It was cold and bright and we took the well trodden path through the woods and then onwards around Pen Ponds. There were lots of birds on the water and it was a treat to see a woodpecker as we made our way through the trees up to the Ballet School on the way home.

Richmond Park – Pen Ponds

Then we witnessed an extraordinary scrap between some blackbirds and a number of marauding green parakeets who were trying to take over the tree the blackbirds had made their own. This noisy fracas lasted about fifteen minutes and included lots of aggressive swooping and screeching by both posses of birds. Here is a picture of a parakeet putting its ‘brand’ on said tree. The winner is unknown. Although very exotic looking, the parakeets have become a pest because of their growing numbers and aggressive attitude to native birds.

Richmond Park – parakeet

A friend invited us to a carol singing concert at St. James’s church on Piccadilly – the church with all the stalls outside, which sell everything from old costume jewellery, silk and woollen scarves and amber to coins and badges, silver spoons and teapots, old magnifying glasses, compasses and ancient Ethiopian crosses. The stallholders were packing up for the day as we arrived.

In the church we were behind a pillar so couldn’t see a lot of the choir – the conductor looked rather weird jumping wildly into the air and at times banging on a sonorous Tibetan gong. ‘Silent Night’ was somewhat disturbed by a man suddenly calling out,”Sybil, are you alright, Sybil, SYBIL?!”… Shades of Fawlty Towers… We looked round to see a grey haired woman slumped across the pew. A few anxious moments ensued. Then the choirmaster carried on and Sybil was much revived by a lively rendering of “The Holly and the Ivy”. The idle thought went through my head that my father had wanted to call me Eurydice. My mother objected as she said I would be called Dicey at school. It would perhaps have been appropriate…

On the way home we were just about to pass The Ritz, when I saw a tree on the opposite side of the road completely lit up as if by hundreds of sparkly diamonds on every branch and twig. No doubt escaped from the de Beers window display! John took this photo of it and as it’s not my own work I can say what a beautiful photo it is!

Diamond Tree

END

Mr Fox

Distant fox dozing

I looked out of our bedroom window one morning at the beginning of November and saw a very healthy looking fox basking in the warmth of the sun on our summerhouse roof. Later, I tiptoed down the garden as quietly as I could and got quite a good close up.

Orange shirt, green mimosa

Shirts hanging out together

Next day, I had an appointment with the dentist in Richmond. As I passed the flower stall in the main street I saw they were selling physalis plants for £6.50. When we were children, we called them Chinese lanterns and most people grew them in their gardens. You can see from the photos why we called them that. The berries inside are edible and good in salads. They are always that rich orange colour, a bit like the pumpkins you buy at Hallowe’en, which are sometimes streaked with green. Vignettes of Autumn but, as yet, not the biting cold of Winter.

Physalis pod

Chinese lanterns at the end of Autumn

From time to time somebody will ask you what your favourite book, film, music, food is. I don’t really have just one favourite as it often depends on the mood I’m in. But for some reason, I do, against all odds, have a favourite book. It’s ‘The Greengage Summer’ by Rumer Godden. I probably read it once every two years in the summer, when it’s hot. And every time I read it I wish I could have written it myself.

It appeals to me equally on so many levels. The setting, the description, the storyline, the relationships and the way I am transported to ‘Les Oeillets’, out of time. ‘The Greengage Summer’ just hits enough buttons to make it almost perfect. We were asked one day in French class about our favourite books and afterwards, I decided to translate (somewhat freely) the description of the hotel, ‘Les Oeillets’, and its surroundings, into French. The story is set in northern France, in a town called Vieux-Moutiers. In real life, ‘Les Oeillets’ was a former château, which became the ‘Hôtel des Violettes’. It had elegant rooms, a great hall from which a painted panelled staircase led up to the bedrooms and there were attic bedrooms above that with mansard windows. The salon was panelled too, with sofas and chairs in gilt and brocade. The dining room had blue satin wallpaper. At night there were lanterns lit all along the drive. Eliot, Mademoiselle Zizi and Madame Courbet are immortal. Here it is. I don’t want to give too much away because I would like you to read the book too.

That is if adventure, romance and robbery, art, mystery and murder appeal.

