Life in the English Cotswolds

Writing Words of Silence

2012-01-29T14:53:00.000-08:00

I have exchanged a couple of comments recently with ExmoorJane after one of her posts got me thinking. I spend a lot of my time thinking, it goes with the day job. Now these thoughts are not usually high powered for I don't spend my working hours in a dynamic office environment; I spend them - often on my own - in the real, green environment. And that's the problem: there are so many things to distract me. A few days ago it was the fault of the jackdaws - they suddenly had realised that spring is around the corner and were in full display flight, tumbling and diving and generally making an awful lot of noise. So I spent far too long wondering why I hadn't noticed their courtship before.

Yesterday it was the fault of the snowdrops and the winter flowering aconites. They are to blame because they are in full flower a few weeks earlier due to the unseasonably mild winter we have had so far. Some years ago I organised a visit to some gardens renowned for their display of snowdrops and we had to search hard to find one in flower - that was the 10th February. Nature, like some people, can be fickle. The photo below shows a different garden's snowdrops: it is the garden of what I call the 'reincarnation' house. They are at their best now.

The aconites were more fully to blame. Seeing the hundred or so yellow blooms staring up at me from the foot of our garden hedge made me decide to take a walk as, not far from our little cottage, further down the secret valley lies a very special woodland. At this time of year it is a yellow carpet of flowering aconites, an extremely rare sight for they are not native to this country. No-one knows by whom or when they were planted for there is no sign of there ever being a house nearby; they are of no value as a commercial crop unlike snowdrops that were sent to London in bunches for selling once the age of steam made it possible to transport them quickly.

But all this pondering can most squarely be laid at Jane's doorstep. In her post on writing she mentioned that she sometimes writes just for the sheer pleasure of seeing words and thoughts on paper. Then, satisfied, she destroys the work for there is no need or desire to share it. I thought only people that were mad - or, at least, people that were a bit dotty - did that.* And, insecure person that I suppose this shows me to be, I thought I was the only one that ever fitted this description and did such a bizarre thing. This is why I started writing a blog: I came to the conclusion it would be quite nice to keep my work somewhere secret so that I could look at it from time to time. I decided Blogger would be quite a good place to store it, along with a few favourite photos. I knew, of course, that the world in theory could see it but why would anyone want to stop and read something that I had written? It never occurred to me that some of you might do so and some even come back regularly for more. So on my way back from the aconites I was visualising Jane and myself scribbling away and ceremoniously (for it always seemed to be part of the ritual) tearing up the sheets of paper with our precious words on them.

I had walked along our little winding river to reach the wood but struck off over the hill for the return home. This route always fascinates me because, from the top, the valley is totally invisible tucked away deep within the folds of the landscape. One moment the ground almost appears flat and then, suddenly you are looking down into the secret valley. The slopes are steep and grazed only by sheep, wild deer and rabbits and are, later in the year, awash with wild flowers of all kinds, including rare wild thyme, the subject of one of my earliest posts. I sat myself down to admire the view, for I never tire of it despite seeing it every day, and pondered on what gives a person the desire to write, to play around with words, arranging them and rearranging them for hours on end.

And then this thought came: what do you do when words just aren't adequate to describe the sights or the emotions? How do you describe the indescribable? Take a photograph - after all, a photo is supposed to say a thousand words. But what if a thousand words still aren't enough? What if ten thousand words still aren't enough? Besides, an image only allows the viewer to create their own words, it can never convey those that the writer might be thinking. How do you describe the intangible? So I sat on the bank, looking across the secret valley, muffled up against the chill east wind and came to this simple conclusion - the only way out of this conundrum of how to express these silent words is to write a post about it.

* Well, I thought she did but I can't see it now. Perhaps I am dotty, after all :-{

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New Year in London

2012-01-21T08:11:00.000-08:00

Perhaps it is because London will be hosting the Olympic Games later this year that the capital seemed rather quiet and devoid of people and traffic when I visited it at the beginning of the month. Although it lacked its usual 'buzz' it did mean more comfortable walking and it was definitely easier to catch a taxi. I imagine when the Games are in full swing you will not be able to move for people and public transport of any type will be crowded.

We tend to follow the same plan when we visit; not because we want to play safe, it is just that we cannot bear to miss a morning coffee and an almond croissant at the Bluebird cafe. A slow walk up the King's Road with it's exclusive shops and boutiques brings you to Sloane Square - just in time for lunch. This time we found, to our dismay, that our usual dining spot had closed down so we tried the Botanist, almost opposite, instead. It proved to be a good choice for the food was excellent, as was the service. My biggest criticism of it is its name which, of course, with me being a 'planty' person had rather appealed. The decor consisted mostly of pictures of insects so we now refer to it as The Entymologist instead.

A taxi ride took us to the National Portrait Gallery. One of our New Year resolutions is to take in a bit more culture as we are becoming rather reluctant to move out of the secret valley, generally preferring the peace and quiet of the rural life. A trip to 'the smoke' from time to time is just what's needed to stop us from becoming complete country bumpkins. We hadn't allowed enough time to look at the pictures in any depth - we really need to visit when we are not being dictated by the thought of food. A mental note has been made to visit again quite soon, that time bypassing the restaurants ..... Mmm, we'll see.

When we came out of the gallery daylight was fading fast and London appeared to have renewed energy. Somehow a city at night with all it's lights seems a more exciting place. I seemed far more aware of statues, theatres and red buses - I'd forgotten just how much I like cities! I've never lived anywhere other than in the country and I'm not too sure how I would fare if I suddenly found myself in one permanently. Not too well, I would think.

Another taxi ride took us to my favourite London store; favourite perhaps because it is another food place. Forget Harrods, which I'm afraid I dislike intensely, give me Fortnum & Mason's anytime. The Christmas windows and decor were still in place but even without those, F & M exudes quality from every pore - or do I mean from every chocolate?

Who could possibly bite into these white chocolate bears, though?

The first thing I do when I enter the store isn't to think of my stomach, surprisingly, as I am surrounded by goodies to eat. I always go to the central circular staircase and lean over to look down which is dramatic, then descend down the old wooden staircase which is equally full of character.

A wander around the coffee and tea halls with their wonderful aromas is another must.

The store has a reputation for making some of the best hampers in England. I was lucky enough once to be given one for a Christmas present and it was such an exciting treat unpacking it and seeing what all the tins and shiny wrappers contained. I was rather taken with their picnic hampers but there would be no point in us having one: although we picnic rather a lot because of our outdoor life, they always end up big social events. What starts off as a casual chat with a couple of friends snowballs and it is not unusual to find twenty or thirty arriving to enjoy the feasting. Fortunately they usually bring food and drink with them too. If we had a Fortnum's picnic hamper it would have to be a quiet, small affair - just the sight of the baskets conjures up images of check tablecloths laid on the grass, eating in the shade of the willows down by our little winding river.

And what would a visit to Fortnum's be without having one of their splendid traditional afternoon teas? By the time I had forced down two scones with strawberry jam and Cornish clotted cream and cake, all washed down with a pot or two of Orange Pekoe tea it was time to think about returning home.

If we were lucky and didn't get held up in traffic jams we would be back in the secret valley just in time for supper. I think a belated New Year's resolution ought to be excercise more and eat less .....

PS Don't forget you can find me on Facebook now and get regular updates from the secret valley

First Build Your Bank ....

2012-01-07T16:27:00.000-08:00

Some time ago I was asked if I could plant a hedge. Straightforward enough, I thought and as it was to be a native hedge, I was especially keen to do it. Using only native species is always a pleasure for not only are you maintaining a tradition that is centuries old, it is also excellent cover for twentyfirst century birds and animals.

It was only when I went to visit the site that it was mentioned that it would be rather nice if the hedge could be planted on top of a bank, reminiscent of those that are found in the West Country counties of Devon and Cornwall.

West Country banks use large amounts of stone in their construction and were built to protect livestock from the gales and snowstorms that sweep in from the Atlantic. Over time they become encrusted in lichens and mosses with ferns, primroses and other wild flowers sprouting from every crevice. They are usually topped with a beech hedge or, sometimes, gorse (or furze, as they call it on Exmoor).

The bank that I had to build was to be similar but faced with turf which would not be as strong. As it was to divide two halves of a garden and (hopefully) not have to keep out determined sheep or cattle, this didn't matter. The thing that did matter was that I had to build it in a way that would prevent it from falling down .....

I've always found that if you want to create an impression bring in a digger. There is a morbid fascination in watching a digger at work for the destruction can be immediate and swift. It certainly would have been if I had been in charge of the controls but, as is so often the case, when you need an expert it is better to bring one in. I know where I am when it comes to shovels and forks and trowels but it is best not to let me loose with all those knobs and levers.

The ground cleared we were then able to lay out and start building the bank. We imported the rubble and clod for the base which after being well rammed and compacted could then have a top layer of better quality topsoil spread over the surface. All was held in place by large mesh chicken wire netting.

Next came the turf and this was laid direct onto the netting and held in place with hazel twig 'pegs'. These would gradually rot but not before the turf had grown its roots through the wire. The netting, too would quite quickly rot (we didn't use galvanised for we didn't want it to last for years) and, by then and fingers crossed, the bank would be quite stable and self supporting.

It was with some trepidation when, a few weeks later we cut the top of the turf and the wire out so that we were able to prepare the bank for planting the hedgerow; especially so as we had had some torrential downpours giving me anxious moments about landslips and mudslides. All, fortunately was well.

Having plants delivered, I find, is always an exciting moment. It reminds me of when, as a child, I waited for Christmas morning and couldn't wait any longer to open my presents. Despite knowing what is coming out of the van, each plant or variety is met with little gasps of delight. The thrill of knowing that, with luck, they will thrive and continue to grow for many years and may even be there long after I've been buried and forgotten is great.

The hedgerow was not the easiest thing to plant but the end result was pleasing. The final combination was Hawthorn, Field Maple, Wayfaring Tree, Hazel, Dog Rose, Spindle and Hornbeam with an occasional Honeysuckle to fill the evening air with perfume. The birds took to it straight away and, in my imagination at least, mice and voles shelter amongst the trunks hiding from mirauding stoats and weasels. Best of all is the knowledge that, a few years on, the bank is still standing!

Christmas 2011

2011-12-24T09:23:00.000-08:00

Many thanks to all of you that have read and followed my blog during 2011. Despite the dire weather predictions, the secret valley is having the mildest Christmas for years. Instead of extreme cold and deep snow as forecast some weeks ago, the sun has been shining and the temperature has risen to +13C. I've had to rely on a snowy photograph from last winter!

Wishing you all a very happy and peaceful Christmas

Flowers at Christmas

2011-12-18T16:04:00.000-08:00

I know that it isn't technically Christmas yet for we still have a week to go. Despite the last few days being cold and frosty - and very beautiful with bright sunshine and blue skies, I have been surprised at just how many flowers are still blooming away when it is almost the end of the year.

A combination of unseasonably mild weather for most of the time and, of equal importance, very little rain to knock the blooms about has resulted in all sorts of odd floral combinations. Of course, I realised as soon as I started to write this post that I hadn't bothered to carry my camera around with me so most of the flower photos have been taken at some other time.

Cowslips and primroses: It's not especially to see the occasional primrose in flower in the garden but I don't ever remember seeing cowslips flowering in December in the wild before. It will be a good few months before we see carpets of them like these but seeing the odd two or three reminds me that spring is not so very far away. In the newspapers there have been reports of daffodils in flower too.

Forsythia: Another spring bloomer and again just the odd flower rather than branches being smothered in flower. Perhaps not so surprising, as flower arrangers would know - the tight buds that cluster along the bare stems will burst into flower early when brought into the warmth of a house in a similar way to the 'sticky buds' of the horse chestnut bursting into leaf indoors. Here, forsythia has been trained as a tightly clipped shrub to screen an ugly garage wall, the warmth and protection of which also makes the flowers open a week or two before normal.

Ferns: Some of the shabbier looking ferns had been cut dowm to ground level as part of the autumn tidy. I hadn't expected them to burst back into growth .....

Violets: There have been a lot of violets out, both in the garden and in the hedgebanks of the secret valley. Is it just coincidence that these out-of-season blooms have all been mauve with not a white flowered one in sight?

Daisy: There have even been odd wild daisies flowering in the lawn (we have mowed twice this month too). The Erigeron daisy that you see growing in profusion amongst the ruins of ancient Rome has been flowering in our garden as if it was still midsummer; it is smothered in blooms.

Geraniums: The hardy herbaceous sort. Like the ferns, they had been given the chop some time ago but are coming back into leaf and flower. Some of the hardy salvias are doing the same thing.

Mallows: I have seen hollyhocks still in flower on my travels around the Cotswolds. They are majestic when they are grown well but my favourite of all is the musk-mallow, Malva moschata, which is a wild flower that is often brought into gardensl. I grow both the pink and the white versions and they self sow happily in the borders without ever becoming a nuisance. It wouldn't matter, you couldn't have too many!

Roses: There are nearly always roses out on Christmas Day and we always exclaim how extraordinary a sight it is. They are poor, wet, bedraggled specimens carefully left in place by even the hardest pruners as a reminder of warm summer days. For the most part that is the case this year too. What we don't expect to find are bushes smothered in beautiful blooms still wafting scent but this is the case in one rose garden I attend. I am uncertain as to the variety but there are three of these amongst forty other bushes - all shrub roses. They really are a joy to see.

I can't believe that this state of affairs will last much longer. Surely the frost and rain, or even snow, will get them soon. I plan to wait until New Year's Day and go walking armed with camera, pen and paper and list all that I see. I have intended to do this every year for as long as I can remember but if I manage it this time, I will report back. And, as this will almost certainly be the first of 2012's resolutions to be broken, perhaps you would do the same and send me the list.

Now on Facebook

2011-12-17T06:07:00.000-08:00

Life in the English Cotswolds is moving into the twentyfirst century! It can now be found on Facebook.

Click the 'Networked Blogs' link in the column - it's found on the right side of the page.

What A Difference A Year Makes

2011-12-08T10:23:00.000-08:00

The British are always going on about the weather and I'm no exception. My very first words upon waking are "What is the weather doing?" and my final words before sleeping are "What will the weather be doing?". I make no apologies for this: it's part of our make-up as a nation. It's because, I was once told, that whereas other countries have seasons, Britain just has weather. It's not quite that simple, we do have seasons - Spring, Summer, Autumn and Winter - just like any other temperate country, it's just that in the UK they get a bit muddled up.

I write this, snug in front of the woodburner - not that much heat is getting past She-dog who thinks this has been lit solely for her pleasure and comfort - listening to a gale rattling the window panes and whistling around the eaves. The rain is lashing down and there is absolutely no need for me to ask what the weather is doing this evening. However, I have been told that I have said "Listen to the weather" several times. I could have said how remarkable it is that only yesterday I had my lunch sitting in the garden. Yes, really.

I should admit that I am a hardy sole as I work outdoors all year and so am less affected by cold than most and I also should admit that I was wearing a coat and gloves and sitting in a sheltered, sunny spot. Regardless of those finer details, yesterday I commented how last year to the day we were up to our necks in snow in the worst wintry weather the Secret Valley had had for years. And, even more remarkably, the snow came when you would expect it - in midwinter but (and there's always a 'but' where British weather is concerned) in the Cotswolds we rarely get snow before January ..... But it was still rather remarkable to be sitting there, surely and remark worthy?

