Our Canadian friends, Doug and Margot, had decided to leave their comfortable flat in Kensington after five years and return to their roots. Doug wanted a change from city life too, as he had various projects in mind. They ended up finding a farmhouse with some land, three hours drive north west of Toronto, in a lovely rural setting near Georgian Bay.

I felt very excited to be going out to see them on my own. John had been working at full tilt for most of the year and now it seemed that we were racing towards Autumn with very little in the way of vacation. Unfortunately, his schedule wasn’t going to be able to fit in two weeks in Canada but he very generously suggested I go and have some real ‘time out’.

I got to Heathrow with a feeling of both dread and anticipation. The girl at the desk wasn’t able to find my booking. She spoke to somebody on the telephone and the happy outcome was that I had been upgraded to business class. From then on, I felt very well looked after and enjoyed chatting to my neighbour, a Canadian widow in her late eighties, who came to England every year and was – besides being a rabid Anglophile – an expert on Agatha Christie’s life and books.
Fortunately, I had read most ‘Agatha Christies’ over the years. I was first introduced to them by the sanatorium ‘library’ at school. I had been laid low in the ‘san’ for a week. It was a single storey building, located in an isolated part of the school grounds, amongst trees. Ailing girls were supervised by a very no-nonsense but kind-at-heart ‘Sister’, who wore a white hospital uniform with cap to match at all times. As I got better, I was finally allowed out of my room and found the small library, which seemed to consist mainly of Agatha Christies or stories about missionaries in Africa. The latter didn’t appeal in the least. Too many of our teachers at school were ex-missionaries.

I found that reading Agatha Christie was much more riveting than revising for my exams and managed to get through about ten of them. In the past couple of years, I have read the interesting story of her life – and loves – so my companion and I were well suited for the eight hours trip to Toronto. We could lie back and relax, and enjoy all the drinks and meals brought to our comfortable seats.

I am not now a great lover of ‘crime’ novels in general but another writer of that time that I like, whose books have just been reprinted, is Eric Ambler. His are about espionage. And then there was Josephine Tey and Dorothy L. Sayers, Ngaio Marsh, Marjorie Allingham – all of an era. Connie, my new found ‘bookish’ friend liked John Grisham, who I haven’t read. He is contemporary and probably more gritty. I also like the Maigret books by Simenon, which are better read in French and which encouraged me to go back to that language and improve it. So it turns out that I haven’t read any modern crime novels (bar the irrefutable Ian Fleming) – and, of course, he is only revived into the modern age by the James Bond films. It’s not that I’m against contemporary crime novels. I just prefer other genres of modern literature.

We arrived in Toronto on time but when I came through customs there was nobody waiting to meet me and I began to wonder whether I had told Margot the wrong day. Suddenly, a flurry in a purple jumper erupted like a small tornado and there she was with her straight blonde bob and warm, husky, welcoming voice, fizzing with energy and enthusiasm!

The car was large and was obviously not a city slicker, being coated half way up the sides in white mud. I was looking forward to this rural idyll already! We sailed out on a twelve lane highway due north west and after about forty minutes we met up with the beginning of the vast tracts of rural Canada.

First stop was at a roadside place selling all manner of fruit and vegetables. It was the season for orange pumpkins and festivals wound around Hallowe’en. Canadians really go to town celebrating the wealth of ‘mellow fruitfulness’ at this time of year. Margot bought a bagful of Honey Crisp apples – so delicious that we ate them all and had to buy some more later on for Doug. Honey Crisp was definitely the name to go for over the next two weeks – crunchy, juicy, and full of flavour – I developed a very sharp eye for barrels of apples by the roadside and Margot would do one of her magnificent swerves on empty roads and then we would continue on our way with the renewed bag of apples between us. And the other stop off point was for doughnuts… the less said about that the better except that what I would never buy in England I could become addicted to in Canada!

The traffic thinned out markedly as we bowled along through small villages and past isolated farms and then the road ran out. In fact, it became an unmade white track as we ploughed on deeper into the land of the coyote. Now I could see why the car was covered in a layer of white mud. The weather was mild and the beginnings of a spectacular sunset lit the distant horizon as we finally rolled up the long drive to a welcoming, illuminated farmhouse.

We were met by the resident farm cats, now household pets. Beans and Annie were to be constant companions in the days ahead, sometimes even coming on walks with us as if they were dogs. They were insatiably curious, playful, and fiercely persevering in getting what they wanted. Above all, they were hunters born and bred, whose prey lay scattered on the mat in the mornings; mouse parts ripped joyfully to shreds, tiny shrews, their paws stretched heavenwards and, inevitably, small, softly feathered birds not quick enough to fly out of reach. I rather dreaded that a gift might be brought up to my room but although they both tried desperately to creep under the door at night, I was spared the honour of being presented with a tasty morsel. They had no idea what a paradise for cats they inhabited!

As I fell asleep that first night, I heard the coyotes howling up on the ridge. I was glad to be in my bed with only semi-feral creatures flashing their paws under the door.

Next morning the sun and clear blue sky tempted me out of bed to walk across the fresh, dewy lawns around the house and after breakfast Margot and I went on a forty minute exploration of the property, taking in the two pools, fields around which Doug had mown green pathways, a clearing where there were over thirty beehives and finally a walk towards the ridge, where we sat for a while at a look out point on comfortable chairs, gazing out towards the blue waters of Georgian Bay, There was also a brand new eco building which was Doug’s country office and conference centre. He also hopes to use it for art exhibitions and informal discussion gatherings – the first of which was in session on my arrival.

I just managed to snap Doug one day on his green lanes itinerary – it’s not a very clear photo but Margot said how much he enjoyed zooming round, checking everything out as he went. So I just wanted to record it!