‘Le jardin était divisé en trois parties, separé par une haie de buis. Au fond et près du fleuve (le Marne), on se trouvait dans un verger de reines-claudes, entouré de murs hauts où une porte bleue dans le mur menait au bord de l’eau.
Les vieux arbres étaient tordus, leurs troncs et leurs branches colorés vert-mousse et je n’oublierai jamais les fruits. Les reines-claudes avaient une couleur bleu-pâle dans l’ombre mais au soleil elles devenaient ambre-vert, dorées et illuminées. Quand la peau du fruit mûr était fendue, le jus était surtout doux et chaleureux. Nous en avons trop mangé, couchés dans l’herbe. Dans l’hôtel, la serveuse, Toinette, après les avoir cueillies dans un panier en osier, mettait les fruits en pyramides sur les grandes assiettes blanches, décorées avec des feuilles de vigne.

Aujourd’hui, quand je ne peux plus dormir à cause de la chaleur, je rêve que je suis encore là. Les senteurs, les sons, et les couleurs font des tourbillons dans ma tête. Ca qui est arrivé
en ce temps-là, il a changé pour jamais ma vie et maintenant il me semble comme il était seulement hier quand j’étais là.

L’odeur de la poussière chaude avec les murs de plâtre blanc et frais. Le chèvrefeuille devant la maison et des feuilles de buis ensoleillées embaument l’air doux. Le matin, le fraîcheur de la rosée dans l’herbe haute sous les arbres. Les senteurs épicées de la cuisine se répand dans la maison où se trouve le gros chef jovial, M. Armand, Gaston, toujours très occupé.

En haut, une bouffée de la blanchisserie, de la cire, et, de temps en temps, des égouts. Le son d’un robinet dans la cuisine avec le cliquetis de la porcelaine, melangé avec les voix françaises, rapides et fortes – et les serveuses qui chantent et bavardent ensemble en faisant des lits. Et les deux grands chiens, toujours assis à la réception où ils montent la garde et acceuillent les visiteurs, les queues frappant le plancher avec des grands coups.

Dans le fond, la tranquillité profonde. Le crépitement des peupliers au bord de l’eau où on peut entendre en passant le sillage des bateaux et, plus nettement, le ploc d’un poisson dans l’eau ou d’une reine-claude qui tombe dans l’herbe. Et, toujours, du soleil…

And, as Rumer Godden puts it in a nutshell so neatly, by the end of it, our bones were stained forever. I love this book.

END

Hania invited me to go with her to the 19th Festival du Film Britannique de Dinard, held between the 2nd – 5th October. Hurrah! I made my way to Liverpool Street, which is now a wonderful railway station, with a high, glass roof, making it airy and light. In the sixties, it was rather dingy and gloomy and workhouse Victorian in style – and now it’s been renovated to almost high art level. It’s very streamlined and a joy to use.

Trains to Stansted are every fifteen minutes, only stopping at Tottenham Hale. Bof – that is where I got lost once, trying to cross what seemed like a tangle of motorways, while looking for doorknobs for Hania’s flat. Trying to get back to central London was nightmarish. When I finally jumped on any passing bus rather than negotiate more central reservations, I almost wept with relief when the driver said he was going to Euston. I never thought that going to Euston would stir up so much emotion and the bus driver was lucky not to be hugged. That day ended up with a welcome supper of confit du canard at the Gay Hussar in Soho, weighed down with white porcelain door knobs in my pockets and aching feet.

When we got on the train to Stansted, I recognised the author, Deborah Moggach, sitting in our carriage, looking very glamorous. I worked with her at Oxford University Press in Dover Street in the early seventies, long before she became a well known writer. In fact, before OUP, she’d worked as a bus conductress for a year. I debated whether or not to say hello and decided against it, firstly because I would have felt awkward if she hadn’t wanted to reminisce and also, I wanted to spend time talking to Hania. I expected Debbie might be going to the film festival too and I could hook up with her there – but no – in the event she was going somewhere else – probably to the Frankfurt Book Fair. She wasn’t on our flight anyway, and I almost wished I’d approached her after all, as she was always great company at OUP. I remember her first husband, Tony Moggach. He had a dark green Morgan car, which we all thought very glam.

This was my first experience with Ryan Air and it turned out to be very agreeable. All went to plan and we touched down at Dinard with perfect timing. You walk down the steps from the plane, which always makes me feel like a celebrity but there were no photographers to meet us! The airport is just a large field and it takes fifteen minutes by coach to get to the town. It’s interesting to see what different experiences people have of airports. I’d travel to stress free Dinard any time.

Entrance to Villa Reine Hortense

Villa Reine Hortense-our hotel

Sitting room

…and a piano

Stormclouds were building up as we arrived at the Palais des Arts, which overlooks the sea. Dinard is unbelievably Hulot-esque with beautiful villas from the Edwardian era overlooking ‘la belle plage’, which is flat and sandy. The overall impression I had was of a civilised, stylishly picturesque and rather solidly old-fashioned, fin-de-siècle, seaside town. Next, we had to find our hotel, the Villa Reine Hortense. It overlooks the sea and rather than describe its delights, I took a few photos.

