Retail therapy

Don't get me wrong - I'm not mired in the Slough of despond. Not by any means. I remain fairly chipper. Quite chipper anyway. The cream jug is still half full.

I can't help feeling though that a few days of sunshine would lift the spirits; the summer I can recall with certainty was on May 21st, 22nd and 23rd and it's been downhill since. The cooler, damper, more humid weather has made the garden grow for certain. This is a Good Thing. (See how even in the face of massive weed invasion and borders like the Mato Grosso I remain resolutely upbeat?) Our holiday is ages off as well....

And another thing: those bastard poultry mites can clear off. I've given eradication my best shot. I've blow-torched out the three houses and sprayed each 3 times as per the instructions on the container. I've begun a course of treatment for the birds which they are not being terribly cooperative about. I've itched and scratched, looked stupid in all sorts of hats, masks, overalls and gloves and still some buggers remain in the nooks and crannies.  But ha! I know for a fact there are many thousands of thousands less. And this is A Good Thing too.

Retail therapy is called for. I believe it is a proven fact that shopping is good for you. Not the grocery/toilet paper/compost/petrol-for-lawnmower/new tyres sort of shopping but the uplifting feel-good sort involving frivolous things of utter gorgeousness.  It's a bit limited round here but still possible. What did I come up with?

Here's my purchase: a scrumptious leather bag from Matt Fothergill's shop in Clun.

Soft and smooth, it smells divine - to me at least. We think the colour - it's not a brown or a grey or a black - is best described as 'dark elephant'.

The inside is soft and green, like a hawthorn hedge in spring. Lots of handy capacious pockets to hold life's essentials. I make a mental note to keep the detritus of till receipts, tissues and toffees that tend to lurk at the bottom of my bags to a minimum. This is a bag. Not a bin.

I also - and I will say this very, very, quietly because it is still July - bought a Christmas present. Quite a successful outing.

I'm off now to stroke it's lovely sides and inhale a bit of  that new leather aroma. For medicinal purposes only.....ah, that's better. I feel quite restored.

Thought for the day:

The pick-up has developed a disconcerting squeak. It would be impossible to arrive anywhere unannounced in it. The Glam Ass, spotting a quiet moment at Jack's Tyres in Welshpool, got it put on the ramp to see if he/they could spot the problem. (He/they could, but I've forgotten what it was.)

The usually chirpy Gary, obviously having a Bad Day, announced:

'If it's got tits or wheels it's trouble.'


Indeed.....

Lumps and bumps

I'm curious.

The landscape's mysterious man-made lumps and bumps are tantalising. Silent clues to the past which I so wish could talk. Who built what? And why? What were their lives like? Who trudged, spat, shivered, loved, lived and died? Kids must have been kids....what games did they play? I just ache with wanting to know.

Doreen has beguiled a young archaeologist into giving us a conducted tour of a local Iron Age hill fort - the Beacon Ring.
I've cancelled all other engagements - this is a 'must do' opportunity.

The Beacon Ring is about a mile from where I live and a fairly significant landmark. Two huge masts which transmit television signals across mid-Wales dominate the site. They're quite useful - meaning we can always spot somewhere near home.

The earthwork is a fortified site built on the southern reaches of the Long Mountain, before Wales and England emerged as separate nations. We were all Britons then. To celebrate the Queen's coronation in 1953 it was someones inspired idea to plant the area - a well defined upland 'ring' with stunning views to east and west - with a mixture of Beech and Sequoia spelling out 'ER II'. That's commemorative, arboreal graffiti if you like, as if giving it a description makes this destructive planting of an Ancient Monument any more excusable. The detail is visible only from above of course. You can check it out on Google Earth.
Here is the view, looking north west over the Severn plain towards the Cambrian Mountains. Anyone approaching from this direction and  intent on wreaking destruction would be out of breathe and good for nothing after the steep climb up the bank I think.

CPAT have now acquired the site and plan a study of the site which will involve not only archaeological investigation lasting decades but also the removal of trees and restoration of the land to more sympathetic use. Hurrah for them.