What is even more remarkable is that all of this week I have been planting out herbaceous plants and laying turf; late even by our odd climate standards. We have had frosts: there were three quite hard ones in October, then none until the last week of November and then a couple more last week and none since. In between, we had two weeks of warmish air and thick fog which was enough to make even me depressed.

The spirits, even on those damp, grey days, were uplifted by the huge array of flowers that have reappeared. There are always a few late roses hanging on determinedly until Christmas Day, looking bedraggled and ragged but not this time. Some of them have given up but others have almost as many blooms as midsummer. There are pots of herbaceous Salvia nemerosa 'Mainacht' that have regrown after their end-of-season haircut and are in full bloom once again. Primroses and cowslips are showing colour. Today I counted over twenty different summer flowering plants still going strong. That's a bit of an exaggeration, I really mean showing the odd flower or two. All the plants have become muddled so we have Winter Jasmine as you would expect but not alongside spring flowering Forsythia. And we have evergreen, flowering shrubs such as Viburnum and Sarcococca as we should have at this time of year - but not alongside the newly unfurling purple leaves of Cotinus cogyggria. Where, or more to the point, when will it all end? Possibly quite soon.

It isn't just the garden that is confused. On the farm the cattle are still out grazing the fields. They should be inside by now but with plenty of grass still available in the fields they can be out for a little longer.

While I am here writing about a bit of wind and rain, the north of England and Scotland, in particular, are bearing the brunt of 100mph gales and heavy snow. Perhaps we are quite fortunate, after all. The rain here is only supposed to last a few hours and tomorrow is forecast unbroken sunshine once more. Which reminds me, I really must start talking about the lack of rain we have had in recent months. The little winding river is running lower than it ever has and can be easily walked across in places in just walking boots where the water flows over gravel . It should look, at this time of year, like the photograph I use on the header to this blog. Instead it looks like midsummer again with the water, where it flows deeper, still choked with watercress. Oh well! I suppose I should be grateful that I am still able to go out and pick it in December - I can make a store of some delicious hot soup to drink when the weather realises it is winter.

All the photographs, except for She-dog in the snow, were taken over the past week or two. When the frost has been hard the Secret Valley has looked at its best.

A Royal Invitation

2011-11-21T10:12:00.000-08:00

Like most people, I wait with eager anticipation for the postman to deliver the mail each day and, each day, I find that, if it isn't bills he's put through the letter box, it's circulars that go straight into the recycling bin. So when a card sized envelope arrived with a nicer quality about it than most - and especially as it wasn't my birthday - I was intrigued. Why do we always feel envelopes and squint at postmarks to try and work out what is inside when all we have to do is open them and take a look?

My first reaction upon finding I'd received an invitation from the Duke of Edinburgh to attend Windsor Castle was to think that a friend was playing a practical joke. But the more I read it the more real it looked:

His Royal Highness The Duke of Edinburgh, K.G., K.T

requests the pleasure of your company

at a Reception to be held in the State Apartments, Windsor Castle

How extraordinary! Why me? Why should I be drinking and eating one evening soon with Royalty? The answer was, of course, it wasn't me at all, it was my partner who has spent a lifetime working with and competing horses.

Horses have always been close to the Royal Family and both the Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh are knowledgable and skilled horsemen. Carriage driving at top competition level had, until recently, been a regular part of the Duke's regime and we had often been to watch him race at Windsor Great Park. We too, have also participated in driving although my competition level is still at the most basic. My partner is much more skilled and fearless and I always marvel when a neurotic and potentially lethal animal becomes calm and pliable under his control. The photo below is of us just out for a quiet afternoons drive - although the pony did have his moment a little later when we careered out of control amongst the trees. Thomas could become quite exciteable at times!

I realised with dismay that the date on the invitation was the day that we would be on Exmoor for a couple of weeks holiday, 150 miles away. Working on the theory that we'd never likely receive another invitation we postponed the trip by a day. And so, that early evening we drove up to the closed gates of Windsor Castle, showed our credentials and passed through to be further security checked. Once this had taken place we were driven by an offical to the Quadrangle and the State Entrance. Thie entrance, as it's name implies, is used on State occcasions and the Quadrangle is used for military parades, including the regular Changing of the Guard. From here is a panoramic view of the castle buildings, the oldest of which date from the 11th century (making Windsor the world's oldest inhabited castle), and the Long Walk: a tree lined vista that cuts across the Great Park for a distance of over two and a half miles.

The Long Walk

copyright www.Windsor-Berkshire.co.uk

copyright Dale McEntee

We entered the building by the Grand Staircase, with it's fine displays of armour and firearms. Here we were able to see the musket ball that killed Lord Nelson which had been presented to Queen Victoria. Queen Charlotte's sedan chairs were also here, remarkably small, I thought.

The reception was held in St George's Hall, which was at the centre of the fire in the 1990's and completely destroyed. As a consequence, the restoration work has made the green oak, hammer beam roof the largest to be constructed in that century. The craftsmanship and colours are extraordinary: set into the roof are the shields of every Knight of the Garter with some shields being blank. These, I discovered, were not reserved for future knights but were of those that had fallen from Royal favour.

Nothing prepares you for the sheer magnificence and size of this room as you enter - it measures 185 x 30 feet. Here we met other guests - there were only about two hundred - and, finally, the Duke who arrived with little pomp or ceremony. The Duke made a short speech before joining us informally to champagne and canapes. I was impressed not just by his energy (he is now over 90) but also by his wit. He really is very funny, indeed. I wondered how many other people of his age could carry out all these duties day in, day out and still make you feel as if you were of interest to them. Both he and the Queen - who works equally hard - may live in splendour with aides and courtiers but I wouldn't exchange places with them: I will be more than content just to still be able to hear, see, think and garden!

Access was also granted to The Grand Reception Room and The Waterloo Chamber, where the immense and seamless, two ton carpet took fifty soldiers to lift to a place of safety during the fire. What I found surprising was that we were given free access to wander around these rooms at will, although I'm certain that if we had attempted to go elsewhere we would have found our way blocked! Sadly, because we were attending a royal event, we were not allowed to take photgraphs, so I am unable to show you the splendours of these rooms. You will find them, however, if you look in a search engine.

The evening came to a close after two and a half hours and, as we stepped back out into the autumn air in the Quadrangle, I was struck by the realisation why it is traditional to say, upon the death of a monarch, "The King is dead, long live the King": for all the affection that the current Queen has in the hearts of many of her subjects, the Office is greater than the individual. The institution of monarchy has worked well for this country, long may it remain so.

A Walk in the Doone Valley

2011-11-12T10:56:00.001-08:00

Exmoor is one of England's smaller National Parks and it is also has one of the most varied landscapes: heather moorland, grass moorland, wooded combes, rushing streams and waterfalls, the lush farmland of the Porlock Vale, high cliffs and sea views.

The moor is especially beautiful at this time of year now the heather flowers, which in midsummer had turned hundreds of acres purple, have changed to a golden bronze. The bracken, also yellowing as the autumn progresses, helps to make the landscape a combination of coppers, oranges, golds, browns and greens.

I had returned to my spiritual home to refresh my soul, as well as my body - for I was pretty knackered after a hard summer of gardening - hence the lack of posts recently. I always stay at the Blue Ball Inn, a traditional pub with rooms, where you can be certain of a warm welcome from the blazing log fire in the 13th century inglenook and an even warmer welcome from the owners, Phil, Jackie and Nick. An added bonus of being on Exmoor is that my mobile phone does not pick up a signal for miles so I am isolated from the world.

For an English holiday at this time of year, I couldn't have been luckier with the weather either: day after day pleasantly mild and with only a couple of days rain. Perfect conditions for walking and, because it is now 'out of season' with the summer visitors long departed, the moor was even more empty of people than usual.

There must be many people that have read R D Blackmore's great Victorian novel, set in the 1600's, or seen the film 'Lorna Doone', yet never visited the area where the action took place or, perhaps, realise that it is an actual place. It is a tale of the Doone's of Badgworthy (pronounced Badgery), wicked outlaws terrorising a remote rural community, of kidnap, love and, best of all, it has a happy ending. It is questionable how much is fact and how much is fiction but the places exist and, even now, there are Ridd's (the hero's family name) living on the moor. The Doone's, if they existed at all, are all long gone.

One day, the Doone Valley, their remote moorland stronghold beckoned, a walk of some 15 miles. There are two ways into the valley, the easiest is at Malmsmead, a pretty little place with a couple of houses, farms and coffee shop. I chose the more difficult - and to my mind, more exciting, way across some of the wildest moor, Exmoor can offer. Parking the car at Brendon Two Gates (there isn't a gate in sight - I'll explain how it got it's name another time!), my choice proved wise for I was met by the sound of the wild red deer stags calling, for this was the start of their breeding or 'rutting' season. Standing on the skyline a stag roared, keeping his herd of hinds close and to fend off rivals. As I took a photograph, a flock of curlew flew past, a lucky coincidence and a great start to the walk. The photo is rather small but I doubt if I will have the chance to take a second, larger one!

The moorland here, is a vast, open and empty space, full of bogs to catch the unwary. Although not dangerous in themselves, it is unpleasant, to say the least, to be up to your knees in cold, black, peaty water. A minor injury such as a twisted ankle in bad weather, or as dusk falls, could become potentially life threatening. Squelching my way along, my strong, waterproof boots made light work of this first stage and after an hour or so the first fold of the combe appeared - I had reached the head of the Doone Valley.

The path from here is well marked, yet even in midsummer, few but the intrepid walk as far. The only sounds are of water rushing over rocks and the occasional calls of sheep, ravens and buzzards. The walk is now downhill all the way as the path follows the river back to Malmsmead although it is still far from an easy stroll. As the walk continues, more and more side streams meet the main river and Badgworthy Water becomes faster flowing and wider, although two or three bounds and you would be across it. This time it was gentle and the sound relaxing: after heavy rains it will become thunderous and capable of sweeping you away.

A third of the way down the Doone Valley, Hoccombe Combe is reached, said to be the site of the Doone's village although the 'waterslide' that John Ridd climbed to reach Lorna is not here. Some say that it is based on the river that runs through Lank Combe a little further to the north.

The photograph below is of the waterslide at Watersmeet some miles further west and not part of the Doone country.

Soon the valley becomes more gentle and lush although the hills of the moor still tower above. There are trees too: larch, beech and rhododendron. Soon the river will run through farmland and to Malmsead itself, a good place for a rest and a coffee. It is also a place where the walk could stop if another car was available to take you back to your starting point. However, I was only halfway and so turned up the steep lane making my way back to the open moorland.

It was a long and tiring walk back across the heather. In the distance a small group of the wild Exmoor ponies, the oldest native breed in the UK and virtually unchanged from pre-history. Athough free to roam the moors they tend to keep to their own territories and are quite tolerant of strangers approaching. Only those that live in the tourist 'hotspots' will allow themselves to be touched and these ones soon galloped off once I got too close.

By the time I reached Brendon Two Gates, a pint of ale at the Blue Ball and a hot bath beckoned. It was almost dark when I returned to be greeted by a spectacular sunset, the perfect end to a very satisying day.

Summer, Autumn, Summer, Autumn

2011-10-08T13:22:00.000-07:00

It is said that the English, compared to those from other countries, always talk of the weather and, I have to admit that it is true. I have also heard it said that, whereas other countries have 'climate', we just have 'weather'. And it is weather that has shaped the nation's psyche, especially those of us that earn our living standing outside in it.

It has been an odd year. The hardest and earliest winter for years gave way to a lovely spring, March and April being mild and sunny. We were then hit by the hardest May frost that anyone could remember and here, in the secret valley, many of the trees had their newly formed leaves and flower buds blackened. The horse chestnuts and oaks seemed hardest hit, although oddly enough, not all of them and not even all of the leaves or flowers on the same tree. Those damaged leaves fell and bare braches remained until July when, suddenly, they sprouted fresh leaves with the same verdent intensity as you would find two or three months earlier.

One moment bright green growth, the next ........

........ dead from frost

A similar thing with the weather has happened again over the last couple of weeks. Late summer proved to be rather disappointing with few really warm days and none where you could sit and relax in an evening with friends, wining and dining under the stars. Autumn seemed to be arriving early. Then, just as October arrived and our thoughts turned to log fires and bowls of soup for supper, summer returned with a vengeance. The temperature soared to 30C, breaking all records, the wind dropped and, for a week, we sweltered under cloudless skies and relentless sunshine. As the leaves on the trees began to crisp and garden pots started to die (I refused to start watering them again at this time of year), out came the garden furniture once again.

But what has happened now? Three days ago, we returned to chill, and with a drop of nearly twenty degrees it suddenly feels more like November. Some leaves have begun to turn colour but others have fallen, too exhausted to give us their fleeting pleasure of golds and yellows. Snow is forecast up north in Scotland and every day the news is full of gloomy stories of an even harsher winter than the last one.

One place that always gives good autumn colour is the Chiltern Hills that rise so dramatically from the Oxford plain. It is a special place for me as I was born and lived most of my life there, a country so different from the Cotswolds where I have been the past ten years. Now I live in watery valleys with far reaching views and open skies. The Chilterns, although no more than fifty miles away, is the opposite - dry, chalky and steep, a secretive place where the clouds and views are hidden by beech woodlands. It is the beech which give the best of autumn colours.

When the M40 motorway ripped a great chunk out of the chalk ridge, no-one anticipated it would alter the climate somewhat. But it is here, where the beech hang precariously to the edge (and sometimes topple over it) that the earliest signs of colour start. And even less did we think that one day Red Kites, one of Britain's rarest birds of prey, would become so numerous soaring above it and feeding on the road kill that the motorway ineveitably produced. If the view of the chalk cut looks familiar it is because it was used in the opening shots of The Vicar of Dibley, the much loved comedy series on television that was filmed in the nearby village of Turville.

So, we Brits have suddenly become wrapped up and stand huddled together talking about being too hot and too cold and will there be snow. Who knows? One thing, however, is certain: if there is snow down here in the south, it will be the chalk cut on the M40 that will get it first and it will also be the first motorway to be blocked by traffic trying to climb to the top of the ridge.

At the 2011 Burghley Horse Trials - part 2

2011-09-17T12:46:00.001-07:00

To compete at the Burghley horse trials you have to be brave, for the size of the fences are not for the faint-hearted. However, to have reached the standard that is required, riders and their horses have had to overcome fear in plenty and have the necessary skill, stamina and strength to compete at this level - not just on the cross-country course but also in dressage and showjumping disciplines. It certainly draws the crowds with over 140,000 people attending.

In part 1 of these posts on the Trials - click here for link - the photograph below was also the first photograph shown, but before the trials began. It looked a huge, solid jump (and was) but the horses cleared it with ease. It is often the smaller jumps where a tired rider or horse come unstuck. Fortunately, this year, there were no major casualties although, sadly, these do occur from time to time.