Stormclouds over Dinard

We asked about dinner and were directed to a restaurant on the sea front called L’Abri des Flots. Juicy oysters were followed by turbot and sea bream. The fish was fresh and delicious but the waitress swooped down on us at regular intervals like a ravening seagull. We then made our way to the first film which was an adaptation of ‘My Cousin Rachel’ (Daphne du Maurier), starring Richard Burton. It was hugely melodramatic and his tight, ballet style trousers looked dangerously fragile as he ran, seized with desire, along the cliffs, which hung over a raging, stormy sea. We made our way back along the beach at midnight and listened to the crashing of the waves of our own raging, stormy sea. it’s quite unsettling to look at a dark void and know that this untameable wild and powerful monster is out there. There’s something to be said for the romance of walking along the sand in the twilight but this was inky blackness and because of the storm and driving rain, I ended up scuttling along more like a crab, looking for safety in a rock crevice. Luckily, the Villa Reine Hortense had rather more creature comforts and after a hot bath I slipped under the covers and enjoyed a deep and dreamless sleep.

DAY 2

Garden at Villa Reine Hortense

The next day was brighter but with a fierce wind which tweaked at us, ruined our hair and blew us all the way along the beach, as if we were a couple of autumn leaves. Our first film was called “Boy A”. It was very well made – just as if it was a documentary – about two boys, one of whom killed a girl, who was a schoolmate. Both boys went to prison and this is a story of how one of them was rehabilitated into society, with flashbacks as to what had happened. I think this film should be shown as part of the school curriculum.

The second film was Turkish and called ‘The Market”. It had French subtitles. Lazily, I was waiting for the English ones which never came but Hania and I understood almost all of it in French. Of course, it’s easier to assimilate the written rather than the spoken word but, all the same, I felt pleased that my French stood up. It was a good story about the travels of a man and his uncle as they tried to get medicines for their village. It showed how it was almost impossible to do this without getting involved with gangs and corruption. The character of the uncle was delightful and lifted the dark side somewhat.

Now I was tired but we got a sandwich in a bar and hurried on to film number three, which was English but the title was ‘French Film’. It was basically a romantic comedy, which was quite frustrating and lacked body. It starred Hugh Bonneville and Ann Marie Duff, both actors I like. However, they couldn’t lift the script from mediocrity.

By this time I was both ravenous and exhausted so we repaired to L’Abri des Flots again and braved ‘the seagull’, who bore down on us as if we were prey. I don’t remember what we had and although I dearly wanted to go to my bed, Hania insisted we go to the film ‘Young at Heart’. Quelle joie! It’s a true story about a choir in the U.S., where everybody is of pensionable age and most of them in their 70’s and 80’s. They have a dedicated conductor who pulls out all the stops and they sing everything from ballads, to rock ‘n roll and rap music. Many of them are interviewed and speak in the film and we get a fly on the wall view of their lives and how they manage not only the choir in their home town but they even travel to Europe where they have been extremely successful. It was a wonderful piece of cinema and I must definitely get a copy and show it to John. It’s an inspiration and not to be missed.

Dinard – le coucher de soleil

Heavy eyed after four films in a day, we tottered back along the beach, up the narrow stone staircase and through the silent garden to our comfortable beds.

DAY 3

First of all, we made a quick, early visit to the market in Dinard. There is both a covered and an outside one. I would have been happy to stay here for an hour or two but Hania wanted to go to the market in Dinan, another town a little way up the Rance estuary. She and Gaia had gone last year and come home with chic French shoes. We caught the 9 am bus (yawn) and it took about 30 minutes. The bus stop is at the railway station and then we walked to the ‘vieille ville’, which is down steep cobbled streets past ruined fortifications, ending up at the river. There, we sat down with an enormous Alsatian, which thumped its tail on the floor while we ate scrambled eggs followed by apple tart and coffee. We were right by the river’s edge, whose banks were covered in pink valerian. The pretty houses were reflected in the smooth cool water of the Rance and we walked along the bank, coming upon an enormous ship beached over a hedge in a field. How did it get there?

How did it get there?

Dinan – Vieille Ville

On the way back we bought a sort of crêpe/pancake each, which a man was turning out in their hundreds from a hot plate at the front of a bakery. It was delicious and propelled us back up the steep hills to the railway station. We stopped off at a hunting and fishing shop, where Hania thought she might find a present for her boyfriend. She did – in the form of a hollowed out moulding of a pigeon, which she insisted on wearing on her head. She bought two so that they could wear them together. The man in the shop was very puzzled.