These lumps and bumps are so well defined but have apparently not been surveyed before although the site is quite well known - being allegedly the place where St Elystan/Edelstan (and who gave his name to Trelystan) died in battle around 1000AD and a place where many skirmishes must have taken place in those restless times. Hard to imagine now, as we stand and look out on the quiet landscape spread beneath us, and hear only the rustle of a faint breeze through those commemorative beech trees and the 'gronk' of Ravens dancing on the wing.

My imagination has already gone into overdrive. My mind's eye sees men lugging earth and stone to construct ditches and banks - with tools a modern builder would laugh at. I see battles and bitter winters when a wicked wind howls up the valley......but there would also be days like today where under summer skies we can amble slowly through knee length grass and pick sweet wild berries.....

Tell me more. Let there be treasure, something. Gold. Post holes. Anything.

Chicken stuff again (I really should get a life...)

The chickens, now aged 6 weeks, are on the field at last. Hurrah. This is A Good Thing. The garage has been restored to garage-dom but not car storage and I must look at a dusty Audi outside the kitchen window for a bit longer. Quite a lot longer I suspect and this is Not A Good Thing.

Not a good picture I'm afraid - they are not in the least compliant about lining up neatly for the team photo. At present all 13 fit into the little house but at the rate they are growing they will need to move on soon. I have 7 cockerels still looking for a home. The picture below is of their father, a handsome chap.

Elsewhere in my poultry empire the dreaded red mites have come back to bite me and once again I am taking remedial action. Today I've cleared and blow-torched one house and tomorrow will apply some foul and lethal chemical to all surfaces, cracks and crevices. The prospect of doing this to the other two  houses does not thrill - neither does the thought of catching and treating 22 uncooperative birds.

The mere thought is too itchy scratchy for words - having showered and put on clean clothes I'm switching off hen thoughts and thinking 'big glass of chilled white wine' instead. Cheers.

Pretty wonderful really isn't it?

Anybody remember January? January when the snow was as deep as a dog in a dingle? In the bleak mid-winter indeed. I'd stand at the window in a room with the log burner roaring and stretch my imagination. Leaves, flowers and fruit; an impossible notion. Suffice then to be sheltered and dream. Would green and warm and frutiful ever happen?

It's been a long slow haul this year; a late spring and dry months since. I'm an impatient soul and find it hard to tick off the produce we have actually enjoyed to date. I have worked hard on the garden - I want to reap the benefits. In truth there has been much to enjoy already.

Today I picked beans, courgette, cucumber, raspberries and (as they would say in these parts) a ruck of basil. I feel as if summer's harvest is now coming in. This is how it should be.

That ruck of Basil - what a wonderful herb it is. We will have pasta with prawns and pesto tonight. A handful of basil, pine nuts and Parmesan; a little garlic and seasoning and a gloop of olive oil. Wish I could say I made like it an Italian matron and using pestle, mortar and muscle power. Nope, it's all whizzed up in the Magimix, seasoning adjusted and ready to serve. Plenty for tonight and plenty to stir into new potatoes or dip a bread stick into. Oh, what greedy souls we are.

Pretty good really. I count my blessings.

Drizzle....

...it must be July. In Wales.

We're in the clouds tonight, up here on the top of the Long Mountain.

I may well be still thinking that we've only just got over a particularly bleak winter but in truth the past couple of months have been fantastic. I have the farmer's tan and the Birkenstock-ed feet to prove it. Rain has fallen infrequently and at night. That may be inconvenient in one respect - plants have needed watering - but has also meant we have spent much time outdoors. We've cooked outside quite a lot - and I realise that while I'm not too bothered about barbecued food I do love sitting in the garden, glass in hand,  feeling the day ebb away. Things to see, hear and smell - late birds and bats dodge and dart over the dingle and the scent of lavender and dianthus hangs in the warm air. Occasionally the rustle of a breeze or the low of a distant beast breaks the silence. My thoughts turn to the end of the day when we are on Paxos - days which can hardly be described as busy for us visitors - but at twilight the buzzing of the little boats and motor bikes has stopped, the inky Ionian is still and stirred only by the slightest slap of water meeting the harbour wall. The lights of Loggos twinkle. All is well with my world......

....Back to the here and now - tonight I am on the top of a low mountain in Wales. At hen-shutting-in time I felt the prickle of wet against my face and watched mist wind over the dark face of  Badnage Wood. It's in no way unpleasant, but rather fresh and clean.