Doug’s new eco building is very modern, light and spacious, with a view onto the pools in front and solar panels behind, which are working very well to date. I think he hopes eventually to be ‘off grid’.

Next on the agenda was a visit to the ‘egg lady’ at a nearby farm. We were met by fiercesome barks but when I opened the car door a trifle nervously, the dog was just a friendly giant who wanted to lick you all over. The hens were scattered around, as happy as Larry, and seemed to like living under the hedges. I am impressed at how many people Doug and Margot have befriended in the short time they have been there as houses and farms are very spread out and you need to make an effort to find your neighbours!

The nearest towns – about half an hour’s drive away in opposite directions, are Meaford and Owen Sound. I will remember Meaford for the café that sold the best butter tarts – a Canadian speciality – and a department store which seemed to be in a 1950s timewarp, run by two sisters – formidable dames! At least, they looked like sisters, in similar bunched floral skirts and voluminous, all embracing ‘tops’, padding doggedly between the narrow aisles of tall, slightly wobbly shelves in sensible, open-toed leather sandals. They knew their stock and nothing would escape their gimlet eye. I departed with postcards of the store, whose façade is exceptionally fine.

The main street was full of straw stuffed scarecrow figures in orange and black, wrapped around lamp posts to celebrate Hallowe’en. We visited an art exhibition at the Town Hall depicting beautiful, wild landscapes. Following that, our search for best butter tarts and chicken pie for supper was top of our agenda. Later on, Doug told me that local politics are quite contentious and fiery. The tranquillity of Meaford by the water on a weekday afternoon belies the strong currents flowing beneath the surface. He has dipped his toe in the water and is an authority on the uncontrollable rip tides of local government.

On our many forays out and about, we kept passing little wooden huts at the side of the road, built near to the school bus stops. Margot told me that these protect the children from the vagaries of wild weather as they wait. The bus system must be a lifeline in rural Ontario, as the distances between things are vast. And it’s also a way of families keeping in contact with one another, especially those on outlying farmsteads.

Margot had recently joined a choir at Owen Sound, the other ‘local’ town, which is bigger than Meaford. My sister sings in a choir in London even now but I wasn’t even chosen at school to join. This had always left me with the feeling that our choir mistress, Miss Roadknight, just took against me and my lovely voice! None of us liked to sit in the front row in our weekly class singing lessons because in her zeal to get us to pronounce things properly, her sibilant efforts at emphasis would inevitably cause a shower of spit to fly through the air and hit one or other of us in the eye. In comparison, Margot’s teacher was sweet, encouraging and patient. I realised however that, after all, I was not a natural asset to any choir. Nonetheless, they gave me a very warm welcome and I shall continue to sing in my bath!

Owen Sound has a pretty park with a river running through it and a wonderful bookshop in Main Street, which is run by friends of Doug and Margot. At the far end is a café, where you can browse and the couple who run it are opening up a huge extension further back still, which has until now been a warehouse space. They are creating a bar with food and tables to bring people together for conversation and discussion evenings on various books, authors and interesting subjects. It will definitely be a sought after meeting place for readers and thinkers to exchange views in convivial company and a great asset to the town. Although the Internet brings people closer together virtually, there’s no comparison with face to face encounters – with food and drink on offer!

On our way home from town, we stopped off at the Post Office at Annan – a tiny hamlet. Margot said she always had to be sure to have a spare half an hour, as the postmistress expected a chat. It gave me pause for thought of the post offices in London, some of which are so busy that you are often standing in a queue for half an hour, unless you choose your time carefully. And there’s no time or even inclination for a chat! Turning the corner at Balaclava on the home straight I saw some large birds wheeling overhead. They are turkey vultures and very common here. Another unusual animal which keeps an eye on flocks of sheep is the llama. Farmers have brought them in because they are both of a maternal nature and chase away predators. I noticed that farmers in the Swiss Alps keep them too. On our return home this was waiting for us on the ‘stoop’.

There are lots of farmers’ markets dotted around the countryside. We visited one which is near a Mennonite group, who are somewhat akin to the Amish. They dress in a significantly different way, drive horses and carriages and are apparently marvellous at building houses. Their carpentry is of the highest quality. We came upon some of them while searching for honey and maple syrup and watching the cattle auction. There were so many things for sale, including rabbits and ducklings – and butter tarts!

Margot had signed up for some courses and one morning when she was away, I went with Doug to Owen Sound to hear a lecture about the European Union by Dr. Michael Johns of Laurentian University at Georgian College. The auditorium was vast and surprisingly, I thought, full, mainly with retired people, all of them obviously really interested to hear what the lecturer had to say. His talk was so clear, first of all explaining the history of the EU, stating its advantages and disadvantages and finishing by suggesting the pros and cons of various other countries joining it. I made notes because there was an enormous amount I didn’t know. How strange it was to learn all about something very important to the U.K. but being talked about so far away in rural Ontario to a rapt audience! At first glance, one is aware of a sparse, somewhat isolated, population but there are a lot of clued up people living here, somewhat hidden from view, in them thar woods!

And, indeed, we were invited to a musical evening down a muddy track in the woods by a couple who had travelled a lot to extreme venues in their life. A huge polar bear skin stretched up the staircase on one wall and the house was full of interesting artefacts and paintings. The couple who owned it were writers. Doug and Margot had invited some friends up from Toronto and before the concert, we had a hearty meal at Ted’s Diner. This was a shack, seemingly in the middle of nowhere, decorated with fairy lights, very rustic but offering the very best of meat and fish in the region. It is enormously popular. A delicious place to remember and return to.