Finally, the bus came and we got back to Dinard but missed the film ‘Genova’ as the queue to get in was too long. However, we did get to see Colin Firth in the corridor, before he ducked behind a curtain. He is in the film. We then revived ourselves somewhat with a tasty tomato and onion galette, enough to attempt a long walk in the sun around the coastal path which is beautiful, with views of St. Malo. Suddenly, blue sky appeared and the sun lit up all the little boats on the sparkling water and I took an excellent photo of a butterfly sunbathing on a rock. Too few of them have been seen this year. There were lots of dogs running around on the beach enjoying themselves, chasing seagulls and splashing in the waves.

Peacock butterfly

Pawprints

Hania then decided to show me the hotel where many of the film people stay and we ended up in the rather smart bar which has stripey brown and gold wallpaper. There are pictures of Tony Curtis and Kirk Douglas on the wall, as they stayed here when they were making a film in a castle by the sea, not far along the coast. I had a cocktail called a ‘Boa’ – actually, I had two. It was a mixture of orange and pineapple juice with San Pellegrino bitter, decorated with black grapes, slices of lime, and chinese lanterns (physalis). Most stylish and very quaffable. Meanwhile, somebody played Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin and Edith Piaf songs on the piano. Just my sort of evening. Hania seemed to drink quite a lot of Bloody Marys.

Boa Boa

Later on, we found a very charming restaurant, almost opposite the heated saltwater swimming pool and after Hania had finished her meetings with various writers, we spent the evening eating fish soup, moules, salade niçoise, followed by caramel liègoise and poire belle hèlène, all with a jug of Brittany cider, served in pottery cups. Then we trundled home along the beach and I tumbled into bed, full of sea air and feeling like a boat bobbing on the waves.

DAY 4

Breakfast room ceiling Villa Reine Hortense

View from hotel to St. Malo

Last day. As we were eating our croissants and jam, looking out over the grey, choppy sea towards St, Malo, a seagull came and perched on the table, out on the balcony and peered at us malevolently through the window. Later on, we fed some more of them with the remaining croissant, as we walked along the beach. Pale eyed and very macho, the birds sidled up and then proceeded to terrorize us, having massive, screaming fights over tiny crumbs and looking at us viciously, as possible future tasty morsels.

We had left our cases at the hotel while we went to see a delightful nature film called ‘The Meerkats’. Afterwards we had an omelette at a café in the marketplace, sitting outside, even though the wind was blowing hard and rain threatened. Then a quick foray to the shop by the beach, which sells salted caramel in jars. We also bought sardines in pretty tins, bags of sea salt for the bath, two pottery coffee cups in red and black, reminiscent of the colours of ripe figs, and several bars of chocolate. I also added a jar of dried seaweed ‘flocons’, to shake over salads or add to fish dishes and risottos. I reckoned that as we all came from the sea and we need some iodine, that this would be a good idea. However, the results remain to be seen – at least there’s not enough to indulge in seaweed pie, which we used to make in the sixties, and which did seem to be delicious at the time!

A last promenade along the beach and back to collect our cases. Florence Benoist was there and because we loved the hotel so much, she kindly showed us all the other rooms. They are all of different sizes and individually decorated, though in similar style. All of them very inviting – you must go and see for yourselves. The hotel closes between mid October and April. Madame Benoist helped us down the stone stairway with our now very heavy cases full of salted caramel and we wheeled them along the crescent of blue and white beach huts, which follow the curve of the beach up to the Palais des Arts.

We didn’t manage to get to the heated saltwater pool or do more coastal walks but we did pack a lot in. There was a crowd hanging out at the Palais des Arts, waiting for the coach to the airport and we joined it. The red carpet was now a bit sodden and salt stained but had served its purpose. I think the locals probably like the festival on the whole and everybody is invited to all the films, which cost five euros a throw. ‘Boy A’ won Best Film – voted for by the audiences.

Ryan Air are very fierce about the weight limit on cases and we had to do a lot of juggling with our two. Even so, Hania had her salted caramel confiscated, as she had it in her handbag – over the 100 gram limit for things taken on the plane. I got told off about my sardines but they let me keep them. I had thought it was liquids that were the problem but decided that gratitude for letting me keep them ‘just this once’ was the better part of valour. Maybe being ‘desolée’ for inadvertently smuggling a tin of sardines, weighing 120 grams, was helped by my speaking in French to the customs official. I like to think so, anyway. Small victories are always good! I definitely want to come back here.