We're in the process of moving the hens to different enclosures - in theory an easy task, but in reality a logistical nightmare involving temporary pens and much cursing on behalf of the Glam Ass. (Erecting 200m of electric poultry fencing with one's husband surely qualifies as grounds for divorce?) This complicates the shutting-in task, as does chasing a sheep and persuading the Rhode Island Reds that inside is a better bet than on the roof. (I have a theory that hens are so hard to herd because they have eyes on the side of their heads. Well? Have you a better one?)

Plenty of time then to appreciate the cool damp night as I stand in the field with my stick, alternately whupping the tops off thistles and nudging birds along. Not really enough rain to do much good at all in the garden. Those peas and beans really do need water.

Better be careful of what I wish for.....one can have too much of a good thing.

Later - Tuesday:

Well, the hens are now relocated - each in their own little enclosure, closely mown and surrounded by electric fence (though don't tell Mr Fox that until the battery is charged it isn't a threat). It looks like text book poultry keeping. I'm sending up silent prayers to whichever god is responsible for wheels on hen-houses; despite the gloomiest of the Glam Ass's predictions, which stretched to several day's worth of moaning, hauling a hen house behind the little yellow tractor was a walk in the park. We finished staking, stretching mesh and cable-tying at mid-day - and are still speaking. Call the divorce lawyers off.

Drizzle still embraces the Long Mountain. The air is still fresh and clean.

My contender for the most boring purchase of 2010

£286.00!!! Splutter. Gulp. Gasp.

That nearly covers the cost of a flight to NYC. It's almost half a coveted iPad.  It could be something yummy and stroke-ably lovely....sigh

....but is in fact 2 new tyres for my car.  As thrilling a purchase as toilet cleaner, dishcloths or mouse traps. Gulp again.


A flat tyre warranted investigation at Jack's Tyres in Welshpool and investigation revealed both front tyres to be worn to a point of danger due to faulty tracking.  A blow-out at any point and especially at speed, was apparently a real possibility. Even my small, fluffy and unmechanical brain knew this was not A Good Thing and that making good was going to cost money. We'll gloss over the fact that Jack's Tyres fitted the last set and might just have noticed that the aforesaid tracking wasn't right before letting me drive off.

The eponymous Jack rustled up the least expensive tyres he could find and one of his team of oily young men fitted them and adjusted the tracking. If these are 'mid-range' how much are the expensive ones? And who, apart from Arab Sheiks, can afford to buy them? And why?

Still, I'm safer now than I was 24 hours ago and as much as I resent coughing up nearly 300 smackers for something as unsexy as tyres I know it's preferable to ending up as a mess on the highway.

See what I mean? Surely one of the ugliest and unwantable objects possible.

A detour

There I was, minding my own business in downtown Trelystan, pinning a poster to the 'village' noticeboard when I was hailed by an urgent looking and very lost lady.

Did I know where the pony-trekking centre was?

A quick think - and I swear that one could hear all the cogs whirring in my head - and erm, yes. I did.

Giving directions though was a different matter - this lady and the two excited girls giggling in the back of her car didn't seem up to taking extra information on board. They were late for a pony-trekking-party date. Late, late, late. It was all getting A Bit Too Much.

Would I take them there? Well I would but my car was seriously short of fuel and while I thought I might just about coast down the hill to Welshpool a 12 mile detour (and yes, these poor souls had gone round and round in so many circles that there were THAT far off target) wasn't possible.

Could I come with them - and she'd drive me back to my car?

So it was that I hopped into a car with three strangers and led them off down the lane which runs along the side of the Long Mountain - a lane so skinny, narrow and underused that one seems to be entering a lost world. We glide between long grass and wildflowers on the roadside and glimpse hidden bosky valleys through gaps in hedges hung with honeysuckle and roses. We agree the landscape is beautiful in these parts.

We found the pony trekking centre - which also had holiday cabins and an idyllic view over the Rea valley. The excited little girls rushed off to their pony-trekking-birthday-treat and their mother, good as her word dropped me back at my car. She was a lovely lady and I hope one day we'll meet again.