Margot’s friend’s husband had died some years ago and now she had a new partner, who was a physicist, a man endowed with huge energy and enthusiasm for life in general. He was never still – he danced around both in body and spirit like sparks from a bonfire. I had heard an interesting theory about ‘dark matter’. It doesn’t weigh as much as it should. Some scientist had suggested that it could be ‘thoughts’ that were missing – that ‘thoughts’ had a weight! This seemed totally unacceptable in scientific terms – more in the realm of romanticism and poetry I would have thought – but I broached it and Ian said it was a possibility, and something had even been written up along those lines in scientific journals.As well as ‘dark matter’, there is mysterious ‘dark energy’. I couldn’t develop this further as we had to leave but I continued to mull it over during the concert. Heavy and ponderous thoughts indeed! Accompanied by a Dolly Parton voice!

Margot said she wanted to take me further afield and thought we should spend a day at Southampton and Port Elgin, still on Lake Huron but on the other side of the Bruce peninsula. The roads are good and heartwarmingly empty but for me, in my head, it still takes a very long time in Ontario to get to anywhere else! However, it was worth it and we walked along the beach and bought some additions for the new bathroom in an antique shop in Port Elgin. And we also looked up real estate because there were some beautiful houses on the lakeside, some of which were for sale. A fair proportion of them are holiday homes.

We then had a very tasty lunch at a small restaurant in Southampton, run by a couple who were about to shut the place down for the winter and travel to Turkey. Their food was organic and healthy and you wanted more of it. I was thinking how much they would love the fresh, grilled fish in Turkey served on the beach with lemons and fresh, green salad. We had that memorable lunch by the sea at the Princes’ islands, a forty five minute ferry trip from the Galata bridge in Istanbul. I hope, one day, to go back there. I hope they went there too!

Then it was time to walk a little more, shop a little more and enjoy some exploring round and about.

I couldn’t leave Canada without a picture of a big Mack truck! I think they are rather beautiful but I certainly wasn’t born to be a big Mack truck driver. The colour of this one is especially appealing.

There’s a frisson of fear about them too. They do remind me of that early film of Spielberg’s called ‘Duel’, which is a masterful example of continued suspense, involving you totally, as if you were the car driver yourself. Look at the little chimney rising on the left hand side … the terror awaits…

Back we drove, lickety split, across country. At a certain point we veered off track to see an old water mill at Walter’s Falls. There are a lot of waterfalls in Ontario. This one is picturesque rather than dramatic and conjures up a world not far into the past but probably obsolete. It now attracts tourists rather than being a working mill.

The Inglis Falls, near Owen Sound, are much more dramatic. Lots of fallen boulders and tree trunks give it an atmosphere of virgin terrain. And it’s good to hear the noise of the water splashing down into the river below. Reviving negative ions!

Margot had to do her homework for the course. She had set up a small desk for me outside my bedroom and next morning, while she was away, I set about reading my novel for the Autumn term at the Institut Français. ‘Le Temps des Secrets’ by Marcel Pagnol. I love his writing and this is the third novel I have read of his. Luckily, there was a Robert/Collins large French dictionary in the house, so I was on my way, with no interruptions, except for the solicitations of Annie and Beans, who performed some trapeze tricks for me on the stairs, followed by a few yowls denoting that treats were in order.

I had wanted to take Doug and Margot out for a special meal one evening and mooted this to them. Doug had an idea and soon after we were on another roadtrip, tracking down dinner beyond the horizon. We sort of followed the Niagara Escarpment, which stretches high above the property and apparently goes on for eight hundred miles and has been designated a ‘World Biosphere’ site. It’s possible to walk along it for the most part and Doug has already trekked along bits of it. The odd bear has been seen from time to time!

We drove ever onwards and I became totally confused as to which part of the country we had ended up in but was thrilled as the restaurant finally hove into view. In fact, the cooking was divine but due to one thing and another I only seem to have a picture of the very moorish (more-ish) bottle of wine and that isn’t very much in focus either…….. but it was a great evening and fabulous to be sitting down, having such a convivial time with good friends.

… as far as I can remember!

We had taken to watching the very amusing, trenchant Anthony Bourdain in the evenings, who is the high priest of ‘haute cuisine’ though we love him more as the man who loves to eat. In his book ‘Kitchen Confidential’, he says ‘Your body is not a temple, it’s an amusement park. Enjoy the ride’. He’s very funny and we enjoyed his forays into different restaurants around the world. Rural life was good and getting better.

Then came a suggestion. ‘How about going to Toronto and staying the night’? I looked at Margot and tried to get my head around a trip to the big city. Where would we stay? We decided to go for this website, where you suggest an area and then you are offered a hotel – but the rub is you don’t know which hotel until you agree to stay in it. Well, it was only for one night and you could specify three or four stars – and it was a great deal, financially. Doug was rather against it and thought we should go for a good, traditional place – and suggested one or two. One had no vacancies and then we thought we’d just go for the mystery one. Margot wasn’t totally excited by what came up but I was looking forward to it all by now, despite the three hour drive ahead of us.

Au revoir, cats! Happy hunting! Doug was now fully ensconced in his new office and was often down at Owen Sound by 8 am for a swim in the pool at the sports centre before starting work. He waved us off and we were once more on the road to somewhere new! We stopped off at a little antique shop in Markdale run by a gentle artistic couple, where I bought a small, pale purple bubble paperweight with pink flowers trapped forever inside. Margot bought a delightful little bottle, made out of resin and scrimshawed with oriental type fish. It has a multicoloured jewelled stopper and was, I think, used for keeping perfumed oils. This was later slipped into my bag as a homegoing gift. It is a lovely thing and a fitting memento of our time together. It sits above my desk here but I have no knowledge of its provenance.

This is a sort of roadside store out of town which will sell a cornucopia of gifts, crockery, vases, paintings and prints, jars of gourmet food, kaftan type clothes, fudge and sweetmeats, bathroom and kitchen accessories and garden ornaments. I bought myself a beautiful bag at a knock down price. The smell of joss sticks pervades and the whole adds up to a glorious Aladdin’s cave.

