from 'On The Companionship With Nature' by Archibald Lampman

A rose by any other name..

The blossom season has finally drawn to an end. The hawthorn, white beam, and rowan were the last to come out, but now they too are gone, faded gracefully away into thick coverings of green. I am sad, because I love blossom dearly, but it has only gone to make way for the roses, and I think perhaps I love them even better.

Across the road from our house is a great bush of small, delicate, pale pink roses. They tumble over the wall in a great mass, eager to see the world; and as they poke their cheery faces out of a thick green jumper of foliage, their enchanting scent spills out and delights those delight in them.

In our garden we have a red rose. It has been blooming for some weeks now, and it's a lovely strong colour, but somehow I cannot seem to care for it. Perhaps it is too proud, or too self-sufficient, but at any rate it gives no feeling of warmth.
I think I shall call it Jane Fairfax: "... her temper excellent in its power of forbearance, patience, self-control; but it wants openness. She is reserved..." Yes, indeed. Thank you Mr Knightley, I couldn't have put it better myself.

The Seven Ages of Pheasants

Last spring our lane was terrorized by a cock-pheasant. He would sit for hours in our front flower bed, watching and waiting, and then rush out whenever someone walked past, croaking in an outraged and provocative manner. Every car was followed at a desperate trotting pace, until he had escorted it safely off his territory; and he nearly caused several accidents up at the turning, when two cars came from opposite directions, and he dithered around trying to decide which to chase first.
But the people the pheasant considered as his particular adversaries were post-men. He liked to accompany them on their rounds, running along side them down the road, up every drive (where he would stand to one side in a gentlemanly manner while they posted the letters), and back down to the road again. One postman got so unnerved by this constant chaperonage that he seriously considered arming himself with a stout stick, in case the pheasant should one day forget his manners, and turn on him.

However, this spring has been a much more tame affair, with the pheasant mainly sticking to the back garden. When he has occasionally been round to the front, it is in a very self-effacing manner. Perhaps last year he was a hot-blooded teenager, and this year he begins to feel the dignity of his age..

Neon birds

Every year we are visited by a bullfinch. Often he brings his wife with him, although she is harder to spot, as her plumage is so much duller than his; she always looks as though someone has thrown a bucket of muddy water over her, and she hasn't got round to washing it off yet.
Usually they come during the winter and hang around near the house, pecking the old seeds off the low bushes, but they never visit for long, and this winter I missed them. I'm not sure if this was due to their absence, or my never happening to be near a window at the right time, but no matter! Yesterday morning, he came.
He was on his own, standing on the lawn about half-way down the garden, pecking away at the bluebells under our old apple tree. I didn't have any binoculars handy, so I don't know if he was collecting insects for his young, or gathering up my dog's fur for nesting materials, but either way he looked very dashing as he went about his business in his striking pink coat. It really is the most astonishing colour - almost neon; like the yellow of rape-seed, I am taken aback every year to see such a fluorescent colour in the natural world.

"Have you seen the little piggies crawling in the dirt?"

There is something very soothing and comforting about a scene of livestock domesticity: lambs lying in twos beneath the shade of a clump of trees; a small herd of brown cows, lazily swishing their tails in a gently rolling field full of buttercups; a dozen piglets gamboling excitedly round a stolid sow. And though every year the individual animals of such scenes may change, yet every year these tableaux are repeated. They are like cloud-scapes - ever changing, yet ever the same, renewing themselves and repeating themselves, over and over again.

Nice weather for ducks...

One of my favourite experiences of summer is the smell of rain steaming off a hot freshly-tarmaced road. Perhaps it's an odd thing to enjoy, but there is something curiously satisfying about that rich, slightly harsh smell. It's also a pleasure by association; evocative of the joy of summer holidays, it brings with it the memory of freedom: six whole weeks off school! Six weeks of hot sun and blue skies, filled with endless hours of doing nothing much at all.
It can't really have been all like that all the time, but one's memory has a clever way of editing reality. And of course, when I think about it, the smell is probably just the result of noxious chemicals being released from the wet tar, but hey ho! such is life..

Here in the village there is no fresh tarmac, and when I opened the front door this afternoon, to bring in the milk bottles, I was greeted instead by the scent of rain-drenched flowers and blossom. Such a rich perfume! It hung heavy in the air like incense, almost over-whelming in its richness.

Careless Rapture!

"In the heavens he has set a tent for the sun,
which comes out like a Bridegroom from his wedding canopy,
and like a strong man runs its course with joy."
                                                                           Psalm 19 v 4b - 5 (ESV)

This has been the warmest April that England has had for over 300 years (since records began - whether a warmer April was had pre-1659, we'll never know).
I can well believe it. Such blue skies and sunshine as we've been treated to is almost indecent! But what a treat it is to lie out in the sun so early in the year, on properly dry grass - as opposed to the sort that pretends to be dry until you've been sitting on it for ten minutes, at which point it reveals itself to be just damp enough to leave green stains.
And not just for one day, but days on end, including two bank holiday weekends! Most un-British.

The swallows and house-martins returned earlier this week to set up house-keeping for the summer, and add to the general joyous atmosphere by shrieking and swooping over-head in a glorious display.

I think Browning perfectly captures my delight:
"And after April, when May follows,
And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!
Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge
Leans to the field and scatters on the clover
Blossoms and dewdrops - at the bent spray's edge -
That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,
Lest you should think he never could recapture
The first fine careless rapture!"
                                                      Extract from 'Home-Thoughts, from Abroad'