Burghley, because of its status as one of the top eventing locations, not just in Britain but worldwide, attracts the superstars of the equestrian world, from both the UK and overseas. Ollie Townend won Burghley in 2009 and was a favourite to win this year. It wasn't to be, with one of his horses being eliminated on the cross country, the other having to retire.

Mary King, is always enthusiastically applauded whenever she appears and is supposed to be the person most young 'horsey' girls want to be when they grow up! Not surprising really, for she gets results and is a charming person as well. She came third on her own homebred Kings Temptress.

The water jumps always attract the crowds and there is nothing more they like to see than a rider get a good ducking! This year their were few such moments. Apart from small ponds to jump in and out of, the Capability Brown lake also featured as an obstacle. There can be few more magnificent views than this with Burghley House, one of the greatest Elizabethan buildings in England, in the distance.

Another photograph that appeared in the first post was the one below. This image has a horse clearing what is the biggest jump on the course. To guage the height look at the press photographers being dwarfed by it ..... This jump was another that the horses took with ease - it is more of a frightener for the rider. The press and the television crews all help to create the atmosphere at Burghley which is , to my mind anyaway, the greatest horse show of them all.

Zara Phillips, daughter of the Princess Royal and grand-daughter of the Queen was another competitor here. She came in tenth place on High Kingdom.

The winner - and for a record sixth time - was the popular William Fox-Pitt. Known as 'Mr Cool', William sits quietly on his horse, unlike some riders, and appears to have no nerves whatsoever. I wonder if that is really so!

But Burghley isn't just about horses! For many of us, Burghley and events like it, are places where we can meet up with old friends and aquaintances, a place to relax in late summer sunshine, a place to bring all the family including our dogs. It's a place where we can shop, where we can picnic and where we can dream of one day riding a horse well enough to compete here.

At the 2011 Burghley Horse Trials - part 1

2011-09-06T13:13:00.000-07:00

One of the highlights of my social calendar is the annual trip to Burghley for the horse trials. Although I ride and, probably immodest of me to say it, ride rather well, neither my horse, nor my skill, nor my nerve would take me to this level. As it happens, we have just got an additional new horse that has competed at Burghley in the past - as has my partner - but just the sight of some of the fences fill me with such fear we won't be attempting it!

There is something rather special about Burghley that is quite difficult to define. The atmosphere is electric yet relaxed, a great team of people organise it, the visitors all thoroughly enjoy it and, of course, there is the splendour of the magnificent Burghley House that dominates the grounds.

Burghley House was built in the 1500's for the first Earl of Exeter, one of Queen Elizabeth I's favourites. Today it is considered to be one of the finest Elizabethan houses in England and is still owned by the same family. Dominating the west front of the house and its turrets and towers, the great gilded gates were designed to catch the rays of the setting sun. These, and the huge numbers of windows, create a blaze of light on a summer's evening , exactly the image that was required: power, wealth and fine enough to impress the Virgin Queen when she visited.

The Exeter crest is designed into the gates and, elsewhere, there is yet more gilding. The levels of craftsmanship is outstanding, not just in the architecture but down to every detail. Even the garden railings are beautifully crafted.

The grounds, where the horse trials take place, are also kept beautifully. A dominant feature of the parkland is the large numbers of Sweet Chestnut trees, mostly planted in avenues. Their immense girth really shows the twisted bark that is seldom seen on younger trees.

However, it is the lake and Lion Bridge that creates the focal centrepoint whether from the park or when seen from the house. These were created later than the house by Lancelot 'Capability' Brown (who else?!) around 1778. The lake is designed to give the impression of a winding river and features as an obstacle in the trials.

Trialling or eventing, for those unfamiliar with the sport - the word 'horse' is only said by those that don't ride and is a social faux pas when used - is one of the toughest tests of endurance for both horse and rider. First there are dressage tests where the skill and accuracy of both are measured. This is followed by the most popular part of the contest (although all have their aficionados), the cross country course (link here). At a length of 6686 metres with 33 fences - the highest standing at 1.45m - it has a target time of just over 11 minutes to complete. Cross country tests the bravery, strength and stamina of both horse and rider. Finally, there is the showjumping on the last day. Here, the test is for stamina, accuracy and skill. This year, William Fox-Pitt won Burghley for the sixth time, a record, which made a very successful end to Burghley's 50th anniversary.

If you are not horse crazy - and the majority of the thousands of people that come here are - there are other things to occupy your time. Socialising is important, catching up with people that you may see only here, and shopping is even more so. There are over five hundred shops to visit on the site selling everything from clothes to furniture, to paintings and sculpture and, of course, lots of horse related products. The food halls are important too: my favourite was the Neil's Yard cheese shop with its amazing displays of English cheeses. They tasted good too!

For those of you that have never been here, do give it a try, especially at this time. The house and gardens are open to the public all year and, from time to time, concerts are performed here. Burghley House should be on every persons agenda to visit at leat once. If you need convincing, follow this link to their website.

The next post will concentrate more on the cross country course and will even have some 'horsey' photos!

Gardening With Weeds

2011-08-22T13:47:00.000-07:00

Much has been written about creating wild flower meadows in recent years. Many gardening magazines infer that somehow you must be lacking in something if you don't rush out there and then and rip up your precious lawn to create the daisy and orchid studded turf depicted in medieval tapestries. There is much to be said for doing this (and I've done a few in my time too). However, the reason why most of us don't do it is purely down to lack of space and time, and also most of us still like to see a reasonably weed free patch of green grass at the centre of our gardens. Now don't get me wrong, anything that reduces the amount of chemicals used and encourages wildlife has got to be a good thing and our gardens, collectively, could - and should - make one vast nature reserve.

But why restrict yourself to wild flowers in grass? Very few articles suggest using them in herbaceous borders, or amongst shrubs, but I have been planting them like this for some years now and the results can be terrific. This flower border in the photo was taken 14 months after planting and looks very much like a traditional, English flower border. But there are some differences and those are the wild flowers intermingling with the more usual garden plants.

Purple Loosetrife, Lythrum salicifolium, grows wild in boggy places and by stream edges so seems an unlikely candidate for the border. I have found it to be a great choice which copes well with ordinary soil conditions. In the hot, dry summer we have had this year they have only grown to about half their normal height of 3-4ft but their cerise colour and longevity have still made them a worthy addition. In the photograph above they are the bright pink 'blob' in the centre, growing separately to the surrounding plants.

Here they are being grown as a companion to a bright pink ground cover rose, a combination that I'm not so keen on (even though I did plant them myself). They are a bit too strident and close in colour for my taste but others have stopped and admired them so there they remain.

I have also experimented growing them in containers where, of course, you can easily give them the moister conditions they would naturally prefer. Here, their colour makes them quite an exotic addition to the matching colour petunias, the purple leafed coleus and tropical looking (but hardy) palm.

Another reason for growing wild flowers is that, of course, they are great attractants of the local insects. A clump of the herbaceous St John's Wort, this one is Perfoliate St John's Wort, Hypericum perfoliatum, always are covered, when in flower, with bees and other beneficial, pollinating insects. The flowers are miniature versions of the shrubby Hypericum 'Hidcote' and all the better for being small. In the wild, they grow (as many wild flowers do) quite happily amongst grass and other plants. In the garden, I find they combine well with Wormwood, the tall, shrubby Artemisia.
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The pale blue flowers of the Field Scabious, Knautia arvensis, continue for months on end and combine well with most other colours. Growing them in the garden gives you the opportunity to notice them in detail. In the wild, it is less likely that you would see how the outer petals of the flower uncurl before the inner ones. Grow them with exotic looking Icelandic poppies or, like here, with tall, purple, Salvia.

Wild flowers often are generous with their flowering, not only in the quantity of blooms and their exuberance. Sometimes, they offer a 'sport'. The most common variant from the norm is white and this pure white version of scabious was a delightful bonus. I like the way the buds start off a creamy colour.

Recently, I have tried growing Lady'd Bedstraw, Galium verum. It is working quite well and the rather acid yellow looks good with lavender. In fact, this flower is all the better for propping itself up against its neighbours as it is a bit inclined (in an unlady-like way) to sprawl, otherwise.

One word of caution about introducing wild flowers into the garden: sometimes, they like garden conditions just too much. If in doubt, plant a small number of plants in an area where you can control them should they take off. I didn't do this with one of my childhood favourites, Toadflax. It took me three years of painful weeding to extract the final pieces from more delicate plants. I have gone back to admiring it where it belongs - along roadside verges and on waste ground.

And one final plea: please grow and enjoy our native, wild flowers but do source them from a reputable nursery. Apart from being illegal to dig or uproot a plant in the wild, as gardeners we are supposed to conserve plants ......

Fields of Red

2011-08-06T11:41:00.000-07:00

Everyone seems to love poppies. It doesn't matter if they are the delicate crepes of the Icelandic or big and blousy Oriental poppies - even 'though the latter so often lie sprawling across the ground, flattened by the weather or their own weight. But most loved of all are the wild scarlet poppies that create a violent red gash across acres of wheatfields.

Despite being forever linked with the trauma and sadness of the Great War, poppies refuse to lower our spirits. Perhaps they even comforted and uplifted the tortured bodies and minds of the survivors of the battlefields. The famous lines from In Flanders Field have immortalised poppies in poetry but thirty years earlier that great (but now almost unknown) British naturalist, Richard Jefferies, was eulogising "proud poppies, lords of the July fields....no abundance of them can ever make them commonplace....". How right he was.

Even the odd, single flower, struggling in a bit of dirt at the side of some waste ground, brings joy and admiration but it is, en masse, when the sight of thousands of them in flower in a cornfield stops you in your tracks and, for a moment, loses you in a heady delirium of colour.

When the steep, wild flower filled grass banks that make the 'walls' of the secret valley have given way to the flatter, arable lands and the lush water meadows and meandering river lie far below, the fields become larger and hidden by high hedgerows. The character of the secret valley is much changed up here: those unfamiliar with it would not know of its existance it is so concealed. The old field names reflect this - lower down the names end with the words 'banks', 'close', 'grounds', 'meadows', now they all end with the word 'downs' and you could be forgiven thinking that you were on vast rolling downland, for the eye leaps over the valley to more cornfields beyond. And, a few days ago, I climbed the old, timber stile that pierces the hedgerow to walk in the field known as'17 Acre Downs' to be greeted by the lords of the July fields.

However it was not the sight of crimson stretching as far as the woodland in the distance that stopped me in my tracks for there, at my feet, was a single, pure white poppy. Just one amongst tens of thousands of scarlet.

Walking further I was stopped once again, this time by some pale pink blooms, not many, just about twenty. The sight was enchanting and magical. Why here? Why so few?

Once you look closely at a poppy in flower you realise just how spectacular it is. En masse, your mind is blown by the quantity and you stop seeing them as individuals. Now, with my senses heightened I realised that a field of red poppies are made up of numerous variations even though pink and white are very rare finds. The photographs below show just a few of these: crimped, streaky, waxy, single petalled, multi petalled, plain buttoned, black cross buttoned, the variations seemed endless.

It isn't just the flower that deserves this close inspection. For the seedhead is also quite lovely. Its capsule, before ripened, the palest green with a black and cream striped lid, a black collar, encircles its tall, upright stem, covered with soft bristles. Once ripe it takes on the same golden hue of the corn crop it has invaded. Will these poppies breed true and will there be pink or white ones next year? Who knows, for the next day the field had been mown and, if not for the photographic record, could have been dismissed as a pure figment of imagination.

A Very English Day Out

2011-07-16T12:57:00.000-07:00

Last Sunday turned out to be a glorious day after twenty four hours of much needed rain. Thank goodness it did for a friend had organised that most English of traditions - a posh picnic on the lawns of a large country house, followed by a concert in the music room.

And so we found ourselves eating smoked salmon sandwiches, coronation chicken, salads, ending with strawberries and cream, all washed down with an endless supply of champagne. But our friend didn't just do us proud with the picnic, she had invited an eclectic mix of guests. There was an art historian, an art restorer, an explorer, a porcelain restorer, myself a garden designer amongst others. And we were international as well, for amongst the guests was an American, a Persian, myself part Polish - but the pure bred Brits did outnumber us....

Boarstall, where the concert took place, is a fourteenth century moated gatehouse. Of course, a building with such a long history has seen many changes and events, a major one being during the (English) Civil War when it was besieged for ten weeks. Damaged by cannon fire, ( the bricked up 'patches' can still be seen), upon its surrender the main part of the house, church and village were all destroyed by the victorious Parliamentarians. The mansion and the church were rebuilt but only the latter remains, the house being demolished once again in 1778. Since that time the tower has remained virtually unchanged. Now owned by the National Trust, it is lived in by tenants who organise the concerts.

We had come to hear a young soprano, Luci Briginshaw, sing arias from the great operas, accompanied by Peter McMullin on the piano. Luci's story is rather like an opera plot in itself - a nice one fortunately rather than one where everyone gets murdered or dies of consumption! Busking in Covent Garden market, Luci was heard singing and invited to perform at Boarstall.

http://youtu.be/XnYcyee2v4w

The music room at Boarstall is on the top floor of the tower and is reached by ancient, spiral stone staircases. Light and airy, it holds about 100 people so makes an intimate space where you can really relate to the performers and fellow audience. Luci's singing was delightful, a pure clear voice, she obviously will - or deserves to - go far. Not just a wonderful coloratura soprano, for her encore, she accompanied herself on the piano singing a great blues number.

After the concert, Luci joined us all with a tour of the tower (how cross I was that, by then, I'd taken the camera back to the car) followed by afternoon tea, where she proved that she had a great personality off stage as well as on.

You will find a link to Luci's website here, for Luci should be heard far and wide. And if, by a remote chance, Luci you should read this post, thank you for a memorable day out. Can't wait to hear you again. Bravo!

And Then There Were None ....

2011-07-02T09:16:00.000-07:00

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A sad day. Tim, the last of She-dog's seven puppies has gone to his new home today. We had kept him for an extra few weeks while his new owners were away on holiday. Never again - we've grown far too attached to him. And so, we now find ourselves not quite 'Derby and Joan' more 'Derby and Joan with a dog but no puppies'.

Tim, as we had christened the last to the pups to go, has been such fun to have around. I expect that any of the other puppies would have been as well but, because he has been the only one for three weeks now - and being that much older too - he has charmed us with his character and affection.

As Tim has become more boisterous and able to 'hold his own' against She-Dog, so have their games become more energetic and frenetic. if one hasn't been enticing the other to play - usually by biting their paws or noses - the other has.

She-dog has returned to puppyhood too, charging about the house and garden, leaping on and off the furniture and, when no-one is around to control her, finding newspapers, kitchen paper rolls and, like the Andrex puppy, loo rolls to strew about the house or chew into a thousand pieces. Conduct normally quite unbecoming and unacceptable for a lady of quality but allowed (if not approved of) because she is so special that she can get away with murder.

Now the house feels quiet and empty. She-dog has returned to maturity once more. Despite the silence, she doesn't appear to have even noticed that Tim has left, she certainly isn't pining or searching for him. Perhaps it's all rather a relief to be adult again.