After Orangeville, the highway opens up and we were soon speeding into the city centre. There is an amazing Indian temple in a very peculiar location right by the freeway. This picture makes it look rather like a blancmange that has come out of a complicated jelly mould. That is only because I took it at speed as we passed. Indians were brought over to build it specially and it’s a fantastic piece of architecture but so oddly located!

I was surprised to find that the city was quite car friendly. We drove around a bit to give me an idea of the layout and then we made our way to the apartment of Margot’s newly wedded son. Toronto is a mix of hi-tech skyscrapers and imaginative modern buildings but between them are what I suppose are the original buildings, which are small and villagey. Robin lives in one of these streets. He and his enormous dog came with us on a tour of the city via the university, the ‘Bond Street’ posh area and the art galleries – then swooping down to the shoreline, where huge banks of condominiums probably cost a fortune for the magnificent views on offer. There’s something of a pioneering feel about Toronto – a little like Seattle – but I would need more time to have a strong opinion about it as a city to live in. Robin is obviously very happy living there and there’s plenty of green space to keep the dog in trim and happy too!

Now we had to make our way to the Grand hotel. Margot had been slightly grumbling about it but it looked impressive enough when we got there and there was parking underneath. The lobby was spacious and full of enormous urns of flowers. I thought we had fallen on our feet – this certainly wasn’t a pig in a poke. And there was more … joy! We found the most wonderful swimming pool and, even better, we had brought our costumes. Hurrah! Our room was spacious with two vast beds and a well set out bathroom with good lighting, bath and shower. We seemed to be on about the twentieth floor and as twilight set in I took a photo of the rather stunning view!

Then we went looking for supper and ended up at an old favourite of Margot’s. Golden Thai. Sleep came easily and I woke early, excited about our swim, which proved to be perfect. The huge pool was empty and the water warm and inviting. Afterwards, we drove past the house where Margot, Doug and their three sons used to live, near the covered market.

On the way out of town we stopped off at the place she had lived in as a child growing up, which was a suburb – but a suburb which gave easy access to a hilly, wild green area where they were free to wander at will for miles. She hadn’t been back for a long while and it was a great shock to find that the house she had been brought up in had been knocked down and a totally different one built on the lot. It was rather a sobering experience. But the green hills where they had roamed wildly as children were still the same.

We stopped near Orangeville and investigated a large store called Winners. And so it turned out to be, as I found a pair of wonderfully comfortable raspberry coloured sheepskin boots for a fraction of the price they would have been in London. I would probably have to wear them on the way home as my case was already bulging, but it was worth it to have that toasty feeling as winter approached. And I have to add that they have lived up to expectation – and have been the recipient of many compliments! I expect raspberry to be the next fashion colour!

I felt quite exhausted when we finally zoomed up the drive to Heroncroft. Doug had pulled out all the stops and rustled up something for supper. I don’t quite know what it was but it was very tasty and he was impatient for us to sit down and eat it! The cats were thrilled at our return and threw themselves upon us after supper as we lay on the squashy sofas, watching a rather sleazy but hypnotic biography of a Hollywood producer at the height of his powers in the 1960s. I appreciated the charm of being back home on the range! Doug had his second informal discussion group and we heard the cars making their way up the drive but we couldn’t quite extricate ourselves from the sofas and box of chocolates to join them.

The end of the two weeks was nigh and we would soon making tracks to the city once again. At least the airport was this side of it. In the time I’d been here the trees had been turning and I was astonished at the intensity of the fall colours.
The clock was ticking inevitably onwards. We set off early for the airport, so we could have a leisurely lunch and a mooch around various places en route and this made farewells somewhat easier to come to terms with. But it was still quite a wrench to leave.

This last picture brings to mind Shelley and his ‘Ode to the West Wind’. Those leaves of ‘yellow and black and pale and hectic red’ are still on the trees, yet to be blown away by that ‘wild west wind’, to become ‘like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing’. And one cannot but continue those thoughts along the lines of Shelley’s ‘Adonais’ – ‘Life, like a dome of many-coloured glass’…Ontario could certainly subscribe to that, decked in Autumn colours… this had turned out to be a very special trip for me.

As ever, Margot knew the most delicious lunch spot, just a swerve off the main drag. Mrs. Mitchell’s restaurant at Shelbourne is in a quiet haven of pretty, flower bedecked buildings, only a hop and a jump from the road, yet sheltered and peaceful. The restaurant is quaint and picturesque with wooden wainscoting and even more, the food is wonderful. I would be a constant customer if I lived here! One more stop along the way found us at the amazing and impressive McMichael art gallery in Kleinburg but time was getting short. A return visit here is a must.

Parting of the ways. Margot came with me as far as she could, then we embraced and I got my bags together and made my way through passport control. I turned to look back and the last I saw of her was a small figure waving wildly…

END

John and I were invited to a wedding at Monteviot, in the Scottish Borders. I thought it might be a good idea to make a long weekend of it, so we could do some exploring. We took the train from Kings X to Berwick-on-Tweed. Gaia had found us a wonderful car hire firm, East Coast Rental Ltd., owned by a charming man called Steven, who was waiting for us on arrival. I wish all car hire firms were like his! He is much recommended for a fine service.

I had also booked us into a bed and breakfast from the tried and trusted Alastair Sawday travel books and about forty minutes later, we arrived at Lessudden, a historic tower house just outside the pretty village of St. Boswells. Apparently, the writer, Sir Walter Scott, used to come here frequently to see his aunt and uncle. Their rather formidable portraits are on the wall and they seemed to look somewhat disapprovingly over our shoulders as we tucked into a delicious breakfast next morning. We could hear the comforting clucking of hens outside as we ate our scrambled eggs. Angela is a wonderful and inventive cook. The hens are a very special breed that like their independence and wander off to forage at leisure in the woods. She has trouble finding them as they don’t respond to a call like the dogs.