Au revoir, Dinard. Quel temps formidable et merci à Hania pour tout.

FIN

I am being frugal but healthy and John pronounced this lunch truly delicious, so I’m noting it down.

Last night I made a lot of mashed potato and there was some left over. So today, I finely chopped and fried a few spring onions in olive oil and then added the mashed potato, making into patties. Meanwhile, I was steaming a bunch of fresh beetroot from the farmers’ market (£1.50).

Next, two tins of Waitrose sardines ‘al limone’ which I heated up in a small pan. We ate our lunch with a glass of white wine. It didn’t feel frugal but probably cost less than £3.00 each, excluding the wine. Maybe you wouldn’t like to come here for Sunday lunch?!

END

John has covered most of our weekend in Dorset in his blog. So I’m just going to list a few of the best and the worst things.

The Best Things were:-

1. The beautiful and comfortable Georgian bed and breakfast in an idyllic setting by the river at Frampton with the three friendly dogs, the painting of a Breton fishmarket by an unknown French artist, Beaufils, and a beautifully carved, pale wood, almost lifesize swan. And the gate, which miraculously opened by itself.

2. Walking through fields of lush, fresh scented, bluegreen grass in the evening under a big sky, making our way down into the valley where Trill farmhouse welcomed us. It looked like a gypsy festival with all the children and dogs roaming around and everybody dancing to the band. And the wine came in huge, pear shaped carafes, echoing some of the drinkers’ figures – in the best possible taste…..

3. Climbing hills, which I hadn’t done for a very long time and which was rejuvenating. Tramping the length of the ramparts at the Iron Age hill fort of Maiden Castle, meeting some delightful people there and, later on, sitting by the sheep on a low wall, eating pink Discovery apples, Jarlsberg cheese and Waitrose’s very delicious ‘tiffin’ bars.

Old cider mill machinery

4. Meeting the eccentric and knowledgeable old ‘cider’ man, tending his ramshackle greenhouses next to the ancient mill. The six foot square blue and gold clock which looked as if it should be somewhere like King’s Cross station but is stacked up against a wall and weighs a ton. And here’s a photo of the incredible hewn stone machinery.

5. Buying Mr. Hogben’s Dorset honey, a special bottle of ‘Shipwreck’ cider brandy, gooseberry and fresh coriander chutney (surprisingly delicious), Roman wholegrain mustard, made with honey and red wine, and a sturdy dark green mint plant, as mine at home has become faded and feeble. I am assured that this mint is ‘the very best’. The Cider Museum (near Owermoigne) is highly recommended.

6. Walking up Hambledon Hill in the evening with an almost 360 degree view from the top.
On a fine day you can see five counties and The Needles at the Isle of Wight. The clouds were very dramatic but held on to their rain!

Hambledon Hill

7. The very high hedges and the trees making the roads into green tunnels. Outside the Tolpuddle Martyrs museum there was a very strong smelling wild hyssop looking ravishingly healthy in the hedgerow.

8. The wild flowers on Hod Hill in the sunshine (knapweed, ladies’ bedstraw, melilot) and a beautifully marked brown and black small butterfly with tiny, lustrous golden spots.

Stile on Hod Hill

9. Enjoying being able to explore the school in its beautiful grounds at Bryanston and walking along the river Stour which has very pretty arrowhead water lily leaves growing along the edges. And great clumps of mystical hemp agrimony adorning the banks.

10. Placenames:- Blandford Forum, Iwerne Minster, Maiden Newton, Winterbourne Abbas, Okeford Fitzpaine*, Gussage St. Michael, Owermoigne, Toller Porcorum, Child Okeford, Whitchurch Canonicorum, Tolpuddle, Affpuddle, Kingston Lacy to name but a few.

* I learned from Bill Bryson’s book ‘Mother Tongue’, that the local pronunciation of Okeford Fitzpaine is ‘fippeny ockford’. Who would have guessed it ?! Bill Bryson is one of my heroes. And the name Hogben reminded me of an old book I have about the roots of different languages, which is called ‘The Loom of Language’ by Lancelot Hogben.

The Worst Things being:-

1. Motorway driving (tho’ John does this!). However, it’s worth it to be able to leave it and have the time to explore the highways and byways of the deep countryside.

2. Having to find the car in the darkness after the housewarming party. It was parked on top of a hill in a field. We had no torch but used the dim light of our mobile phones. It was tricky and I tripped up a few times. Could have been worse, e.g. spraining an ankle, walking through a cowpat, meeting an enraged bull etc.