However, in me, there is a degree of regret, of forming an attachment to a living creature - and one that I helped bring into the world. Heart says how sad to have lost him, head says how wise to have let him go - to have a dog and a bitch in the same house would prove tricky , to say the least.

When you are a gardener, you are always looking forward to the next season: "next summer we'll have better crops", "next winter I really will sort out the garden". Looking forward is what keeps gardeners enthusiastic and young at heart. And laying claim to both titles of gardener and, now, dog breeder, I am looking forward to next spring. Not just because the daffodils will be flowering after months of cold and grey but because Tim will be (hopefully) replaced by Tina, from She-dog's next litter of puppies. And Tina will be the puppy we not only adore more than all the others, she will be the one we keep and breed from to keep the precious She-dog's line continuing.

A farewell kiss and hug

In the meantime I do hope, for Tim's sake and comfort, that his new owners let him lie on the sofa .....

And Then There Was One.......

2011-06-20T13:07:00.000-07:00

How quickly time goes by when you are having fun - and what fun we have had! From the very moment that She-dog gave birth to her seven pups in the middle of a dinner party, to this very hectic time now, we have had ten weeks of sheer magic and joy.

We did not know if we, or She-dog, would cope, for this was a first litter for all of us. We need not have worried. She-dog, that most reliable of canine friends, proved to be a natural, caring for them and for us whenever they, or we, became anxious.

The first few weeks the pups needed little input from us humans. Feeding from She-dog, it was she who decided it was time that they should try some solid food and - as teeth and claws grew and became sharper - weaned them completely by standing on the sofa until they had fed from a bowl.

As the pups grew bolder and stronger so she started playing with them and they responded by encouraging us to join in too. I had never seen such a tiny puppy play with such a large and heavy ball before as this polo ball. Was it just fate that they were interested in it for two puppies went off to homes where their new masters played polo? Polo is a dog friendy sport so we were delighted, for it means there is a good chance we will see them again - we are polo fanatics and attend matches whenever we can.

Our lavender pekin bantam hens obliged with the training too. Baby chicks hatched the day the pups were born so they were able to see each other from an early age to the benefit of both dog and fowl. We watched amused as the pups came to realise that they were no match for a protective mother hen. Pecked nosed puppies soon learn respect!

As the pups grew larger they moved onto new toys - doormats, my workboots, trainers and rubbish bins. Although we wanted them to stay inside the house to socialise as much as possible we were glad to have the outside kennel when times became too hectic. Provided we ignored the pitiful looks through the bars, they soon went off into a deep sleep and looked - just as naughty children do - angelic!

Over the past couple of weeks, more pups have gone and the house has become less full. But not less noisy. Now we are one - Tim - and he rather likes being the centre of attention. Despite our best endeavours he has found he can now launch himself onto the sofa and be the sole playmate to She-dog. And She-dog, now finding herself almost without puppies once again, has returned to puppyhood herself, behaving in a way that no self-respecting, young lady of a certain standing should: quite mad and quite reckless. More on that next post....

Tim with that "who me?" look on his face!

Mothers Always Know Best (Sometimes)

2011-06-12T06:19:00.000-07:00

From early childhood my parents taught my sister and I the skills to be self-sufficent. From my father we were both taught how to grow and harvest things from the garden which ultimately led to me earning my living from gardening. My sister became a skilled plantswoman and, although she has never earnt money from it, now opens her garden to the public each year raising many hundreds of pounds for charity.

My mother was much more interested in being indoors running the home. She was always at her happiest when unexpected visitors arrived and were persuaded to stay for dinner. Somehow, from the depths of her larder (which was always bulging) she would rustle up enough food to feed the proverbial army. Just before she died two years ago, I asked her why she had been so 'progressive' teaching me, a boy in the 1950's, to sew buttons and name tapes, amongst other things, on clothing. She looked somewhat surprised and puzzled at the question and, to my disillusionment, told me it was because she had hated doing them herself. Mothers!

That was not the case when it came to cooking and the three of us loved to bake and baste together so, that by the time I reached my teens, I was able to cook a complete meal from start to finish. At one of my mother's dinner parties I remembered an amazing stack of ultra thin shortbreads, with layers of clotted cream and rasberries between each one. A final decoration of raspberries and icing sugar on top left an unshakeable image of culinary delight in my mind and one that I had intended to recreate for years.

More disappointment when Mother told me that I'd imagined it, that she'd never made anything like it and it would be impossible to create wafer like, plate sized shortbreads - if only because it would be impossible to lift or cut them without them breaking. I was determined to prove her wrong and, every so often, she would give me that look that mothers do when I told her of my latest failed attempt.

The photographs illustrate the procedure for my 'wafer stack'

Finally, yesterday, I achieved success, albeit they were much smaller than planned. Now they are individual sized portions but perhaps better for that.

Here is the recipe, which couldn't be simpler:

4oz butter

2oz icing sugar

6 oz plain flour

pinch of salt

*Put all ingredients into a food processor and whizz until the mix forms a soft ball

*If you just want to make 'ordinary' shortbread then press into a flat tin or on a baking sheet with the back of a fork

*Bake for 15 minutes at 180C until firm and only just beginning to colour

*Remove from oven and immediately cut into pieces but don't remove from baking sheet until completely cool

If you want to try my stack the process is a bit different and a little more time consuming:

*Make as before but instead of pressing down the mixture, roll out as thinly as possible. This won't be thin enough!

*Cut out rounds - I used a jam jar as I found that if the circles were anything larger they were impossible to lift without them breaking up (Mother did know best!)

*Place on a baking sheet and don't worry if the rounds are now an odd shape. Flatten with fingers into a round shape making as thin as possible I made 24 altogether from the quantities of ingredients above

*Bake for 5 minutes only at 180C, leave to cool on sheet before lifting

For the filling, use any fruit you fancy. Here, I have used blueberries and strawberries.

Cut up into pieces and mix with a thick cream - I used sour cream (smetena). Decorate with a 'clean' piece of fruit

Good luck and let me know if you manage to make them plate size. Somehow, I feel that you won't and in this case, Mother does know best! I like to think she has been watching my final attempt with an amused smile and rather cross that she is unable to try the end result.....

PS I promise that the next post will be the latest news on the puppies!

Problems with Blogger

2011-06-11T14:07:00.000-07:00

I am sure that I am not the only one having problems with Blogger ar the moment. For quite a while I've been unable to see my Followers - that seems to have resolved itself today.

However, I also cannot respond to messages for some reason. When I do I am asked to sign in and then told that I'm not a member!

So, please be assured that I read all the messages which I welcome. It is great that you feel you want to comment and I really appreciate it. At the moment, I can't acknowledge you, sorry!

Finally, I always like to welcome my new followers personally so please accept this post as the official welcome to my blog, thanks for calling by - at least, for the time being.

Life has been rather hectic of late both with garden work and puppy rearing, hence my lapse in posting. So here are a couple of puppy pictures to keep the blog going and I shall post again as soon as possible, hopefully tomorrow or soon after.

Sun, Drought, Frost: at last, Rain.....

2011-05-07T06:33:00.000-07:00

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It has been difficult to remember, sometimes, that it is still only spring time. After the unusually early, bitter and snowy winter weather we experienced, 2011 came in cold but dry. It remained so until the end of March when, wham!, summer arrived.
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With temperatures soaring into the mid 80's, many plants struggled to open their buds (and the ash trees still haven't done so properly). I had planned to write about this battle but became - as you may well know - rather obsessed with puppies ....
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However, many plants did rather better than normal. Tulips, especially the fragile doubles, were better than ever with no rain to spoil their petals, as have been the paeonies. Perfume has wafted about the garden in the warm evening air - can there be anything more lovely on both eyes and nose than this paeony and wisteria combination?
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The trees, later than has been usual for many years, finally started to come into leaf. Now the countryside is awash with May, cherry and Horse Chestnut blossom. It is all quite stunning. Or was.
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Out of nowhere, on Monday night, we had frost. The first for over five weeks, this was no slight touch of cold but one that turned the secret valley into a white valley of death. Well, I admit, that is rather an exaggeration but, I imagine it is due to the very hot temperatures immediately before, some plants - and especially the trees - have been decimated. One moment their new leaves hurt the eyes with their iradescent green, the next they are brown and shrivelled. Some, depending on how the cold air lay, have come through unscathed whilst their neighbour has been hit badly. Will they recover? I expect so but, possibly, too late to help the insects and birds that rely on the food source at this very moment. Time will tell.
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Just when our feelings were at their most depressed, the weather gave us another surprise. Rain. The first for many weeks, we have been desperate for it. The ground has been cracking, the river getting low, plants wilting and, worst of all, the farm crops not growing. In places, the young corn has started to go yellow. And when we least expected to get any, we awoke to the sound of rain on the windows. Our only neighbour, the farmer whose corn was suffering, and I were standing in the field below our homes, getting soaked and almost hugging each other with joy. It gave me just the slightest awareness of how people in countries that really suffer from prolonged droughts must feel. And it also made me aware of this rather primitive reaction of wanting to literally dance in the rain when it first arrives.
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. The old mortar in the garden is beginning to fill once again!
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The paeonies have been 'knocked for six' but, who cares? Apparantly, we have only had 1.5mm of rain during March and April compared with the 40-50mm in an average year. Let it rain for days now to restore the balance. But - as a gardener speaking - please only at night and only fall gently......
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Puppies at the Royal Wedding

2011-04-29T06:40:00.000-07:00

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!!Breaking News!!
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Although the puppies are rather young they have attended their first Royal Wedding. I have to admit that the humans that live in the secret valley has been rather excited by the build-up to the wedding - most of us are ardent royalists. The puppies, however, decided they must have their very first meal before they got involved with royal fervour.

And so, today, they had their first taste of mashed meal in milk, which they took to instantly. She-dog is thrilled as it relieves the pressure on her but, as a consequence, the puppies felt tired and sleepy. So, while the nation held its breath as it waited for the all-very-important-first-kiss-on-the-balcony-of-Buckingham-Palace, they slept or watched it through bleary and tummy-full eyes. To a background of grunts and snores (this was, of course, the puppies not the happy couple), we watched this solemn yet joyful moment of history in the making on BBC1 television.

Despite prompts I never did receive our wedding invitation. I blame the postal service for this as I am quite sure I would have been invited. It is probably just as well as I would have had to decline for the secret valley is holding its very own wedding feast this evening. As there are only nine houses in the whole of the valley - and quite scattered at that - it is an opportunity for the community to come together. Feasts and street parties are something the British are rather good at (carnival, with a few exceptions, we do rather poorly). I supect we are good at them as they rather follow the tradition of village fetes - pots of hot tea, scones, sandwiches and Victoria sponge cakes. All rather genteel and nice, somewhere you would feel quite at ease entertaining an elderly, maiden aunt or the local vicar. Tonight will be a slightly more substantial affair than afternoon tea: locally reared pork, salads and puddings all washed down with champagne and beer.

Everywhere you go, there are flags flying and red, white and blue bunting to celebrate the wedding and the converted chapel where our feast is taking place will be, I am certain, no exception. We have entered into the spirit of things by buying some Union Jack cushions for our new sofa. A curious thing is how we all refer to our national flag knowing it to be incorrect - it is rightly called the Union flag. It is only the Union Jack when flown from the jack mast of a ship. It doesn't bother me that much but I am sure that there are some that get very worked up about such things.

Regardless of what it is called, tonight in the secret valley, there will be toasts to the Royal couple and at least one rendering of "God Save the Queen" under our Union flag or Union Jack. Take your pick on the name.

Crowds of well wishers make their way towards Buckingham Palace

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Photos taken from BBC1 television, so sort of my own work!!
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Puppy Update

2011-04-24T11:16:00.000-07:00

Puppies progressing well!

Feeding time ......

Tummies filled and feeling sleepy .....

First view of the world - one eye open, one eye closed .....

First steps on four legs - rather wobbly ones .....

More puppy updates to follow!

We Have Puppies!

2011-04-10T05:28:00.000-07:00

Photographs speak louder than words at times like this! For those of you that are not familiar with this blog, She-dog, is our adorable three year old lurcher who shares life with us and bantams and horses in our fantastic, little secret valley, deep in the Cotswold Hills in England. . 9 hours old - a bundle of puppies

10 o'clock last night - She-dog in her whelping box. The first puppy is just born, six more to go. She deposited puppy number one on the floor beside the dining table where we were entertaining friends. We'd eaten pudding but not started the coffee and cheese and biscuits course. Needless to say, the remainder of the meal was rather disrupted as She-dog (as so often) stole the show!

6 o'clock this morning: labour over and feeling more relaxed. She-dog tired but content....

10 o'clock today and now twelve hours old. Having been suckling since birth seven full puppies finally fall asleep.....

11 o'clock today: still fast asleep....

Midday and 'Ginger' is obviously going to be the most adventurous of the litter. Asleep a bit further away than the rest....

1pm this afternoon: 'Ginger' decides to go for his first exploration .....

Needless to say, there are likely to be more postings on the development of the new family!

Shh! Don't Tell the Nursery Man!

2011-03-26T16:24:00.000-07:00

In my last post I discussed a new-to-me variety of Ribes, Ribes laurifolium. In it, I mentioned that it was unlike those I have seen elsewhere. That is, I have since discovered is because it isn't a Ribes at all! It had been wrongly labelled in the nursery where I bought it. It isn't even related to the flowering currants for, despite its currant like flowers, it is part of the rose family. . Oemleria cerasiformis, also known as the Oso Berry or Oregon Plum comes, as the name suggests, from North America. It is fully hardy, deciduous, prefers semi shade (ideally planted by good luck in my garden) and grows to about 2.5m. The great scent is agreed upon but described as smelling of almonds. It also describes it as a 'mildly' suckering shrub and mine is already sending out a new growth about 30cms from the base of the plant. I am more than delighted for it to do this. . . Apparantly, the native Indians chew the twigs and leaves as an aphrodisiac which will make (when it grows bigger) pruning possibly less of a chore ;-). Being monoecious, berries are only formed if both male and female plants are grown together. . I'm delighted to find out its true name, if only to clear up the confusion of laurifolium. And it also proves one of the great delights of gardening - it is an adventure where, however much knowledge you might have, the potential for learning and discovery never end. . Grow it if you can find it ...... . . . . .

Shh! Don't Tell The Weather Man!

2011-03-22T13:41:00.000-07:00

I hardly dare mention it but I think Spring is finally coming to the Cotswolds. After I wrote about it back in February, the man from the Met Office sent us cold again. Hard frosts put spring on hold. To be fair, as I also wrote, the Cotswolds may be one of the most beautiful places to live in the south of England but the hills are also one of the coldest. Our spring is always two or three weeks later than places even as close as Oxford or Gloucester.
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Early spring sunshine comes to the ancient Cotswold town of Burford
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The past few weeks have been unusually dry which has meant that tidying up the garden - or, in my case, gardens: my own as well as clients - has progressed rather well. A nice drop of warm rain now would work a treat and not interfere with time schedules. At last, in the secret valley, leaves are unfurling properly, daffodils are blooming and the lone primrose has been joined by many more as well as purple and white violets.