Everything, including the bed, was of grand proportions. We had a very comfortable sitting room to ourselves next to the bedroom and the view down to the river was full of promise. Even more so after a cup of tea and home made fruit cake, delivered by Angela. The sun was sparkling on the water as we made our way down to the river’s edge via the golf course. I felt the air fresh and sweet on my face and it was a joy to be away from the swarm of city life. I also love arriving somewhere totally new and having the feeling that maybe I am on the brink of falling in love with it.

The wedding wasn’t to take place until early evening on the next day and so we had time ahead. We set off first to Jedburgh to look at the abbey. It was windy (blowy, as my Scottish aunt used to say). The town is attractive and parking was easy. There’s a small museum at the abbey which gives its history and then you walk across a wooden bridge to the impressive ruins.

My Scottish aunt’s shade seemed to be flitting through ‘the bare ruined choirs’ and up the deeply worn stone spiral stairs, concealed in the pillars of the abbey. But the sandstone is so soft and mellow and not in the least likely to harbour ghosts. The reason I kept thinking about her is that when I approached the wall below, it reminded me of a trayful of the tablet she used to make for us as children. It was the epitome of glorious sweetness. Unlike fudge, when tablet is cooled from the oven it has a slightly crunchy top. She would offer you a square – all of us children having waited impatiently for ever until it had cooled. You put it in your mouth and felt the top crack, fragile as an eggshell or like thin icing on top of a millefeuille, and in an instant your mouth would be filled with the exquisite melting mixture of sugar cooked with condensed milk. I looked at the wall and my mouth watered, although now as an adult I would find that level of sweetness overpowering. But the memory remained delicious. I wondered if there might be a cake shop in Jedburgh.

On our way out, I espied a large building advertising Jedburgh woollen mill and despite John’s reluctance, I just had to go in and look. We returned to the car with a very pretty scarf – for John! I can’t remember the name of the tartan but it was in soft cashmere blues and oranges with green and brown tones against a heather coloured background mingled in. Very understated and beautiful! Next stop, Dryburgh abbey, which is close to where we are staying. When we got there, all was in full flow for a wedding taking place with pipes and drums and full regalia but we still got to go and have a look at the ruins, which are in a fantastic and tranquil setting in a loop of the river Tweed. The monks had a wealth of water and fish on their doorstep.

Not wanting to interrupt the wedding party, we disappeared amongst the greenery – the lushness and variety of healthy looking trees was heartwarming . Back in the car, we followed the signs on a ‘B’ road winding up the hill to the William Wallace monument. William Wallace, the ‘Guardian of Scotland’, stands an impressive 31 feet high. It’s worth the ten minute leafy stroll through the woods to come upon this giant red sandstone figure, staking his claim on an outcrop overlooking the river Tweed below.

With muddy feet, we hurried back to Lessudden to get dressed for the wedding, where we were greeted as ever by a cacophony of fiercely barking but sweetly good natured dogs, whose primary aim was to get you joyfully muddy all over! I must just mention our lunch time stop in St. Boswells, which is a bookshop with antiques and a café, offering imaginative and delicious lunches and teas. It’s called ‘The Main Street Trading Company’ and is run by a husband and wife team. Rosamund de la Hey used to work at Bloomsbury Publishing. Between them they have created ‘A kind of dream bookshop and small town café’. I quote from their brochure here (Neil Gaiman). This is a jewel of a place that is well worth taking a detour to visit – and it won the Children’s Independent Bookseller of the Year’ award in 2010. There are many books for adults also! May it thrive – it deserves to.

The big bathroom is nice and warm and we were soon ready. I wore a blue velvet coat dress with a brooch of filigree silver and blue ‘sapphires’ – costume jewellery but nonetheless, original from the 194Os with a price tag of under £20. Monteviot is only a few miles away, so we didn’t hurry but somehow only arrived with a pipsqueak of time to spare. The wedding took place in the Great Hall and all went well, minus a few unrehearsed attacks of boredom from the little page boys. The gardens extend to about thirty acres and the lawns spill down to the river Teviot, which flows along behind the house. Later on, we were ‘bouleversé’ as we stood on a high terrace overlooking the water, being treated to a truly mindblowing firework display, which we heard later on was the talk of the Borders – and probably all the fish and fauna too! I just pointed my camera and clicked over and over. These are a few of the images it caught but of course they don’t really merit the full fantastic show!

Although it was very chilly for August, the rain had mercifully stayed away and the evening had been very enjoyable. The bride even sang a love song to her newly wedded husband as we sat at dinner.

However, Sunday morning looked stormy with clouds rolling in and the threat of rain heavy and brooding. I had wanted to drive across the causeway to the island of Lindisfarne; it is closed at high tide. High tide wasn’t until 4pm. So we set off. It took a while and we arrived to find a very choppy sea. However, cars were going across the causeway, so we followed. The further we got, the more the sea was pouring onto the road, partly swept up by the furious gale, which buffeted the car mercilessly. We got to the car park on the island but could hardly stand up because of the wind speed and as we didn’t have weighty waterproofs and hats, we decided to drive back and ended up with slightly less rain but continuing fierce gusts of wind at Bamburgh castle. The wind was screaming like a banshee. A banshee that has a particular grudge against you. John had to hold his glasses on and I was blown flat to the ground in the courtyard, as it howled viciously in my ears and prowled the battlements in search of more victims.