3. Red light flashing, running out of petrol, everywhere dark and shut down. (John having not listened to me earlier when I suggested filling up). A typical wifely grizzle(!). However, my sharp eye saved the day in the end – a Somerfield garage just closing but we made it. The young man in charge wasn’t pleased to see us but I didn’t mind… I would have minded having to sleep in the back of the car though.

4. The Cerne Abbas giant wasn’t very visible, either due to the ground being wet or being overgrown.

5. Forgetting to pack my camera! John kindly took a picture or two for me – as you can see…

It turned out to be a successful weekend on every front. Dorset is full of Iron Age hill forts and neolithic barrows and is very hilly. We didn’t make it to the seaside but that will motivate us to go back sooner rather than later. And Bryanston would like to have some of John’s books in their library. So another incentive to brave the motorway again. And choose fabulous bed and breakfast places from the admirable Alastair Sawday guides.

END

Lunettes

I must just put this down before I forget because it’s a story of kindness, of which I think more should be reported. And I also wanted to say ‘thank you’ to this unknown person, who was so kind to me, especially.

Last week I was on the underground with my nose in a fascinating book. I was wearing my deliciously soft new aubergine coloured long cardigan (Fenn, Wright and Manson), which I bought in Peter Jones last week as my ‘top spot’ for the Autumn. A season which unfortunately seems to have arrived already. My cardigan has a pocket either side, but it would be a mistake to put something heavy in there. They are meant only for small handkerchiefs!

Before I got on to the tube, I had been wearing my sunglasses (a free gift with a raincoat). Yes, an odd choice to put together but both good quality products. I had had the sunglasses for two years or more and like them very much because they are 40’s film star tortoiseshell design…… no aviator stuff for me. This year it would have been difficult to replace them as I find the 2008 designs very ugly on the whole. Probably to do with middle age or maybe sky-diving just doesn’t appeal.

Well, suddenly, I found myself at Green Park and had to leap off in a hurry. I jumped up, forgot to look behind me as I usually do in case I’ve forgotten something and wandered off down the platform to the escalator. I did hear somebody shouting ‘Madame’ at the top of their voice but ignored it, as I was part of a crowd of people walking towards the exit. Then a large man with black curly hair and a beard, dressed in robes of some nature overtook me and handed me my sunglasses, which I hadn’t even realised I’d lost. I had absent mindedly put them in the pocket of my cardigan as I got on the train and they had fallen onto the seat as I got up to leave. The man who was shouting ‘Madame’ was on the train and going further so he had obviously asked this other man who was getting off to run after me. And this relay race of kind men reunited me with said sunglasses.

I wasn’t able to say thank you to the first man in person, so I’m broadcasting it here. Many, many thanks for your kindness. I will think of you both every time I put on my sunglasses and hope I might be able to do somebody else a good turn soon. It is so heartwarming to be cared about and looked after by strangers and gives one hope that kindness might prevail in the end.

END

Linking the words ‘trouble’ and ‘headscarves’ suggests a current issue which is religion related and has caused fierce debate. Well, that is what most people might think of, reading the title.

However, in London in the early 1970s, everyone was aware of the ‘Sloane Ranger’ – young and not-so-young smartly dressed women, denizens of Peter Jones in Sloane Square, who were seen out and about in the environs of Chelsea and Belgravia, wearing an expensive silk headscarf, tied ‘just so’, under the chin.

I wasn’t a ‘Sloane Ranger’ but sometimes I wore a headscarf. It had to be silk because that both tamed my hair and made it shiny. I trawled the charity shops for them and it was an ongoing search, often full of disappointment, which made the triumph of finding one, both in silk and in an acceptable pattern and colour, all the sweeter.

I haven’t worn a headscarf for a long time but I’d quite like to take it up again once in a while. Especially during this wet and windy summertime. It’s just that all those connotations relating to wearing headscarves make me feel uneasy. Especially when my own reasons for wearing one are to show off the beautiful pattern and/or colour, while making my hair smooth and shiny. All reasons which I find compatible with my personal ‘raison d’être’. My old, well loved scarves are carefully preserved – washed and ironed a hundred times. Silk is the most beautifully strong and softly seductive material, which never seems to wear out. I need to delve into the history of the silkworm. I have never seen one at work.

Maybe I’ll just stop footling around now and just put one on. I could be ‘spotted’ as a new fashion statement and then headscarves will again have their day. A different sort of day. A day celebrating the beauty of silk and those who weave it into beautiful apparel. It is a wonder of the natural world, after all – even if the silkworms are not aware of how clever they are.