Wherever I have lived, there has always been one hawthorn that opens its leaves days before the rest, even when planted as a hedgerow. I've often wondered if this is a genetic thing which means, I presume, that it could be cloned to have a whole group of early leafing ones. Or is it a combination of warmth and soil conditions in that particular spot? When I retire and have more time (a contradiction as the two never happen according to friends who are trying it) I will take cuttings and carry out a controlled experiment. It will give me the opportunity to blog about it if I am still able to sit in front of a computer!

I wonder if I could get a whole hedge of early flowering hawthorn? It will be another six weeks or more before they will be in bloom in the secret valley.
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The snowdrops and aconites have now finished flowering. The little ruff of green leaves are all that is left of the latter. They look so similar to the taller herbaceous aconites or Monkhoods whose green ruffs are also poking through the ground now. They are all part of the buttercup family so are related but so unalike one another at their flowering time. I love the tall purple spires of the Monkshoods in mid to late summer: not as delicate as delphiniums, another favourite, but at least slugs don't eat them and they don't need staking, a real plus.

Forsythia is in full bloom. These I enjoy in other gardens but never plant them in my own unless the garden is huge and they can be planted a long way off. They show up from quite a distance and when seen too close, are too strident for my taste. The non flowering shrub later in the summer is a coarse affair too, dull and not warranting the space unless livened up by a clematis or other climbing plant. In the photo below it is grown as a wall shrub and it works well in disguising this unattractive garage. Despite being cut hard back to the wall each year in early summer it is always smothered in bloom by March.

The same applies to the common flowering currant. The standard pink is a wishy-washy thing and the deeper coloured, named varieties such as King Edward VIII, is as strong in colour as the forsythia - a plant to be enjoyed in other gardens. For those of you that thought the currants were always pink (although there are white flowered versions) and smelt of cat's pee - and I include myself in this category for many years - there are three others that are well worth making space for.

Ribes odoratum, has pale yellow flowers and is beautifully scented. It is a bit of an untidy shrub in my experience, suckering freely but not a nuisance. It grows in happy neglect in a hedgerow - an ideal spot for it to do its own thing - and is really only noticed by the spicy fragrance as you wander past.

Ribes lauriflolium is a new plant to me. Unlike the others which all originate from the States, this currant is found in the wild in China. Looking at descriptions on the internet I wonder if they are correct or if there is a lot of variation in the stock, which is possible. I bought mine described as white, evergreen and not too hardy. It has survived -16C this winter, has been deciduous (perhaps it keeps its leaves in milder winters, I rather hope not) and is white flowered. Others are described as yellow and growing to only 1 ft - mine is already 3ft but that may be because it is tucked behind our dry stone wall. The one thing they all agree on and I can confirm is the exquisite scent of lilies of the valley. Do try to grow one if you can find it.

I have since discovered that this isn't a ribes at all! See my next post to reveal all!!

My final choice of flowering currant is another favourite, Ribes speciosum. It is reminiscent in bloom of fuchsia and, like them, are pollinated in their native environment by humming birds. Hailing from California, in UK gardens it requires shelter and grows best against a warm wall where it can be trained on wires or left free growing. This photo was taken in the botanical gardens in Dublin on a glorious spring day.

Warmth, blue sky and sunshine. The clocks go forward an hour this weekend giving us more evening daylight. I'm almost feeling optimistic about the days to come - something a gardener should never be!

Two Updates........

2011-03-01T11:49:00.001-08:00

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First Update - Ancestors!
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Regular readers of this blog may recall my post about discovering not only my great (and also great-great) grandparents graves but also finding that the church that they had been instrumental in building still there and thriving. Great-great grandpa Wright had also been Deacon at one time.
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To recap, I did not have time to visit the interior of the church and vowed to return. How pleased I was that I did. Members of the congregation were so friendly and welcoming and interested in my connection. It was Harvest Festival, always a joyful time and the service was delightful. How surreal it was to sit there - in a church interior that, miraculously, had remained virtually unaltered since the day it was built in the mid 1800's, worshipping in the place of my ancestors. Their presence felt very strong and I think they would have approved that I, not a very religious man (although I like to think quite a spiritual and good one) and now the 'elder' of the family, had returned. I was so pleased that my first steps inside the building had been to join others in prayer.

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Since then, I have returned once again, this time with a friend, to hear an organ recital. It was a joy to see the church filled with so many people. As a cousin, who works with the poor in Afghanistan, said "God is holding you in the palm of His hand, you never know when He will release you". By coincidence - or perhaps not - the opening hymn was 'To God Be The Glory', a hymn sung a few weeks earlier at the last of my aunt's funeral. A deeply religious woman, her greatest wish was that I might have the same depth of faith as she. How heartly I sang although I doubt if my aunt would consider me yet saved!
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On my last visit, I also found the house where my grandmother had been raised. Overlooking the River Thames, our great river that runs, 30 miles downstream, through London it was just a few yards from the paper mill that my ancestors owned before the Second World War. All was sold long before I was born - a pity, it would be amazing to live there now!
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Second Update: She-Dog!
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After delays for one reason and another, the precious She-Dog may be in pup. She has met a handsome lurcher of similar colouring - not the original choice but just as dashing - and spent a few days away on extended honeymoon. Fingers crossed, I may finally become a father. Watch this space!
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Spring Is Around The Corner!

2011-02-27T14:13:00.000-08:00

The first signs of spring are always welcome and especially so after the winter that we have had this time. Frosts arrived early in the season, followed by snow that lay both deep and long, which is unusual for the south of England.

Winter in the secret valley: sheep wait patiently for food by our little winding river
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The Cotswolds are known, however, for their colder and longer winters compared to the rest of the region. Here, about as far inland as you can be on a small island, we have little benefit from the warming effect of the sea and we are also hill country. Elsewhere may be showing signs of spring but in the secret valley these are still hard to find - an elder twig just breaking into leaf is the only green that I can find so far.

The aconite wood, 'though, is a sight to behold and has been flowering for a couple of weeks now. How many plants can there be? Surely, tens of thousands. When and why were they planted here, for they are not native to this country. An old country chap told me it used to be called Summer House Woods but there is no sign of a building here and the 'big' house that owns the land is some distance away.

This snowdrop wood was planted by nuns over a hundred and fifty years ago and is attached to my 'reincarnation' house. Snowdrop woods, unlike aconite ones, are not uncommon but never fail to impress. Even a small group in a garden are eagerly awaited and we have plenty here where they spill out beyond the garden boundary and peep out from amongst the hedgerow that borders the lane.

The Cornus mas is also flowering now. It grows in our garden against the house wall, facing east. Despite this, it perfoms regularly and is easy to keep pruned to shape. This one, is the variegated leaf variety which is quite slow growing compared to the standard type and so is ideal as a wall shrub. In late summer it carries edible scarlet berries, hence its common name of Cornelian Cherry.

Also in the garden, I found a single, wild primrose, sheltered by the old garden roller, in flower. Later, the garden, and especially the lawn, will be covered with their flowers. Daffodils, although beginning to flower elsewhere will be a few more weeks before they do up here. But even in the Cotwolds they are showing colour in the warmth of our towns - which makes shopping just a little bit more enjoyable.

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When in town, I was surprised to find that oldest of symbols of spring - the green man. He was standing tall and lofty down a back street unnoticed and forgotten. Closer examination revealed that he was an old column and ball, the remaining one of a pair of stone entrance pillars from some long demolished house. Now covered in ivy, I wondered why it had been left and what was its history.
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Further afield still, I came across a small pond in a field. The croaking of hundreds of frogs drew my attention to it and in the photo below there are over forty heads poking out above the water. As I approached, sensing danger, they fought one another to get below the surface, making the water look as if it was a boiling cauldron. A few days later, when I returned, all was quiet and the surface of the water completely covered in frogspawn. Like the daffodils, it will be some weeks before our secret valley frogs start marching across the lane and entering the house in their quest to reach the lake below our garden.

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Footprints of History

2011-02-04T05:00:00.000-08:00

It is a busy time in the garden as the weather at the moment is quite mild and dry. This is an unusual combination for an English winter as warmer winds that come from the Atlantic Ocean also bring rain. It is the bitingly cold weather that comes from Eastern Europe or sweeps down from the Arctic that often brings dryness (and, if lucky, sunshine) with it.
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This photo is here because of the gravel path but the roses do offer a hope of things to come!

So I have been industrious with my digging, my pruning and my raking. And it is especially with the raking of the gravel paths that I often come across the footprints of history. No more than 10mm across, for they will have been graded along with the stones from whence they came, I find them quite regularly - although you have to train your eye to spot them. These are, I think, Tetrarhynchia, a fossil Brachiopod dating from the Jurassic period 200 million years ago.

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But how did a marine bivalve come to be here high up in the Cotswolds, for the quarry from where the stone came from is several hundred feet above sea level and as far inland as it is possible to be in the British Isles? Most of southern Britain at that time was a vast, warm and shallow sea which, as it gradually drained and compressed created the limestone rocks and shales that give the Cotswolds their beautiful pale coloured stone that many of the local properties are built of.

Over the millenia , through movement of the Earth's plates, the surface was pushed upwards to form the chain of limestone hills that is renowned for it's beauty and, of which, the secret valley, is a tiny - but very special - part of.

Sometimes, when I am digging I come across other fossils and, because I am working on the soil, these are much larger than our gravel finds. Usually these are fragments but my best find to date has to be this piece of rock with three Venericor huddled together. These are relatively recent fossils, from the Palaeogene period, just a mere 65 million years old!
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Also quite commonly found in the region are fossilised Sea Urchins which are so unchanged from those today. These also date from around the Jurassic period. My specimens aren't especially good ones for the best have all their markings still in place. If you look carefully, there is a sign of one of the five ribs that most sea urchins have. Locally these fossils, which are quite heavy, are called 'Shepherd's Crowns'. They make good paperweights!
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I only have ever found one ammonite and then, only a small chunk of it. However, this was the very first fossil I ever found when I was still a child, so is my 'very special' one. At the time I had no idea what it was but it is part of the coiled tube that forms the outer shell. The 'shadow' of its ribs can be seen at one end. It would have lived about 200 million years ago.

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This small fossil was given to me as a gift and has been highly polished. It is a Belemnite, a type of squid that lived about 150 million years ago. It came from the Atlas Mountais in northern Africa. Although I love its colouring and smoothness it doesn't give quite the same thrill and sense of awe that finding your own does: how extraordinary to be able to handle something that is of such an incredible age.

Depending on my mood, finding fossils gives me hope for the planet's future or fills me with despair at what mankind is doing to it. Fortunately, by nature, I am an optimistic person so I like to think that Earth may continue even if the human race ends up as dead as the dinosaurs. Let's hope it continues for it is a very lovely place!
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Indian sandstone paving slabs are so popular at the moment, partly because they look so good for their money. I have reservations about using them for the quality can be very variable and will they stand up to severe cold and frost? We might well know the answer after this winter. I also feel uncomfortable about the labour and air miles involved although I don't know enough about it to make a qualified judgement.

Fetching a premium and on everyone's shopping list, are the slabs sold at a premium as 'fossilised'. However, they are not true fossils but are created by crystals of manganes oxide growing in cracks of the limestone. 'Pseudofossils' they may be but they do look like the real thing. The fossil equivalent of 'Fool's Gold', perhaps?

Grey Wethers Double Stone Circle

2011-01-22T04:58:00.000-08:00

Last summer I spent a day walking on Dartmoor, an area of wild, remote and barren land situated in the south of the county of Devon. Dartmoor is an area of granite outcrops (tors) and coarse grassland, trees are few - except for occasional conifer plantations - and people and properties even fewer. It is a country of streams, bog, cotton grass and silence.
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Remote and empty it may be now but, thousands of years ago, this was a highly populated area and all over the moor there are signs of occupation of our ancestors. The buildings have long disappeared but stone circles, standing stones , scrapes and bumps in the ground are everywhere as the Ordnance Survey map will show.
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The most mysterious and atmospheric sign of these early settlers is the stone circle found to the northeast of Sittaford Tor. Stepping into a stone circle is always a mystical experience: it feels as if our living history has been trapped within them. The spaces between the stones seem to disappear and you feel completely enclosed by them as if the circle 'walls' were completely solid. It feels this way with our own Cotswold stone circle, the Rollright Stones but it feels even more extraordinary up on the wilderness of Dartmoor for there is not one stone circle but two, standing side by side.

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Grey Wethers, as the circles are known, get their name from the old English word for a castrated ram. 'Wether' is still a term used in farming and the word is remarkably similar in the old German, Frisian and Nordic languages. It is not uncommonly used to describe large stones that scatter some areas of landscape, whether manmade or left in place as a result of Ice Age glaciation - presumably as, from a distance, they can look remarkably like sheep resting.

Walking amongst the stones, it is difficult to see that the circles are completely separate for they feel as if they are intertwined as in a figure of eight. However, from above (thanks to Google Earth) the circles can be seen to be quite distinct although sitting side by side. The smaller of the circles measures 31 metres in diameter and the other 33 metres, making them the largest circles on the moor. Together, they have 49 stones standing. Much of this information I have sourced from the web (where else?) and more can be found here.

What was the purpose of their building, 5000 years ago? Many theories exist but no-one knows for sure. Excavations have shown that there were charcoal deposits here so fire was certainly used - was it for ritualistic purposes? The theory I like most, is that the circles stand on the boundary of two separate tribes and that this was a neutral meeting place. It would be good to find that it was a place of peace for it certainly feels that way now.

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To the south of the circles and on the northern bank of the East Dart River are the circular remains of a 'beehive' hut. These tiny buildings of stone with, once, a turf roof were most likely built in medieval times and used as a store or shelter from the worst of the elements. It is surprisingly well camouflaged - perhaps designed that way to prevent their contents being raided by others. More information on the ancient huts of Dartmoor can be found here.

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After a picnic lunch high on the moor with only the sound of skylarks, cuckoos and buzzards for company, the path descended to the Warren House Inn, a remote (in the past, tin miners) hostelry, some distance to the east. It is said that the fire here has never been allowed to go out since 1845 and it and a pint or two of ale were most welcome.

Beyond the pub, more remains of old buildings and walled enclosures could be seen, probably of deserted farms or small mining communities. Now, at lower levels, the climate was noticeably more clement and wild flowers provided some welcome colour after the drab greens and browns of the higher moor. The Bird's Foot Trefoil, especially, were covered in beautiful Fritillary butterflies.

Finally, after several hours of walking we returned to our starting point, the village of Postbridge, to cross the river by the ancient stone clapper bridge, featured in one of my earlier posts. This, and more photographs, can be found by clicking the link here.