We finally made it inside, which was quite a relief. There was also an art gallery showing contemporary artists and we bought a print of a shoal of blue fish swimming in a circle with one orange one going the other way. It very much echoed John’s notepaper that he designed with Rupert Bassett and it now sits on the wall at Volans in a rather fabulous frame – which cost more than the print!! Afterwards we did walk along the beach and through the dunes. The sun even tried to show its face from time to time but it struggled. However, it was exhilarating to breath in gulps of sea air and watch the waves crashing into shore.

Extraordinary! As we climbed up over the dunes to go back to the car the sun came through strongly and the change in the colour of the sea and the sudden warmth in the air was weird but very welcome. We took a long way round to do some more exploring and found Walter Scott’s favourite view towards the Eildon Hills – known as Scott’s View – naturally! His own home, Abbotsford, is not far from here. We haven’t time to go but it may tempt us back to Border country, along with countless other castles and fortified houses. It is a beautiful part of Britain with a bloody history. I am fortunate to have enjoyed it in peaceful times!

Back at Lessudden, we were invited to join Alasdair and Angela and their guests for supper, which was very hospitable. Afterwards we read for a while in the upstairs sitting room but soon nodded off with all that sea air and galeforce winds. My hair stuck out because it was full of sea salt. We didn’t really want to leave next morning but when we got back to Berwick, Steven was there to greet us at the station and all we had to do was give up the car keys and hop on the train home.

I’m just adding one or two images that appealed to me and which leave me with good memories of a fabulous wedding party, an exciting weekend and a wish to return to Border country.

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This bush – a relative of the more exotic Hibiscus and called Common Mallow – has lived outside our house in the front garden longer than we have lived inside its walls. It started off pink but for some strange reason it diversified, first to pure white and then to white with a burgundy coloured centre, all blossoming happily together. I think these may all be separate shrubs or rogue shoots from the same roots. We certainly didn’t plant any of them. The bush is now quite old and gnarled but it still gives the blossoms of youth in massive abundance. I sometimes feel at this time of year that we are in an enchanted castle, surrounded by a wall of magic blooms! The postman has to fight his way to the door but at least there are no thorns!

I took these photos the day before we left for a wedding in the Scottish Borders.

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This photo is just to show the pleasures of leisure in the sunshine. Perhaps the title of the book isn’t as recreational as it could be but it’s good to see John enjoying ‘time out’, although I’m not quite sure what he is reading. It looks suspiciously like a report of some nature. Maybe the wine makes up for it! And, for once, I don’t see the Blackberry …. oh dear, no, I think I do! Banish it to a flower pot!! Rah!

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I used to think it wasn’t worth going ‘on holiday’ for three or four days but our recent foray into Sussex proved otherwise. My Alastair Sawday choice of bed and breakfast suited us very well and the location near Midhurst was perfect for exploring. As we drove into the town centre we espied on our left the Cowdray ruins, reached by walking along a broad, raised sandy path with water meadows on either side and cows grazing by a deep pool in the river at the far end.

Even in ruins, this former Elizabethan mansion impresses. It belonged to the Viscounts Montague and was a place of great national importance for many years. Both Henry VIII and Elizabeth I stayed here. Capability Brown was in charge of the landscaping. The Dissolution of the Monasteries brought wealth to the Montagues but also a curse. One of the disenfranchised monks prophesied that ‘By fire and water thy line shall come to an end, and it shall perish out of the land’. The 8th Viscount drowned in the Rhine and the carelessness of workmen led to a great fire in 1793, when many treasures were destroyed, including paintings by van Dyke, Rubens and Holbein. I got a lump in my throat and had quite an ‘Ozymandias’ moment when I read this. I then took some photos – there seemed to be a ghostly figure looking through the empty ruined windows. John pointed out that it was the top of a chimney! See for yourself! He may be right… but those Viscounts lived in troubled times…..

Now desperately in need of a cup of tea, we investigated the outbuildings. Not only was tea and a freshly baked slice of Victoria sponge waiting for us in a delightfully flower filled dining room but there was also a hidden garden, full of lavender and marigolds and buzzing with many contented bees.

The first evening we were recommended to try The Hollist Arms, a cosy watering hole in the village of Lodsworth – the sort of place you could arrive on your own and be chatting within five minutes. We sat outside and had battered fish, chips and peas, with a half of draught cider. Very unlike me – but a delicious treat! We were served by a young man with an extraordinary hairstyle, bleached so that it stood up in an enormous quiff, like the bow wave of a ship. I saw him a day or two later in Midhurst with a pretty girl. He was unmissable.

There are lots of expensive cars zooming around the narrow country lanes in Sussex. Our car was rather outshone by a beautiful, bottle green MG roadster with yellow trim and open roof, cuddling up to it in the carpark. Ah well, back to our comfortable resting place deep in the woods. No bears to be seen. I say this because a Canadian friend of ours is hiking the Bruce Trail on his own at this very moment. It is well known for bears and rattlesnakes. We have seen a badger, a fox and two rabbits – sadly, all roadkill.

Next day, we planned to find the field where John’s father’s plane nosedived after he had bailed out over the sea at West Wittering during the war. We drive to Chidham and then start walking along the pretty coastal path.

We ended up doing a two hour circular walk along the coast and pinpointed the field where the plane met its end. We were alone for almost all the way except for a myriad of butterflies, bees and wild flowers, which reminded me very much of childhood seaside holidays. But we didn’t have a picnic basket. Instead, we drove to Bosham and had lunch in a small pub on the shoreline. The tide was out but you have to keep an eye on it if you park down by the sea as the shore road gets flooded as the tide comes in. Everything operates at a much slower pace here and the day seems to be as stretchable as elastic.

Bosham has a beautifully spacious, cool and picturesque church. And the sea air is very invigorating.