This is just an extra passing thought but of practical use:-

If you want well groomed, shiny hair at the drop of a ‘hat’ (!) (and I assume it is clean hair),
just put on a silk headscarf for five minutes and walk around and ‘voilà’, your hair will look stunning. I was told this once when dressing models for a fashion show – and it works for me.
In fact, if you have soft, fine hair, two minutes will do.

END

We inherited a rampantly overgrown garden when we moved here in the early 1970s. The old man who owned it before us had grown tomatoes and there were two greenhouses, which took up a lot of the space. They were quite ramshackle, so we took one down altogether and replaced the other, as I also planned to grow tomatoes. Somebody gave us a black mulberry tree, which sadly came to grief in the big storm some years later. I put in a grapevine by the front door which had no fruit for seven years and since then it’s been like a mini vineyard, heavy with bunches of grapes every summer. They turn a rosé colour when ripe and taste of strawberries.

Mallow

The garden has walls on all sides. These came in especially useful when we kept rabbits and allowed them to run around freely. Although they managed to dig a large warren while unsupervised, they couldn’t dig under the walls. They escaped from the clutches of the neighbouring cats by scarpering down the holes they had dug. We were sad when they died but I was thrilled to find I still had some of my original plants, which began to flourish again, with nobody around to eat them.

We’ve had foxes with their cubs sitting on the lawn, rats in the compost heap, frogs and toads, fieldmice in the ivy, all in a space which has not been sprayed with any pesticides for a very long time. The slugs and snails are kept down to some extent by the many birds, who also eat our crabapples and figs. A greedy lot, with an ever beady eye for the main chance.

Recently, we have had a plague of green parakeets, which vie for supremacy with the ever present aeroplanes in the skies above…. they haven’t, as yet, knocked out the swallows and house martins and we have always had wrens nesting, deep amongst a creeper which protects them from the weather and from marauding cats. We usually have a robin or two in the Spring. They are very bold and independent creatures and one of them would insist on sitting on the kitchen windowsill and peering in. My mother loved robins and so I thought it was probably her, wondering how I was getting along, frustrated that she wasn’t able tell me the right way to make a cake. Or that the floor needed mopping.

Spot the plane!

There has been a succession of vicious squirrels which patrol the walls and chitter balefully at all and sundry. They would definitely qualify for prison with their GBH approach to their fellow creatures. This year there have been very few butterflies – no peacocks or red admirals, which I have seen in other years and only one comma which was camouflaged by sitting on an old wooden peg on the washing line – other than that, only one or two cabbage whites to date.

In mid-July we spent a few days in the Cotswolds and stopped off on the way back to London at the garden centre in Burford. Last year I lost my Cistus, one of my favourite plants. It had sherbet pink petals and golden stamens. Each flower usually lasts no more than a day or two but new ones appear continuously. What I like best about this plant is the pink and gold against the slightly rough, sage green of the foliage and also, the texture of the petals, which resemble very thin, slightly scrumpled, tissue paper. This new one is called Cistus Sunset and it looks very healthy. I have high hopes for it.

Cistus Sunset

I also came upon some small, perfectly exquisite mimosa trees for £13.00. They can grow to 40 feet but I shall keep mine in a pot for the time being. Down in the south of France near Nice, they have a mimosa festival each year in February, when the small, fluffy, round, yellow, blossoms appear. These are very fragrant. You can buy a bunch of mimosa in London from flower stalls. There is not much to commend February as a month but the smell of mimosa does lift it out of the doldrums for a short while. I hope my tree is sturdy enough to get through the winter and reward me with a few soft yellow pom poms! The leaves are like filigree or feathers – delicate but strong. Everyone I have shown the tree to instinctively puts out their hand to touch the leaves.

On the bus I often pass a big house which has an unusual and intriguing tree in front. The tree has large bracts which look like skeins of pinky grey smoke from afar in early summer. Now I have found its Latin name, which is ‘Cotinus coggygria’. It can have either green or purple foliage – mine is green. At the moment it is a small bush but it seems that the sky is the limit…… and it’s happy in a dry climate.

‘Smoke’ Tree

When I look around the garden, pink and green seems to be a favourite combination. But there’s also a beautiful blue cranesbill which glows in abundance under the apple tree, a favourite place also for the many hoverflies enjoying the warmth of the evening sun. And, some burgundy-coloured geraniums which put me in mind of the words of the American poet, Wallace Stevens, ‘complacencies of the peignoir’ (from his poem, ‘Sunday Morning’*); I would just change the last word to ‘boudoir’. These plants would go well in an ornate pot in front of a gilded mirror belonging to a royal courtesan. I bought three of them early one Sunday morning in Columbia flower market. They sulked for a short while and, like a small child, refused to grow; then suddenly they proliferated by leaps and bounds, looking more opulent and glorious every day.