Modern Stained Glass at Glasnevin

2011-01-10T01:20:00.000-08:00

Plans are afoot to visit Dublin in Ireland once again this Spring. I went last April and the weather was glorious - it is a nice thought anticipating some spring warmth. The highlight then was the day spent at Glasnevin, the city's botanic gardens.
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Like many events in life, it is often the unexpected that remain at the forefront of the mind and so it was at Glasnevin. The glasshouses and plants were, without saying, spectacular but a complete surprise was a small exhibition of modern stained glass work.
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This first piece of five panels is the work of Mary Mackey, based in County Cork. I love the colours and mix - to me it is a blend found in mountains in the fall (odd how, for an Englishman, 'mountains in the autumn', doesn't sound as expressive or as romantic!). However, much of Mary's work is inspired by the sea and this particular piece is titled 'Sea-shushed Secret Places'. Painted and sandblasted, the strong colours used still have a swirling, dream like quality about them. Perhaps it is the light coming through the piece that allows this contradiction. Mary, in her own description of her work, tells of how she sees a flash of landscape: ".... fleeting images in real time, but in my memory the image is sharply focused, connected witha particular place, a particular time.....stored and enriched by treasuring it.....until at least something of that essence is achieved".
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Debbie Dawson's tryptich is totally different. Bold, square panels, they convey great strength and depth. Also based in County Cork, Debbie's work is entitled 'Like a Door Opening'.

I also loved the strength of Emma O'Toole's 'Architectural Element'. Made from sheet glass, cast glass and concrete, it was unique at this exibition, with the feel and look of a sculpture. It brought back happy memories of a winter in Canada, years ago, exploring an ice 'castle', each battlement carved with its individual decoration of a native animal. Coming from relatively mild England, I had never seen anything like it before - it was a surreal experience. And that is the joy of art, it can transport you to places or events long forgotten or, perhaps, even not yet happened. . . .
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Chinks Grylls 'Highlight Red' is an etched mouth blown glass piece. Four individually hinged panels remind me, depending on my mood - or perhaps how hungry I am - of Saharan sand dunes or rashers of bacon waiting to be cooked.... Chinks Grylls works from south west England, an area which is rapidly becoming a centre for modern glass work.

I know that when I return to Glasnevin it won't be the glasshouses that I shall visit first. I will make a beeline for their exhibition hall in the hope that some other equally pleasurable experience awaits me.

A New Year

2011-01-01T02:15:00.000-08:00

The snow has all but gone from the secret valley, thanks to a sudden thaw, after the temperature rose from -15 centigrade to +6 centigrade. Some still clings to the gullies at the sides of the fields and on the colder banks of the hillside but elsewhere, in its place, is the battered appearance of a landscape after attack.
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Last night, New Year's Eve, was seen out at our neighbours and good friends 3/4 mile up the road, at the farmhouse that is the centre of our farming life here. Although a cold night it was good to be able to walk there effortlessly (after ploughing our way through snow for several weeks or sliding around in the car). As the chimes of Big Ben in London struck twelve o'clock we all sang 'Auld Langs Syne' to the traditional sound of a lone piper - in this case lone because there was only one Scotsman present and he could play the bagpipes. And a couple of hours later I stepped out into the cold, still air to walk back down the hill to home.
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The secret valley at night - and some nights especially so - is a silent and dark place. Never menacing, it is a good time to reflect on times passed and to breathe in the air which seems to take on a different quality to daytime. Walking down the lane, with bands of snow periodically reminding me to watch my feet, I was aware that there were others on the move too. An alarmed rabbit shot across the road in front of me, diving into the hedge, it's path being highlighted not by moonlight, for there was none, but by the sounds of leaves rustling and twigs breaking beneath it. The fox was far more discreet, the only witness to its passing, its distinctive musky scent.
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Our little river, now thawed out from the frozen state that it had been in gurgled and splashed its way into the distance. It had seemed odd not to be able to hear it when it had its lid of ice and snow for even in the hardest winters past it had not been known to freeze over.
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However, a touch of frost had given a magical dusting to the plants and fruits that had survived the onslaught of our early winter, for snow is rare at this time of year. January and February can be snowy and often we have none at all so who knows what the start of 2011 will bring?
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Approaching home, the reassuring smell of wood smoke drifted from the chimneys towards me. Warmth at last! And, as always, She-dog, our best companion, was there to greet us but not before raising a bleary eye from her bed, as if to say "what are you doing out at this time of day and at your age?".
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And so to bed tired but with a warm, contented feeling both inside and outside. To live in the secret valley, isolated but surrounded by beauty and good friends, is such a privelege. Who knows what 2011 may bring but if the first days sunrise is to go by, it should be a good one!

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Happy New Year to you all.....
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Christmas Greetings

2010-12-25T00:33:00.000-08:00

Christmas Greetings

from the

(very snowy)

Secret Valley

For the first time for very many years we have a white Christmas

Thank you for your continued support and interest - keep the comments flowing, I'm always interested to hear your views!

May you all have a very happy holiday

Johnson

Cotswold Hills, England

The North Wind Doth Blow.....

2010-12-19T05:51:00.000-08:00

The other day I recalled one of the nursery rhymes that my mother used to sing to me when I was a small child sitting on her lap. Goodness knows why, after so very many years, but no sooner had I done so than the words became true:
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"The north wind doth blow and we shall have snow and what will the robin do then, poor thing?"
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Well, the answer is puff up its feathers and stand close to the bird feeding table until it gets fed!

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It isn't just the robin that demands food in these difficult conditions and there has been a constant stream of activity back and forth to the feeders. The tit family are always welcome - we get many different sorts here: blue, great, coal, willow and long-tailed.
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It is often stated that British birds are rather dull compared to the exotica of warmer climes. We do have our share of 'little brown jobs' that aren't too easy to identify but what can be more spectacular than the Greater Spotted Woodpecker? With it's red cap and rump and black and white markings, it is a beautiful looking bird. We also have its diminutive cousin, the Lesser Spotted, but these tend to stay out of the garden and feed amongst the willows by the river.
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The only other resident British woodpecker, the Green, never comes to the bird table or feeders but it does have a store of food available in the electricty pole by the house. Normally quite shy, most sightings of it are of it flying rapidly away in the typical undulating movement that is common to all of the woodpeckers - a useful identification aid. Country folk (I include myself here) always call the Green Woodpecker by its traditional name of Yaffle.

Often cited as the commonest Brititsh bird, the Chaffinch is also another colourful bird. Or, at least, the male is. In the photos below the rich salmon pink breast feathers are clearly visible, as are the wing markings, common to both sexes and making the rather dull female easy to identify. Bramblings come to our bird table as well. A less common winter visitor, they are similar to the male Chaffinch; however, the colour is richer and carried by both the sexes.

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The Thrush family are also well represented: here a cock Blackbird waits for food. its yellow bill contrasting with its black plumage (the hens are chocolate brown but still have a yellowish bill). In many birds, the Magpie for example, black becomes iridescent green when seen in certain lights. The Blackbird is jet black and all the more handsome for it.

Only coming into the garden to raid the shrubs of berries or fruit from trees, the winter visiting Redwings and Fieldfares (close relatives of the Blackbird) feed in large flocks throughout the secret valley. I managed to catch this photo of a Fieldfare eating our apples before it flew off.

The sheep almost disappeared in the blizzard yesterday. Today the weather is calmer and this crow is taking advantage of searching for food in one of the ewe's fleeces.
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The snow - which is very unusual around here before Christmas - looks to hang around for a while, with more forecast next week. I cannot remember the last time we had one but, perhaps, a white Christmas may be a reality rather than just a picture on a card. If so, I shall have to write a post quoting Bing Crosby.....

Snowdonia: Through The Enchanted Forest

2010-12-05T12:18:00.000-08:00

The tiny road that passes the converted chapel that we have been staying in once again for a late holiday continues to climb further into the mountains. The grassy areas, cropped short by sheep, give way to bracken, heather and stunted gorse, also shortened by the harsh climate. And an hours walk along this road - now little more than a stone track - brings you to the Enchanted Forest. At first, it is barely noticed: a tongue of dark green that appears to be sliding down the mountain as if desperate to reach the richer soil of the valley below.
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But suddenly, as you walk round a bend in the path, there it is in front of you. The trees look inviting; beckoning you to shelter from the cold north-easterly wind that cuts through to your bones. Yet, as you approach, the gate barring your way makes you hesitate, for the first

view into the depths of the forest is a menacing combination of dark and light. All those childhood images from the Brothers Grimm come to mind for there are the conflicting emotions: is this a sinister or a kind place to be and where will the path lead?

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Walking further into the forest, it proves to be a fascinating place, with sight after sight more enchanting than the previous one. The damp mists and rain have turned the ground into a mossy wonderland with great mounds of it creating a weird, almost surrealistic, landscape. Surely, Goblins or Hobbitts live here? They do, for every so often the moss builds up to make a hooded entrance and some even have - if you look carefully enough (like in the photo below) - a wrinkly face staring out at you.
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It is just not the light and the shadows that play tricks with you, for nothing is quite as you expect it to be. Some of the conifers branches grow upright instead of horizontally so that their silvery underside is facing you, disorienting your vision.

Even the toadstools are rarely toadstool shaped - here these look like pieces of discarded orange peel rotting in the leaf litter.

It is not especially surprising that ice forms on the puddles at this altitude and time of year but even this is different. They have the appearance of stained glass windows, but strangely drained of all their colour.....

And just as suddenly as you entered it, the forest gives way again to mountain. But what a mountain! It is as if it has been dropped from a great height and smashed to millions of pieces, some just lying around and others piled up one on top of the other, regardless of size or shape. And why, several hundred years ago, did they build the dry stone walls that travel up and over them for mile after mile?
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The sun had been shining brightly when we had stepped into the trees. Now, in an instant, the weather has turned and we are being threatened by snow flurries. She-dog, our lurcher, who recognises these problems better than we do, had been wandering on far ahead. Now, knowing that danger could be approaching, she hurtles down the track back towards us, agitated, beckoning us to return home.
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How glad we were we heeded She-dog's warning! By the time we were within sight of home the landscape was changing to white. And the snow continued to fall for days.....

A Roman Villa in the Cotswolds

2010-11-16T12:11:00.000-08:00

These days the Cotswolds, with its rolling landscape, dry stone walls and picture postcard villages, give the impression of being sleepy and sparsely populated, basking (or some may say smug) in its glory of being one of the jewels of the British countryside. But this is not so. For it is a working landscape with its people going about their daily business, admittedly often in an unhurried way - for our narrow lanes and lack of motorways limit the speed that one can travel. And often our straightest and, therefore, easiest routes have not been made in recent years but by Roman settlers, attracted to this region some two thousand years ago, for much the same reasons as we are now.
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Ryknild Street, Fosse Way, Akeman Street, Ermin Way - just their very names conjure up images of Roman legions marching long distances through the country - linked their towns and cities with Corinium, now our modern Cirencester, the centre of both their commerce and entertainment (it still has the remains of a Roman ampitheatre that held over 8000 people). And, as time passed, they settled in more remote parts of the Cotswolds too: one such place is the villa built at North Leigh, near Witney. The track that leads you to the remains is as straight as any other Roman road but was used solely by servants and traders, the owners and visitors arriving by a more grand approach no longer visible.

Now cared for the nation by English Heritage, admission is free and the site is open all year. Strategically placed notice boards explain the layout of the 60+ rooms and of its history but nothing quite prepares you for the sheer size of area which seems at odds with its present day position - somehow, you expect a small cottage sized building. In fact, the first thing I noticed was the irrepressible She-dog who had run on ahead, in order I imagine, to steal the limelight, as usual!

One of the greatest pleasures of exploring the remains is that they are relatively unknown and so are rarely visited. I explored for over an hour and saw no-one - just perfect! The photos below show the north west range and also the south east range. Beneath the floor of the latter even earlier remains of a hearth were found , dating back to the Iron Age, circa BC100.

Although the site was known as early as 1783 it was not until the early 1800's that the ruins were excavated, the first plan published in 1823. Further excavations took place in 1908.

The remains of the under floor heating can be clearly seen in the photographs below. It is strange how such an 'advanced' civilisation could then be plunged into the relatively primitive period of the Dark Ages after the Romans left.

In amongst the stonework of the walls pieces of tile protrude. No matter how carefully I looked I saw no signs of pottery.

The'jewel in the crown' of the villa at North Leigh are the mosaic floors. Several were discovered and lifted, presumably to a museum although I do not know which. However, the floor of the dining room, discovered in 1816, in the south west wing has been preserved in situ and is protected from the elements by a modern building. The mosaics were laid by craftsmen from Corinium in the fashionable geometric style of the time.
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The dining room, again with underfloor heating, had a vaulted roof supported by columns, parts of which can be seen against the back wall of the shelter.

Who were the people that lived here and why was the villa suddenly deserted in the fifth century when it was so obviously thriving a century earlier? It is probable that they were farming here so perhaps there was a change in climatic conditions or with the water supply. Whatever the reason, it is now the most perfect spot to sit and ponder in total peace and quiet.
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Goodbye Henry, Hello Ernie

2010-11-02T13:50:00.000-07:00

There comes a time when old friends go and new ones appear and so it is with Henry. Not that he has met his demise, despite being elderly and a little infirm. He has gone to pastures new.

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Henry, our Irish Draught horse, has had a blissful life here in the Cotswolds after a hectic time in his earlier years on the hunting field. Recently, and with the fine spell of warmth, his days have been spent in glorious semi -retirement basking in the sunshine.

But even the gentle hacking around the farm with She-dog at his heels has proven too much and so he has spent many weeks resting and generally enjoying life.

But now it is time to say goodbye and he has returned to his original owners to spend the rest of his days as companion and chaperone to young foals.

The always sensitive-to-events She-dog seems to know that her companion is leaving never to return. Goodbye, Henry!

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Hello Ernie! Seems quiet enough looking over the stable wall......
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Barney has seen this all before. Once he would have kicked out at any newcomer to his field just to show who was boss. Now he just can't be bothered - I know the feeling. So he stands there while Ernie circles sniffing and snorting ......

And then they are off!
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Ernie cannot decide what he wants to look like. He tries the fairground horse look first ......

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..... and then the bucking bronco ....... while Barney looks on bored by all the antics.
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Ernie tries out the rocking horse look ..... finally stopping to try out the local food

The view's not too bad either! Home could be a much worse place .....

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Invasion of the Ladybirds

2010-10-28T13:13:00.001-07:00

If ladybirds landing on you are traditionally a sign of good fortune to come, I wonder what the latest invasion of hundreds of them coming to hibernate in my bedroom means? Probably not much as I have evicted the majority of them! However, there is something rather special when a wild creature, however small, chooses to associate closely with you and without fear.
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Now I appreciate that a small bug like creature is not exactly prone to a shaking attack of nerves when a human face peers closely at it - not even mine - but they must have some sense of concern when we recite the children's rhyme "Ladybird, ladybird fly away home", surely?
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Having realised that they are likely to get 'crunched' once the window is shut, they moved further indoors following one another in single file. Of some concern, was the number of Harlequin ladybirds, a foreign invader originally from the Far East but brought here to Britain on plant imports via the USA. These only arrived in the country as recently as 2004 and are now found in every English county, much of Wales and beginning to colonise Scotland. Of the four ladybirds in the picture above only the top one is our native Seven-spot Ladybird.
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I know it's a bedroom but I really don't think I want this Harlequin to perform in front of the neighbours! As, to my knowledge, they don't hybridise with our native species I suspect that this Seven-spot was about to become a tasty snack. This photo really makes you appreciate the difference in size between the two species.

Having reached a suitable corner they begin to jostle for position, gradually forming a tight clump where they remain during the colder days and nights. Strangely, the central heating system has no effect on this dormancy, whereas a return to milder conditions outside makes the colony disperse around the room to reform at a later time.