It was only afterwards when I started to think about the strangeness of this interlude that I wondered about the wisdom of disappearing to goodness-knows-where in a stranger's car. Not really from my point of view; she didn't fit the profile of the average axe murderer and I don't think I'm white slave material, but what about the two little girls and all those lectures about 'stranger danger'? What messages were given to them about caution and judicious behavior regarding strangers when mum whisks someone she has only met moments ago, off in her car? I hope she talks it through with them. Perhaps the message that not all strangers are potentially dangerous is a good one too.

Sweet peas

Cold winter, late spring, dry spell - everything in the garden is slow. The spinach has bolted, something horrible has happened to 3 rows of garlic and 2 hens have decided that life is too much of a trial and have, inexplicably, gone to that great roost in the sky. Sigh.

Never mind. The sweet peas are twining skyward on their canes and today I picked my first stems; fragrant beauties.

And the world seems a brighter, righter place.

a trip 'oop north and other diversions

It was late morning when I finally got going, having fiddled around at home so much I wondered if I really wanted to go at all. Up north that is. Of course I did - my spirit of adventure and sense of curiosity were just a bit sluggish on Thursday morning. The hardest bit of any journey I think is actually getting in the car and turning out of the drive.

Once on the road, on my own, on my own mini-break, euphoria set in. I was off, unencumbered, the world for 24 hours at least was my own personal oyster. No husband. No dogs. No hens. No garden. No blasted WI. No commitments. Don't get me wrong I love 'em all - it's just sometimes a gal needs time to breathe. Freeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

Here are my snapshots:

The hills and fields of Wales slip away as I head north. Lanes become roads and roads become motorways. Traffic increases as I enter the suburbs and the once familiar landscape of south Manchester. I don't know why I have a feeling that everything will be different because I have not been here for a while. Things are essentially still the same.

John Lewis did not disappoint.  How sad that what used to be (almost) my corner shop is now a treat. I stand and drool in front of the towel display. I touch and stroke fabrics. I try on extremely impractical clothes which mostly make me look like an overstuffed cushion or an old squishy sofa.  I am amazed by all the 'stuff' - like a monkey with a piece of glass. The choice of 'stuff' is overwhelming and faced with such an array and the need for some credit card action, I eventually buy a pair of shoes and 3 lanterns for the nearly-finished 'hovel'.

My friend J, head of things artistic at a college in south Manchester, has invited me to her students' end of year show. It is most, most impressive. The work is technically accomplished and mature. Students are showing parents their displays  and those parents are bursting with pride. The College has a new building which is also on display. It apparently cost £20 million and is superbly equipped; suites with banks of computers, a theatre, recording studios, dance studio, practice rooms and a library on the top floor with views across the city to the Pennines beyond.  I do wonder how those of us educated in medieval gatehouses or Victorian mansions using only pen and paper ever made our way in the world.

After the exhibition when the last student, high on achievement, has been shooed out with its proud parent, and the doors locked we go off for a meal and a well deserved glass of wine. We go to Albert's - a big old Didsbury pub once known as the Barleycorn and now reincarnated as a hip and trendy eatery. Its insides have been gutted; lounge bars, snugs and vaults replaced by a vast open space filled with tables and chairs and lots of ambient light and sound. It's pretty busy too - those tables are mostly full inside and out. We opt to eat indoors. The food is good and arrives quickly. The wine is chilled and welcome. I notice that on our table at least the iPhone is very much in evidence. (They have been placed reverently on the table by their owners who caress them periodically.)  It is very obviously the object de nos jours. There is much talk of Apps. I keep my crap-rubbish phone out of sight and secretly lust after a little Apple beauty. One of our number has an iPad which he ostentatiously flaunts, knowing, just knowing, that we all want one not-so-secretly. It is passed round the table for us, the Pad-less, to admire. I am reminded of back in the 80s how the early mobile phones - as big and heavy as car batteries - were also paraded as conspicuously; objects of one-up-manship.

I sleep in J's attic room, looking up at the stars through the skylight before I drop off. The night is not quiet and still. The traffic buzzes in the distance, a police car wails and there's one hell of a good party going on a couple of streets away.