Next stop, West Wittering. A blue flag beach at the entrance to Chichester harbour. This is a very special place. Don’t be put off by the enormous car park. If you like being close with other people, the beach is a minute’s walk, with an edging of pretty coloured wooden beach huts. If you want to walk and enjoy the sand, sea and dunes in comparative peace and solitude, make for East Head. A haven for birds, with a few boats and sand dunes. My favourite moment was taking off my socks and shoes and running along the sand before paddling in the sea. The salty water worked miracles on my feet. I can’t remember when I was last at the seaside but it was too long ago.

We loved West Wittering so much that we went back twice. Inbetween we went to the Sculpture Park at Goodwood, which is difficult to find but worth the grumpy car conversations about women having no sense of direction. We also fitted in a visit to the remains of the Roman Villa at Fishbourne and the other smaller one at Bignor. Housing now covers some of the Fishbourne site, so I imagine lots of enthusiasts are digging away in their gardens with something other than horticultural joys in mind.

All I could think of now was dinner. Our kind host, who had been off for the day in his boat, had suggested ‘The Halfway Bridge’, not far from Lodsworth. This is a comfortable, cosy inn where you can also stay the night. The food was excellent and feeling happily replete after a perfect day, we stopped off at the Cowdray ruins for a walk at sunset.

We enjoyed chatting with our hosts over breakfast. At one point we realised we had lived within a stone’s throw of one another in London, some forty years ago. I am sure there are many more coincidences that one is never even aware of. Sitting in a crowded carriage on the underground I often think that somebody will know someone I know. Not that I want to pursue this!

Next day we were back in Barnes in under two hours, driving via the pretty village of Lurgashall and on to Haslemere. Astonishing to be so near the sea and the centre of London at the same time. We’d done a lot of walking and my feet felt somewhat like this.

Maybe just a teeny weeny bit exhausted! But my head was still in the clouds, lying in the sand dunes and staring up at the sky at West Wittering.

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Our friends, Will and Carla, were over here from California. Will has created his own ‘Ideas’ garden over some years and is very knowledgeable on an enormous variety of plants, so it wasn’t difficult to make a decision about where to take them for a day out in the English countryside. I was very excited also because John and I hadn’t been to Sissinghurst – former home of Vita Sackville-West and her husband, Harold Nicolson, who created the gardens there in the 1930s – for many years.

Parking is in a field and the reception is ‘manned’ by lovely Kentish women volunteers, who all gave us an extremely warm welcome. There are different parts of the gardens, which revolve around the towers in the centre, where Vita made her study. The roses weren’t quite in bloom yet but there was plenty to enjoy, including the largest and most exotic paeonies I have ever seen for real. I wish I could grow them at home but I think they need an open aspect, with lots of sunshine. And we were blessed with sunshine at Sissinghurst on that Sunday. And also with the sound of many bees, a jar of whose honey came home with us.

The Kentish ladies also offer a delicious lunch in beautiful rustic wood surroundings. While Carla became the sleeping beauty, the rest of us explored the library and climbed to the top of the tower. Although there were quite a lot of visitors, the soporific humming of bees added to the tranquillity and beauty of this historic and very personal place. I felt I could have come upon Vita tending to her paeonies, pruning in the nuttery or writing an article on gardening at her desk. It’s a very idiosyncratic garden, a haven created with much love and talent. Well worth a visit.

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John was meant to have the week after Easter for holiday. The weather wasn’t encouraging – grey and with an east wind chapping at the extremities. I had thought I’d finished with wearing my scarf inside as well as outside but had to retrieve it from the winter shelf in the cupboard. And John finally arrived home with lots of unfinished writing to do. He said he’d like to be by a river, which sounded idyllic but the magic of sunlight on water on a warm afternoon with flashes of blue dragonflies whirring here and there, was, most probably, a distant dream… given the weather forecast.

I did, however, look up some enchanting sounding places by rivers, using Alastair Sawday’s wonderful guides but in the end we opted to go and see John’s parents in the Cotswolds towards the end of the week, when John had caught up with his heavy schedule. Meanwhile, we had an afternoon in Kew, which was bursting with blossom and lunch at The National Gallery. John was delighted with the position of our table, which gave him a chance to take a photograph of the statue of Sir Keith Park (in Trafalgar Square) from an interesting angle! Otherwise, I directed the decorator who had arrived in Barnes on Tuesday morning, bright eyed and brush in hand. It lifted my spirits to see things getting freshly painted.

I’d been reading a poetry book = Evergreen Verse = which I’d come upon when emptying rooms, ready for painting and there were a number of poems I found, all of which I would put in my list of favourites. There is one called ‘Adlestrop’, written by Edward Thomas (1878 – 1917). The village of this name is very near Stow-on-the-Wold in Gloucestershire and about twenty minutes drive away from John’s parents’ house. The poet was on a train on the 23rd June, 1914, when it made an unscheduled stop at Adlestrop station. The poem is timeless, the moment in summer eternally captured. I had to track it down.

ADLESTROP

Yes, I remember Adlestrop–
The name, because one afternoon
Of heat the express- train drew up there
Unwontedly. It was late June.
The steam hissed. Someone cleared his throat.

No one left and no one came
On the bare platform. What I saw
Was Adlestrop – only the name
And willows, willow-herb, and grass,
And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry,
No whit less still and lonely fair
Than the high cloudlets in the sky.

And for that minute a blackbird sang
Close by, and round him, mistier,
Farther and farther, all the birds
Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire.

EDWARD THOMAS 1878 – 1917

I finally managed to persuade John to come with me. The sun was out and we drove through the busy streets of picturesque Stow and past The Oddingtons. Adlestrop is a tiny village with a population of about eighty people. There are two vast houses, a pretty church and small Cotswold, honey coloured houses with cottage gardens. I called at the Post Office, which is tiny and belongs to the 1950s. It was closed between midday and 4 pm. A sensible time for lunch followed by a nap, I supposed. The only people around in the village were wearing knapsacks and looked like tourists. I couldn’t see any evidence of a train station, although there was a strange, old fashioned sign at the start of the village in the fork of two roads, showing ADLESTROP.