The petals are a deep claret colour with a thin edge of paler red. I think they are called ‘Marquis of Bute’. They are full of confidence, knowing they are at the height of their beauty now. They stir up a memory I have of reading a book at school called ‘Forever Amber’ by Kathleen Winsor, which first appeared in 1944 and was a bestseller. It was banned in several places, in the same way that the ‘Angélique’ series was deemed shocking, but eventually sold over two million copies in hardback. Set during the English Restoration, after Charles II returned from exile, the book is impeccably researched despite being such a racy read. The author’s first husband was writing his thesis on this period of history and it triggered her interest. The book is still riveting today, with its heroine, Amber St. Clare, being beautiful, showy, sexy and resourceful. These sumptuous flowers remind me of her.

Marquis of Bute

Marquis of Bute – full bloom

I mentioned that I don’t use pesticides – I have learned by trial and error which plants grow well and seem fairly immune to pests. Many of them are perennial and continue to flourish without much assistance. Every year I buy tall, white nicotiana plants, which go through to autumn. They resemble wood nymphs, preferring dappled shade – naturally graceful and generous with their blooms and slightly ghost like in the twilight, offering a faint scent. They are related to the tobacco plant, which you can tell by the shape and size of their leaves. Another of my favourites is the Japanese anemone or windflower. Mine are creamy white with a plump green centre, like a small pincushion, surrounded by bright golden stamens and remind me of a high class geisha – beautiful yet discreet.

Japanese windflowers

Today was very hot, airless and dry. About five o’clock I went outside and while I was soaking up the silent heat I was suddenly aware of a slight movement. It was a frog which had hopped into one of the plant saucers, which had a bit of water in it. We looked at one another for a while and then he hopped underneath the southernwood bush. I hope he will survive. We have so many cats on the prowl but, on the other hand, there are plenty of slugs for him to eat. I shall keep the saucer full of water.

Southernwood

Crocosmia

nicotiana

Bees worldwide are suffering from some grim disease at the moment but I’m glad to say there are lots in the garden and they seem healthy. They love the mallow tree and a plant which has prickly pale blue orbs and must belong to the thistle family. It is plagued by blackfly which disappear when the flowers blossom and then the bees have it all for themselves. They are very industrious and sometimes there is a slight fracas when two collide. They are so intent on collecting pollen that you can watch them at very close quarters and I noticed that there are lots of varieties of bee, both in size and in colour.

My small olive tree has fruit for the first time this year and the blueberries have much more taste than the ones from the shop. While I was watering the garden this evening I wondered what would be here a hundred years from now. Perhaps we would be flooded, being near the river. Once, one sunny afternoon in Locarno, on Lake Maggiore, we surprised a long, black snake taking a siesta on a leafy bank. Global warming might bring black snakes like that here. Better that than malarial mosquitoes.

This evening we ate our supper outside – fish with green lentils and peppers with grilled tomatoes and new potatoes……. a black cat sauntered by and I thought how differently I would feel if it was five times larger. Better stop imagining things and set my mind to doing the tax, which also looms blackly on the horizon.

My pride and joy is the grape vine, again heavy with fruit and luxuriously verdant. I feed it tea leaves throughout the year. Is that good for vines? I really have no idea, I just do it out of instinct. The fig tree may even have ripe figs, given the temperature of the last few days, although I expect they will be ravaged by the birds before I get to them. Really very greedy. I wonder why there aren’t lots of obese birds tottering around or falling with a heavy thump and a squawk out of the sky? Meanwhile, I continue to battle with the neighbour’s invasive creeper which has gunnera type leaves and reaches out like a triffid.

As yet, unripe

I can hear the foxes shrieking not far away, so will leave the garden to its nightlife as I’m now looking forward to bed and my wonderful soft pillows. I’m reading two books at the moment. A holiday type mystery set in Italy called – surprisingly appropriately -‘The Savage Garden’ – and the other, sent to me by Will Rosenzweig, an American friend, is a plant’s eye view of the world and is called “The Botany of Desire’- by Michael Pollan, which is fabulous. I’ve just read the section on the history of the apple and recommend it highly. The key to survival is biodiversity, so that’s what I’m trying to achieve in my small patch of earth. To be continued …

Postscript:-

* The poem by Wallace Stevens called ‘Sunday Morning’ (1923) has always had an atmospheric appeal for me. Here are the first lines……

Complacencies of the peignoir, and late
Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair,
And the green freedom of a cockatoo
Upon a rug mingle to dissipate
The holy hush of ancient sacrifice.

END