The following morning after coffee and toast I take a nostalgic mooch around our old neighbourhood, resisting the temptation to knock on doors and do some catching up.  I am a tad nostalgic for those good old days, sunny afternoons which won't come round again - especially now that Heaton Moor looks so much brighter and vibrant than when I arrived fresh from the country in 1971.

However, the future now calls and I have an appointment in the YFC marquee on the Shropshire County Showground in Shrewsbury. I must don my badge and judge class YF2 - the best mounted photograph of the County Chairman in Action. I hope I made the right choices - that phrase 'the judge's decision is final' has a wonderfully authoritative ring to it don't you think.

........

Did anyone click on my medieval link above? I knew I was going to see a picture of part of my old school but was quite surprised to see my form room when I was in VI b2 - looking considerably less shabby than it did when I was there. In retrospect I guess it was something of a privilege to be educated in such a quirky and  historic building. I wonder if the winding stairway still pongs of the old lost property box which was always stuffed with grubby gym kit? I wonder if it found a buyer.

Bird dog and birds.

Imagine. You've been bustled indoors while something interesting goes on outside. You have your nose pressed to the door the better to draw in those outdoor aromas; pongs of this and whiffs of that and.....................bird!

Your patience is rewarded when one of your Beloved People lets you out. With a leap and a bound you are on the case; no point in dithering. If you thought the words 'cartoon dog' were mentioned you would have heard correctly. You were bloody right too! There are birds! Let's get at 'em.

Sorry Chester, you and those chickens must stay on separate sides of the pen. No amount of text-book 'pointing' on your part will make me change my mind. I know they would be a tasty snack. Soft-centres too. You are a Pointer. Stick to pointing.

These are the chickens at just over two weeks old. How quickly they grow. They will need to be moved on from their 'tub' in the garage soon. Today was warm enough to bring them outside and let them see the outside world for the first time. I put them on the lawn in the dog crate, in the sun but with some dappled shade to retreat to. Quite an overwhelming experience for them I think. Sensory overload after a fortnight in a black tub under a warm red light. If they'd been under a broody hen she would have had them outdoors already, teaching them to peck and scratch. I am a poor substitute.

Their feathers are coming through and they are looking gawky. I wonder how many cockerels there are - it is a little too soon to tell from their appearance. One might expect 50:50, but with 13 birds that's never going to work out. Sod's law tells me that because I want hens there will be a predominance of males.

If you would like a cockerel in due course - please do speak up. They make excellent alarm clocks.

Longest day

If you live in the land of the midnight sun this is all going to seem fairly inconsequential - but I still find  evenings as light as this pretty magical.

I watched a thin red line on the horizon shortly after 4.00am this morning; dawn. It was light enough to see nothing was happening in the field under our window. Birds, beasts and people slept on. Me included.

The day rattled by - wall to wall sunshine. Places to go, people to see. Holes to dig, plants to plant. Stuff to do. Stuff not done. Sigh.

Now at 10.32pm it's only vaguely dark outside. I've watched flirty pink clouds jib from west to north; seen vapour trails from mile-high planes trace grey lines from north to south. In the west the sky is the palest clearest blue. Hens are reluctant to roost, daisies are luminous on the bank and somewhere in the distance a tractor driver makes a last cut of hay. There's a moon somewhere too. I can see my hand in front of my face, read the headlines in the newspaper - and if I wasn't so damned tired I'd go for a walk. Right. Now.

As it is I think I'll turn in - better make the most of what is probably the shortest night.

It's a jungle out there. A walk round the garden.

One moment I'm wondering what has survived the winter, then next gasping in amazement at how quickly everything has grown. A bit of warm and a bit of wet has stirred everything into lush and abundant growth. I seem to be the proud owner of a jungle.

To be honest I wish there could be a bit more warm and a lot less wet - I'm rather a fair weather gardener and prefer to do my weeding under sunny skies. The weeds grow regardless.

Just inside the gate is my 'hot border' - which I may have mentioned previously is something I'd never tackled before moving here to a virgin plot. It has been great fun to put together - vibrant reds and fiery oranges, sunny yellows and deep purples. I love its loud brashness. For a few short weeks these scarlet poppies are worth their weight in gold - they will be followed by lilies - a great painterly splash of brilliant red. I've noticed that some softer hues have inadvertently crept in - naughty pale Aquilegia undermines my careful scheme. They must be dealt with.