Later on, I tracked down the story. Adlestrop station used to be between Kingham and Moreton-in-the Marsh. It was axed by Dr. Beeching in 1966. The old station sign and an erstwhile platform bench now serve as a bus stop in the village. It seems unlikely that a bus ever appears. The poem is inscribed on a metal plate attached to the bench.

Apparently, Jane Austen made several visits to Adlestrop, where her uncle was rector and it is believed that the house and grounds of ‘Adlestrop Park’ were the setting for her novel ‘Mansfield Park’.

I hadn’t shown John the poem beforehand. I should have done because after reading it, he decided to do a blog on the afternoon we spent there. On rereading it myself, I found the poem even more poignant, as Edward Thomas didn’t live to see his work published. He died in action during the First World War. I love the simplicity of this poem and the strength of feeling it awakens in me. It is as if I am holding the poet’s hand across the years and at the same time living in an infinite dimension of shared consciousness.

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We had an amazingly deep fall of snow in Barnes this winter. However, Spring seems to be in the ascendant at last and here are a few images to prove it.

This last photo shows part of Barnes Green. Opposite lies a row of shops, which includes our only greengrocer (Two Peas in a Pod), Victoria’s for fresh bread, healthy salads, cakes, jams and many other delicacies, a chemist, a travel agent, a dry cleaner’s, three clothes shops, a small supermarket open all hours and Natsons, our award winning newsagents, who we couldn’t do without in our house. Papers are delivered without fail every morning. We used to have a wonderful art gallery which came to the end of its lease and has sadly closed.

Fifteen minutes by car brings you to the Isabella Plantation in Richmond Park. This is an enclosed area within the park, which has flowers, shrubs, trees, streams and pools. It is a place of peace and tranquillity at any time of year and good to visit throughout the seasons.

He is old and has bad teeth!

Both rhododendrons and camellias are native to south east Asia but were brought by plant hunters to northern climes, where many have survived and flourished. They are mostly evergreen with glossy leaves, and clusters of showy flowers in Spring. Camellia flowers are more rose like in shape and remind me of the painted flowers in ‘Alice in Wonderland’. Both shrubs have many varieties and of the camellias, ‘Camellia sinensis ‘ is the most valuable, being the tea plant.

Kew Gardens are about fifteen minutes drive from Barnes in the other direction and we made a short trip there soon after to see an outdoor exhibition.

This last photo was taken in John’s parents’ garden a couple of weeks after we had been to Kew. The colour of the sky and the warmth in the picture make us look forward to what lies ahead.

‘I’ll see you again,
Whenever spring breaks through again’ (1929 song, Noel Coward)

‘I believe we should all behave quite differently if we lived in a warm, sunny climate all the time’ (Brief Encounter, 1945, Noel Coward)

The country habit has me by the heart,
For he’s bewitched for ever who has seen,
Not with his eyes but with his vision, Spring
Flow down the woods and stipple leaves with sun.
(‘The Land’ (1926), Vita Sackville-West)

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When icicles hang by the wall,
And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,
And Tom bears logs into the hall,
And milk comes frozen home in pail,
When blood is nipp’d, and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
To-whit, To-whoo
– a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

When all aloud the wind doe blow,
And coughing drowns the parson’s saw,
And birds sit brooding in the snow,
And Marion’s nose looks red and raw,
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
To-whit, To whoo
– a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

The Thames has been flooding over the banks at high tide and so our walk turned out to be muddy as well as cold to the bone. Muffled up with scarves, gloves and hats and a big padded winter coat, so constituting a formidable defence against winter’s icy grip… Even so, sometimes I feel my brain gets too cold to think and I might as well be a snowman.

We took the turn at the Church Road/Castlenau crossroads along Queen Elizabeth Walk, with the entrance to Barnes wetlands on our left, the playing fields to our right. It’s straight on to the river bank and Harrods old Depository, which is now reassembled into luxury apartments with beautiful, watery views of the wetlands and the river. If I was a birdwatcher and lived in London, a flat here would be paradise – along with a powerful telescope by the window. It’s a desirable location, in any case, both for people, birds and other wildlife. The Barnes Wetlands – a significant stopping off point for migrating birds – are very worthwhile a visit. They are open throughout the year. A number 283 bus from Hammersmith takes you right to the entrance, just off Queen Elizabeth Walk.

We alternately strode along, then gingerly tiptoed through the muddy bits, jumping here and there to avoid über-squelchiness and deep puddles. Runners and dogs splashed by, oblivious of their constant spatterings far and wide. Grrrr…

To walk under Hammersmith Bridge you have to bend your head. I took these photos from the Barnes towpath side. One of them put me – very slightly – in mind of Vermeer’s ‘View of Delft’. Perhaps it is because of the Rotterdam Gate with its turrets, which are reminiscent of Hammersmith Bridge here, both of them on the right of the picture. But I think it is more the limpid, reflective quality of the water stretching across in front of the buildings on the far shore. A replete stillness which calms the restless mind. Vermeer somehow manages to capture this invisible essence in many of his paintings.

We tramped doggedly on along the towpath towards Barnes Bridge until we got as far as the Swedish school. There we branched off to the small reservoir, hidden from both the river and the road by the treeline. That’s where I took the photo of the cold, peaky looking heron perched on its small island, just a little way on from the bank of rushes.

Then we let ourselves out of the squeaky iron gate onto Lonsdale Road and were home in under fifteen minutes. Hot mugs of tea and buttered crumpets with plum jam made all the muddy puddles seem worthwhile.

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