Now a tight cluster, these groups began to hold several hundred individuals. It was then (and without even bothering to take a photograph, very remiss) that the eviction process began until just a few dozen - which we consider manageable and charming - remained. Despite claiming not to be remotely superstitious, for safety's sake I did recite the traditional chant.
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"Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home, for your house is on fire and your children will burn"

Exmoor: The Blue Ball Inn

2010-10-19T05:48:00.000-07:00

Autumn has been at its best the last week or so with blue skies and warm sunshine by day, the perfect weather for long walks. And afterwards, as the evening chill sets in, what can be better than to laze contentedly in front of a blazing log fire, losing your thoughts in the flickering flames? This is what I have been doing the past ten days.
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And where better than to do this than on Exmoor, the 270 square mile national park in England's West Country? I have known this place for over 40 years and it's dramatic scenery never tires with the passing years. The coastal area between Lynmouth and Porlock, where the open moorland meets clifftop and plunges 800 feet to the sea is the most dramatic of all. And the tiny village of Countisbury can lay claim, in my opinion, to have the best views on Exmoor.
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I made a decision when I started this blog that I would not go commercial - either for my own garden based business or for anyone else. Somehow, it just seems to put a different slant on your writing. However, I am always being asked where I stay on my Exmoor visits and I am more than happy to break the rule on this occasion. There can be no better place to spend your time than at the Blue Ball Inn, situated in the heart of the village.

The Blue Ball Inn, which dates back to the 13th century, was originally a coaching inn where horses and travellers rested after the exhausting 1 in 4 climb up Countisbury Hill from Lynmouth. Today it still welcomes travellers, whether it is for just a drink, a meal or to stay in one of their sixteen bedrooms.

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The building both inside and out is dominated by a vast and ancient inglenook fireplace and chimney, so big that you can look up it and see daylight. It is a great place to relax and unwind with a pint of locally brewed ale and is the hub of the inn.
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The bar, with its low ceilings, blackened beams and loads of character, is a busy area but there are also several other places to sit. Each has its own fireplace and comfortable chairs, ideal if you want to find a quieter space to read or plan the next day's walks.
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It is not just the beer that is produced locally. The restaurant, which serves food all day, is committed to offering a wide choice of menu, much of it sourced from the area - they even rear their own rare breed pork. During my stay, I never once had the same meal twice (although I wish it would have been possible to have forced down a second helping of their spare ribs they were so delicious). The chips are the best in Britain. By the time dinner was over, I was usually too tired to continue drinking in the bar and would disappear to bed. The bedrooms, which have all the usual facilities, are comfortable and clean and, after so much exercise and fresh air, sleep guaranteed.

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Awake and refreshed and after a hearty breakfast, walks can start from the door and can vary in both their length and the steepness of hill. Ours varied from twenty minutes to five or six hours. With instant access to heather moorland, ancient woodlands, rushing rivers and the spectacular clifftop walks with its views across the sea to Wales, you are spoilt for choice. (Exmoor is, of course, great dog walking country and the Blue Ball welcomes them too). If you are lucky and walk quietly, there is a very good chance that you will see the wild Exmoor ponies or the herds of Red Deer - we saw both within a mile of the pub.
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But it is not just good food and drink, comfortable rooms or amazing views that make a good holiday. It is people. Phil, Jackie and son Nick, the owners of the Blue Ball, and all of their staff without exception, do everything possible to ensure that your stay is memorable. The 'locals' too, for this is still very much the village pub, are very welcoming and friendly - where else would you meet someone who lends you a book to return "when you next come down"? And I have never spent such a riotous evening as with them all at the Harvest auction, held in the pub. Apart from bidding for a crate of the local beer, I also have managed to get a days hawking on neighbouring Dartmoor. I was too slow to get a day's salmon fishing on the local Lyn river - but that, of course, gives me an excuse to visit again next year. I have already booked!

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Life Behind Baas: A Story of Sheep Betrayal

2010-10-06T14:41:00.000-07:00

I love sheep! There is something about them. They are supposed to be stupid but I've known some clever ones in my time (like I've known lots of people who claim to be clever .....). They have exquisite faces, full of charm with a look in their eyes that just beg for a little more human understanding.
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What more can I say about the joys of building a relationship with a sheep or, preferably, many sheep? They smell nice, especially when wet. They're cuddly (when dry) once they've allowed you to become more intimate with them, an especial priviledge.
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They have lovely voices - varying in tone from deep bass through alto to soprano - and there's usually quite a few castratos among them too. Each morning, as soon as I step outside into the garden, I am greeted by uplifted heads and welcoming bleats, a sort of dawn chorus, an ovine welcome to another day. And as I enter their field to feed the bantams who are kept there, they gather around me pushing and jostling to have their noses scratched, their ears rubbed and to tell me the latest gossip and goings-on in their sheepy world.
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Now there is one special reason that I haven't mentioned yet about why I'm so fond of sheep: they taste great, well roasted with lashings of gravy and mint sauce. And that is the quandry. For the reason that these are here in the loveliest field in the secret valley is not for favouritism (as they think) - it is for the pot. And as they try to eat the poultry food I explain that they have no need for such processed feed, for they have the sweetest grass and the freshest river water, when replete they can rest in the shade of the finest trees, the secret valley can offer.
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As if to make me feel even more gulity, they wander off to the empty, upturned feeders. Somehow, even the fattest ones can get inside them. For them, life behind bars is nothing more than a defiant gesture: they little know that judgement has been passed and they have been sentenced to death.
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To end on an upbeat note, the tups have been put in with the stock ewes this week. Soon enough, the new season's lambs will be born - something we always look forward too.
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First Signs of Autumn

2010-09-29T12:05:00.000-07:00

To quote from the Keats poem 'To Autumn', is rather cliched I know but it really is becoming the "season of mists and mellow fruitfulness" here in the secret valley. I have to admit until I decided upon the theme for this post that, although I had heard this line so many times before, I'd never read the poem. I suspect a large number of people would admit the same so I have included it here, in full, at the end.

Almost imperceptably, the leaves have started to turn colour although they are still more green than yellow, orange or red. The most noticeable sign of the new season has been the berries and other fruits. Despite the heavy, late spring frosts we had, it seems to be a bumper crop this year although I have heard that commercial crops of apples are down by 30%.

The river a few hundred yards downstream from our little stone cottage broadens to become a small lake, created 100 years ago to attract duck and fish for the pot. Invisible throughout the summer months because of the leafy shrubs that shield it, it gradually comes into view as the foliage withers and falls and the water levels rise with the winter rain. Then it gives us what one of our friends describes as "the best view from any bath(wash)room in England" - and it is! What can be more decadent than lying in the bath with a glass of wine in hand, watching the wild geese and swans flying in from who knows where, for we rarely see them during the summer months?

And it is the river and lake that tends to give us the mists on cool mornings. There is such a subtle difference between these mists and the fogs that are much more widespread across the country. We can recognise the difference instantly but how do we describe it in meaningful words? Perhaps mists drift to rise and fall as strands of it are caught on the slightest breeze, an uplifting experience for the soul, whereas fogs sit heavily both on the ground and on our spirits?

A few days ago, on such a misty morning, it was cool enough for a heavy dew to form transforming the scenery with its silver frosting. Cobwebs hung from every available perch: strands of wire, branches and twigs, even the dying flower stems of the wild plants were draped with them. The scene was of silence and stillness, no bird sang and even the brook seemed to gurgle and babble more quietly than normal, as if reluctant to wake the slumbering countryside.

As if to confirm the silence and emptiness of the landscape, even the new seasons swan, that I had admired on the lake the day before, had gone. Heavily in moult, all there was to confirm its arrival were white feathers slowly drifting on the surface saying "Hush! Be still. All is calm".

To Autumn

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun

Conspiring with him how to load and bless

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;

To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,

And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;

To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells

With a sweet kernal; to set budding more,

And still more, later flowers for the bees,

Until they think warm days will never cease.

For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.
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Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?

Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find

Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;

Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,

Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook

Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:

And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep

Steady thy laden head across a brook

Or by a cider-press, with patient look,

Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?

Think not of them, thou hast thy music too -

While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,

And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;

Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn

Among the river sallows, borne aloft

Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;

And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;

Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft

The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;

And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

A Walk Along the River Otter: Part 2

2010-09-22T13:57:00.000-07:00

The lower reaches of the river Otter turn from fresh water to brackish as the river joins the sea. At low tide, mud and salt flats are exposed creating a safe habitat for the hundreds of seabirds and waders that feed, breed or rest on migration there. This area, including its wildlife, I have written about earlier - it can be found by clicking here.

This post describes a walk a little further upstream where the river flows through fertile fields of wheat and where cattle and sheep graze in lush riverside meadows.

The river - which like our river in the secret valley - is really little more than a stream (or 'brook' as we say where I originate from - English dialect is another fascinating subject that I might write about one day!). One moment fast flowing, the next slow, but always crystal clear, the view is one of steep banks and stony bottom. It is here, in the shallower water, that the trout - huge in comparison with our tiny ones at home - sway in the current, waiting for food to be swept down towards them and their ever open mouths. At one place where the river runs across a steeply shelved weir, a salmon run has been built: a series of steps for the salmon to leap to reach the upper levels of the river for spawning after their long migration. Whether they still do, I do not know, for salmon stocks in England are dwindling fast.

Wood and water, just nothing but water and wood, for the crowds of visitors that explore the river close to the beach and form long queues at the ice cream stalls have all been left far behind. Now the sights, sounds and smells are only those of nature on this glorious late summer's day. The trees are only just beginning to show a hint of the autumn to come but, somehow, their berries have already stamped their mark on the autumn landscape, glowing in and reflecting the sun's warmth.

Along the river bank, swamping much of the native flora, the Himalayan Balsam is giving a final explosion of colour before the first frosts destroy them for another year. And explosion is the correct description of their bursting seed heads which throw the seed far and wide as they split open. Found in many damp places throughout the country, for its seeds are also dispersed by the movement of the water, the Himalyan Balsam is an unwelcome immigrant to Britain which is virtually impossible to control. A member of the Impatien family, its seedheads are similar to those of our familiar garden Busy Lizzie.

Along the final stretch of our walk, the river is backed by the same red sandstone cliffs that can be seen by the coast. How many millenia did it take for this gentle stream to cut its way through to its present level? My photography skills - or perhaps my patience - did not allow me to get shots of the kingfishers that darted up and down as a flash of azure along this reach of the river. High up in the rock face, their nesting holes (or were they the breeding sites of the sand martins that had already begun their long flight south to winter in Africa?) were more easily photographed.

The ten mile walk to the source of the Otter will have to wait for another visit to the West Country. Oh, and I nearly forgot to mention, otters can be found - but rarely seen - along the whole length of the river.

A Walk Along the River Otter: part 1

2010-09-14T08:21:00.000-07:00

The River Otter although not long in length - barely 20 miles from its source in the Blackdown Hills to the sea - is rich in wildlife. Mostly flowing through Devon, in Britain's West Country, it rises just over the border in the county of Somerset. Passing through rich and fertile farmland it enters the English Channel at Budleigh Salterton where its estuary is protected from the sea by a large pebble bank. It is here that this walk begins.
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The mudflats, reedbeds and adjoining fields are all part of a relatively small nature reserve, backed by the town on one side and high red sandstone cliffs to the other. The whole area forms part of a World Heritage site for it is part of the English coastline known as the Jurassic Coast, famous for its rock formations, clear water and abundant fossils. The underlying stone of the Otter valley holds one of the most important aquifers in England supplying drinking water to 200,000 people (source: Wikipedia, where else do we go for this sort of infortmation?!).
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The birdlife, especially at this time of year as migration takes place, is spectacular. In my excitement in trying out my new telephoto lens, I forgot to take general views of the coastline and town. However, as tourism plays such an important part of the Devon economy, it is easy to visit and stay locally - it is well worth adding to your 'places to visit' list.
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There is no public access to the mudflats which means that the birds are relatively undisturbed. However, there are good footpaths along the edges and also hides, where it is possible to view the wildlife with the aid of good binoculars or camera. The Little Egret, below, was a rare visitor to England until very recently. Now, although still not often seen, they are more frequent and breed here. We have even had them occasionally visit us in the secret valley. The Canada Goose also was once a rare escapee from wildfowl collections - now they are seen everywhere and are one of our commonest geese.
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Glossy Ibis are an extreme rarity and thirteen had arrived here earlier a few days ago. If they were about they remained hidden from view. Strutting about - and unaware of how comical they look when away from water were a pair of Bar-tailed Godwits. These birds breed in Scandinavia and the Arctic and thousands pass through Britain on the migration back south with a few staying all year round but never breeding. Despite their numbers they are easily missed so being able to photograph this one was a real treat!
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Of all the birds to be seen that day, none were so plentiful yet so beautiful as this Mediterranean Gull. Or, at least, that is what I think it is. Living as I do, as far inland as is possible in the British Isles, my seabird identification skills are not as good as they might be. No matter, it had a grace unlike the majority of the gull family, yet I don't think it was a tern. I wait to be corrected.

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Richard Long's Extraordinary Land Art

2010-09-02T14:36:00.000-07:00

I have found that there are no shades of grey when appreciation - or lack of it - of Richard Long's art is discussed. It seems that either, like me, you are swept away by it or you just cannot see the point of it at all. Whilst respecting this latter point of view, I ask myself, "Does art have to have a point"? For me, of all art forms , Richard Long's work demonstrates that beauty can be appreciated just for it's own sake.
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British born (in Bristol, where he still lives and works), Richard Long studied art in both Bristol and London, giving his first solo exhibition in Germany in 1968, as he completed his studies. I imagine this is quite an achievement in itself. Since then he has exhibited regularly throughout the world.
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In the grounds of my 'reincarnation' house, I was fortunate to be involved in the placing of one of his slate circles (photo above). Sadly, I never met the great man himself, for I would have loved to have sat quietly and watched the stones being laid in place. My contribution was extremely modest: I only removed the turf and put down the base ready for the circle to be put in position. However, this did mean that the circle appeared as if by magic - and it has remained mysterious and magical ever since. And, as if by magic, the gaps between the stones have filled with leaves and debris and yellow lichens have started to colonise their surface.
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Regular readers of this blog will know of my fascination for stone in all its forms, whether it is the earliest standing stones (and we have our own ancient stone circle here in the Cotswolds, the Rollright Stones), the dry stone walls of the secret valley or placing stone in the garden. But Richard Long's stone work is different to all of these for each piece is meticulously shaped and honed - or left in its natural state - and crafted into position. To really appreciate it, you have to become part of the landscape yourself. When you lie on the ground looking across the surface of his work, it takes on a completely new appearance and meaning.