I have unwanted visitors in my 'white border' too - delicate papery poppies - variety unknown or forgotten - turn out to be pink not white. Damn.

This border at present is dominated by two mighty Angelicas - they seem to thrive here and the bee population of Treylstan is drawn to their fist-sized and skeletal umbels. Behind this border is a small lawn shaded by an allée of Carpinus betulus - Hornbeam. How posh that sounds. Just think 2 rows of big trees to hide the barns on the other side of the wall. I do like this space though - very quiet and calm after the boisterous reds and flouncy pink-and-white.

A snatched portrait of one pink poppy. I spy purple in here too - more Aquilegia.

Below is 'Snow Goose' - a David Austen rose bought from Sainsbury's which enjoys a south facing aspect outside the kitchen door. It's so good I bought it twice; a small rambler having clusters of small creamy flowers throughout the summer, lightly scented too. A good do-er.

Now to the back of the house and a north east aspect - not the easiest  - and what should be a topiary edged border with a spring-time wave of Allium 'Purple Sensation'. Those are both there alright, but I have vigorous geraniums making a bid for freedom too, bursting out of their box edged bounds. Beware of friends bearing gifts of 'Bevan's Variety'....

Spires of Foxglove tower at front and back - for the white variety I am grateful to elizabethm. The now ubiquitous Patty's Plum does well here too.

Then to the kitchen garden  and vegetables. At last the raised beds seem to be more green than brown.

How busy it looks with canes and stakes, netting and cages - and plants of course, all the usual suspects: onions, garlic and beans, peas, brassicas and a hedge of last year's parsley jostle for space. There's room for a few flowers in here to lighten the mood - sweet peas to twine up sticks and a handful of violas and marigolds to toss onto green salad leaves nestle in amongst Webb's Wonder and some esoteric ruby lettuce leaves. All very slow this year I think.

This is a non-picture and I can't think why I took it 'cept I know that on the right hand side is the most wonderful bank of ox-eye daisies and that I just love this little path which meanders through the grass. This is the Glam. Ass's wild flower meadow and my picture does not do it justice.

Then there are all the corners still unseen; the orchard, the pond and the dingle where we try to blend garden with the landscape beyond. Our places, loved, cared for and considered.

We sometimes, as the light is falling, trace this walk around the garden, taking stock. The dogs snuffle and scent the invisible while we point and comment on the day's minuscule changes to this or that. We make mental notes to do or to leave alone. There is bird song and the bleat of a lamb from the hill. Smells may be aggressively agricultural or sweet and of pinks and thyme. Like tonight the air may be wet and cool. The force of the green stuff growing around us is palpable and powerful. Just being can be breath-taking.

I am trying hard but not sure if I will ever keep up.

Not exactly hay-making...almost

We are moving the hen houses and their inhabitants onto fresh land and into what will be a fairly sophisticated arrangement of electrified pens and sub-divisions further up in the field. Trust me, it will work.

But first we must clear the ground - mow the grass so it does not 'short' the fencing. My ever resourceful Glam. Ass. first cuts the knee-high grass with his Allen Scythe. We now have swathes of wilting grass and the prospect of rain tomorrow. Better clear it up now then.

There is an area about the size of 2 tennis courts to rake up - plenty of time then to evoke scenes of yesteryear while I set to with the trusty hay rake. I pull and I drag. I make neat rows and sometimes, for variety I make little stacks. It's all a bit academic because the Glam Ass is not far behind with his little yellow tractor and transport box which we will load with all the cut grass to take up the lane. No one is going to admire this field work.

I've raked for all of 30 seconds before I've imagined myself into a Thomas Hardy landscape. I am Tess of the d'Urbervilles - and count my blessings that this is not a bleak turnip field but a sunlit mead. I rake for something like another 30 seconds before realising that I wouldn't want to do an awful lot more of this. All day for heaven's sake? I ache already.

We do stick at it and clear the small area. The Glam Ass has great fun driving his little yellow tractor and I take comfort in thinking about the calories burned up by raking and walking and loading....

My 'farmer's tan' is coming on nicely too.