When I first came to know and love Richard Long's work, I little dreamt that one day it would inspire me to incorporate land art into one of my own designs. Attached to a beautiful old farmhouse, belonging to a client, is a small, almost bottle shaped, raised area of land surrounded by the remains of a twelfth century moat and mill stream. It is too wild an area in which to create a conventional garden so the plan is to keep it as a simple wild flower area. A very low serpentine turf coverd bank will draw the eye - and, hopefully, the visitor - towards the bottle neck. Careful planting will bring you unwittingly into a living willow tunnel and, at the far end where the land broadens once again, will be a circle. Not a stone circle this time but a meditation circle inspired by the photograph below of children playing. This photograph is from the artist's (or is it sculptor's?) website; all the remaining photo's are mine taken at the reincarnation house. To be redirected there just click and make sure you look at both the Exhibitions and the Sculptures pages.

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As for my new design, work is due to commence at the end of this month and I shall report on progress some time in the future. One thing I am quite certain of is that I will not be asked to hold any exhibitions either in the UK or abroad!

The Large Skipper and a Comma

2010-08-28T02:29:00.000-07:00

As far as butterflies go, the Large Skipper is not particularly uncommon but I don't recall seeing them in quite the numbers that I have this summer. They are active butterflies, frequently on the move and fast flying but eventually come to rest to feed or bask in the warmth of the sun.
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The Large Skipper lays its eggs on a variety of grasses and so can be found in many habitats, particularly the edge of woodlands and along woodland rides. The photo below, taken in the deeply wooded Chiltern Hills, may look like a woodland ride but it is an ancient Saxon field or 'assart'. Assarting - the destruction of forest for agriculture - was considered to be one of the gravest crimes of all when carried out in any of the Royal Forests. This field still has remains of old coppiced or possibly of layed hedge - there is one Field Maple, Acer campestre that probably dates back a 1000 years to Saxon days. It now consists of a series of smallish trees around the space where the original trunk would have been.
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Despite its name, the Large Skipper is quite a small butterfly. The females, which are slightly larger than the males, have a wingspread of less than one and a half inches. Their diminutive size has not prevented them from spreading far and wide globally: they can be found from England in the west of Europe, right across the continents, to Japan in the Far East. For some reason they are not found in Ireland or most of the Mediterranean islands. However, their range is still spreading so perhaps they will colonise these places too one day.
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The golden glow of these butterflies gives them a certain charm but they can not be described as pretty, especially with their huge, bulbous eyes. This glow is also present in the underside of the wing which shows up faint spots and helps to distinguish them from the Small Skipper and the Silver Spotted Skipper, both of which are to be found in Britain but far less frequently. The latter, incidentally, is also found in parts of North America.
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Another golden butterfly, but this time a very attractive one, is the Comma. It is everything the Large Skipper isn't - delicate, attractively marked and large. This butterfly was rare when I was a child but numbers have increased rapidly in recent years and it is now no longer considered endangered.
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Searching for Granny ....

2010-08-20T02:16:00.000-07:00

..... well, great-Granny actually. I hadn't exactly lost her for I had 'discovered' her in old census records when researching our family history. I also remembered being told, as a child, that "Granny used to live there". What I hadn't realised was that Granny and my more distant ancestors were some of the most important mill owners on the River Thames, the premier river of England. The family owned Marlow Mills, which they converted from corn to paper production in the early 1800's.
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Marlow Mills survived many mishaps ranging from a very destructive fire to withstanding the riots that were a spill-over from the agricultural riots of the 1830's. Other mills in the area had their machinery destroyed - the ancestors were obviously made of tougher stuff, for they surrounded the mill with vicious man traps. The traps could still be seen hanging in their offices in the early 1900's - perhaps as a warning to any other miscreants! What it didn't survive was the craze for redevelopment and in the 1960's they were bulldozed and luxury riverside homes built in their place. Sadly, we no longer owned the mill by then: if we had I might be living in luxury for the 17 properties on the site sell now for around one million pounds each.
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Yesterday, I found myself in Marlow on business but, with time to spare, decided to explore. How odd it felt walking these once familiar roads and riverside walks now knowing that two hundred years ago my family were doing the same. This street view probably hasn't changed much although, as the family were so religious, I can't imagine that they sat outside the local pub drinking alcohol in the warm, summer sunshine!
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The view of the river, the church and the bridge must have changed even less, although they would have watched with interest the suspension bridge, designed by William Tierney Clark, being built in the 1830's (the old wooden bridge collapsed into the river in 1828). Ten years later, he designed and built a larger version of the bridge in Budapest, with which Marlow is twinned.
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This old post box must be one of the very earliest ones made for, even in Victoria's reign, the design became more elaborate. This one looks ancient but is still in everyday use - the VR stands for Victoria Regina, she reigned from 1837 - 1901 and is our longest reigning monarch. If it is one of the earliest it could date back to 1853, the year that post boxes were first introduced. Incidentally, by tradition, all British post boxes bear the initials in Latin of the reigning monarch at time of manufacture. I wonder how many of my family had posted letters here?
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I knew, from an old record found on the internet, that Joseph Wright - my great-great grandfather - had been instrumental in building a free church in the town. To my delight, not only did I find the church still thriving, I was able to speak with a senior member of the congregation who, by chance, happened to be there. I was shown a history of the church but there was no mention whatsoever of the Wright family connection, a name not even known to them. Had I got the right place?
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Searching through old gravestones, I first came across one with the initials J W and M A D carved in the base. The initials turned out to be for Mary Ann Downing (not for death by insanity!), a name I'd not heard of and, frustratingly, the husband's name had been damaged and was barely legible - I could just make out the name Joseph. However, it had obviously been a smart grave once for there were the signs that it had been surrounded by iron railings. But why Downing and why J W?
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Then I came across the grave, below, that looked so recent. To my amazement it wasn't new at all but over 130 years old. The marble and the railings of such high quality that they showed no sign of wear. Here the names were clear - they were of William, Joseph Wright's brother and partner in the milling business, and his wife.
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Further along was another grave in good condition, although more modest. It was unusal for it was very long and narrow. Almost overlooked in my excitement, this was the grave of Ellen Wright my 'own' grandmother's mother. I had found great-Granny! I knew of Ellen for she had been born in Finland, which had always been something of a mystery. I found that she had been born there because her father was, for a few years, at a paper mill there before returning to the mill at Marlow. Was he learning new techniques or was he there advising?
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The final pieces of the jigsaw came into place when, at home, I found that after Joseph's death, Mary Ann had remarried (hence the Downing surname). Her widowed husband obviously agreed to her wishes and she was laid to rest with Joseph, her first love.

Feeling extraordinarily emotional (strange, really, for I did not know them in the true sense), I reported back my discoveries to the gentleman in the church who was equally delighted to discover that these unknown benefactors were still present within the church they had helped to create.

Now all that is left to close the circle of 200 years is for me to attend a service, something I hope to do in the very near future.
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An Unexpected Downpour

2010-08-12T14:00:00.000-07:00

The heatwave may have ended a good number of days ago but the dry weather hasn't and the gardens are desparate for water. Digging down to plant some large shrubs the other day, there was no sign of moisture in the soil, nor earthworms for that matter, no matter how deep I dug. It is tedious to water with a hosepipe and, for some inexplicable reason, (perhaps it's the chemicals in tap water), plants react so much better to a drop of rain.
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Today the skies were grey but, as none had been forecast, it came as a surprise when I thought I could smell rain in the air. And was that a distant roll of thunder or was it just wishful thinking? With no further warning, the heavens opened, the rain bouncing off the surface of the lane and the leaves of the plants. By the time I had reached my camera, it was already beginning to ease.
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They must have had more rain than us, further up the secret valley, for water continued to rush down the lane in its haste to reach the river. Just past the bend its route took a sharp right turn to tumble down the steep banks to enter the meanders - the ones that feature on the header of this blog - just above the road bridge.

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It's a novelty to see puddles once again!
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I couldn't resist catching these images of the herbs cloaked in moisture. The French Tarragon seems to be greedier than most and holds water all over the surface of its leaves. The bronze Fennel, however, holds its drops in a very much more refined way as befits such a graceful plant.

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Cotinus - this is the variety called 'Grace' - appeared splattered with rain, as if it had been flicked with paintbrushes. It held its drops in different sizes, some so large I wondered how they could remain in place and keep separate from the smaller sized ones alongside.
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The old fountain head of a cherub and dolphin sits at the top of a flight of steps leading to the garden, for many years no longer used for its original purpose. Did the rain bring a slight smile to its lips and was that a tear that rolled down its cheek to its chin as it recalled its real purpose in life?

If above is the picture of innocence, what is this next one? A single raindrop on each barb transforms the fence but it can only partially disguise its wickededness. We are not that easily fooled ...
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Thirty minutes after the rain stopped the secret valley was shrouded in mist as the cooled air reacted with the warm earth. A short battle for supremacy ensued but, along with a slash of blue sky came a winning dart of sunlight and the mist fell to the ground, disappearing as quickly as the rain.

"A Massive Piece of Granite"

2010-08-06T13:34:00.000-07:00

It is a family joke that whenever a large piece of stone is seen, one person asks "What is it?" and the other answers - slowly and after much deliberation and head scratching - "well, it's a massive piece of granite". For, many years ago, this was the only answer we got from an old countryman at an ancient stone burial chamber that towered above us.

Burial chambers, stone circles and other standing stones, which mostly date back 5000 years or so are reasonably common around Britain,and a surprising number of them are quite impressive. There are several scattered around the Cotswolds and I have written about our little known and little visited Old Soldier and also the very well known and very much visited stone circle, the Rollright Stones.

The Old Soldier

The Rollright Stones

Far more scarce and, perhaps even more impressive, are the stone 'clapper' bridges. These are often not as old as they look although, even these, were probably built the best part of a 1000 years ago. I find these bridges, which are mostly in the West Country on Dartmoor and Exmoor, just as impressive as Stonehenge, England's world famous ancient stone monument. The clapper bridge in the photoographs below is at Postbridge, on Dartmoor, in the county of Devon. This clapper bridge was built to aid the transport of tin from moorland mines about 1200AD.

The 'new' bridge in the background, which carries the road and car traffic over the East Dart river is a mere upstart, having been built about 1780. In the photo below, I love the way the arch of the new bridge is framed by the 'arch' of the old one.

The granite slabs measure over 4 metres (13ft) long and are over 2 metres (6ft 6in) wide and weigh over 8 tons each. Despite this, over the centuries they have been swept away downstream by floods. Some have been rebuilt many times, others lost forever. However did they, without modern technology, transport them?
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The bridge just invites you to step onto it and it can be the starting point of many walks that lead across the open moorland. It was for me, a couple of months ago. On that walk, I found deserted settlements and the most incredible stone circle - unusual in that there were two circles side by side. I shall write more of this soon.

Even now, when a special occasion needs to be commemorated it is to stone that we often turn to. To my knowledge, no modern material is in common use to mark the burial place of a loved one: we mark our graves in a very similar way as our most distant ancestors, with stone slabs.

We also use stone to mark more joyous occasions. This standing stone was placed on Ibstone Common, high in the Chiltern Hills, to commemorate the millenium. A small thread that unites us through 5000 years of history and far into the future - a comforting thought.
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Anatomy of a Flower Arrangement

2010-07-31T14:58:00.001-07:00

How often does a garden plan go awry only to find that you have something equally as good, if not better, instead? This is what happened to one of my designs, a large area taking up almost one quarter of a walled kitchen garden.
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Formal beds, surrounded by box(wood) hedging and topiary, were planted to create what was to be a tisane, or herbal tea, garden. All the plants were supposed to be suitable for making infusions for either medicinal or culinary use. Something went wrong and, for reasons unknown, half the plants either died or refused to flourish. In desperation, we turned it into a cutting garden where flowers could be harvested for arrangements for the big house - actually, the mystery house I used to dream of as a child. I have written about this house before and the tale of my arriving there two hundred years after I had died....

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Concentrating on those plants that survived the initial planting, I decided to see how they would cope with being used as cut flowers and the result was much better than expected. The flowers were cut in the middle of the hottest day of this year so far - not ideal conditions - and then plunged up to their necks in water for the rest of the afternoon. They looked poorly and drooping when first arranged but perked up overnight and now, ten days later, look as fresh as ever.

Much of the structure is created with a framework of Artemisia 'Powis Castle'. I find that to get the best results it is necessary to prune this shrub down to ground level each spring. They then produce long wands of stunning silvery foliage. A bitter herb used for all sorts of ailments, I would have to feel very ill before I would consider drinking a tea made from this!

At this point, I should stress, that I am no herbalist so I do not recommend that you try out any of these plants without deciding for yourself whether they will do you good or kill you instead.

Hemp Agrimony, Eupatorium cannabinum, is a British native plant, normally found growing in damp places but quite happy in the garden border. The Joe Pye of America, it is claimed that it is good for many different ailments but especially good for gout.

A big surprise, was this Spearmint. In the cutting garden it has grown exceptionally tall (and like all mints, proving rather invasive) with attractive, fine flowers. This is, of course, one that I can safely recommend for use as a culinary herbal tea, very refreshing on a hot summers day and good if you suffer with indigestion.

Lavender needs no introduction. Oddly enough, because of soil conditions, I thought they would struggle in this garden. Instead, they have thrived.

Marjoram, another common herb that grows wild in England on sunny banks, also needs no description from me. It is our best bee and butterfly plant in the garden, even outrivalling Buddleias. We grow it in huge patches throughout the garden.
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Leaving the best to last and the biggest surprise of the lot! Marsh-mallow, Althaea officinalis, another UK native. This was the first time I had grown it and it is now one of my 'signature' plants that I try to incorporate into every design. Related to Hollyhocks but only about half their height and very much more delicate in every way, except one - they are as tough as old boots!

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Beautiful, downy, soft-as-velvet leaves and the merest hint of pink flowers, they require no staking, suffer from no pests or diseases and grow year after year, getting ever stronger. And, of course, you can always make marshmallow sweets to eat from their dried, powdered roots.

This recipe comes from my old herbal, although I have never tried to make them:
2oz marsh mallow root, 14oz fine sugar mixed with gum tragacanth and enough orange flower water to bind altogether. Quite what you do after that I have no idea - perhaps just eat them?
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Blogging One Year On....

2010-07-26T15:10:00.000-07:00

Greetings from the secret valley! Today is a special day for it is exactly one year since my very first post.
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the secret valley
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When I began blogging, it occurred to me that, as what I was writing would be in the 'public domain', that someone might read it. However, deep down, I didn't think that anyone would. It is a constant surprise that it is read and that the number of viewings is in the thousands rather than just half a dozen or so. Thank you so much.
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Like many of you, I write for my own pleasure but, knowing that the words are read, I do make some effort to write coherently and, hopefully, interestingly - not always, I fear, with success. The secret valley is always a source of inspiration and, sitting at my computer, I look out across the fields to the trees and the little, winding river. The photo below is what I see every day and never forget just how lucky I am.
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view of the secret valley from my desk
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And so, one year on, you have followed me through the seasons:
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in the cold

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and as the weather warms
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You have followed me on my travels:
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Grafton Street, Dublin, Ireland

Lee Bay, Exmoor

You have met my family:

The old nags

and the very special She-dog

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And you have witnessed my gardening:

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my successes....
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....and my failures
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But best of all, through blogging, I have met interesting people from all over the world, from all walks of life and I am all the richer for it.
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and sometimes I still can't get the spacing right between paragraphs - is it me or is it Blogger?!