Googling Gooseberries

Kingston Lacy, near Wimborne Minster in Dorset on Saturday.  Two and a half hours drive away but I'm attempting to fulfil my husband's desire to visit every National Trust property in the book.

The rain held off for our picnic although the air was damp and humid and  a thousand tiny flying black insects wanted to share it with us.

In the Japanese garden

they were holding a tea tasting ceremony

which we walked past but didn't partake.  I usually try and keep moving in public places now,

 avoid too much eye contact....never quite sure what Robin might say to an unsuspecting member of the public - or their child or dog.

In the walled vegetable garden fennel and 

its fronds.

 Paths between the beds lined with Calendula marigolds and

rows and rows of new sweet peas twisting round bamboo canes - butterfly fragile.

In the rose garden...magenta and 

 pale gold.....and in the long blue and white border  by the house -

Agapanthus for my uncle H in Canada 

and for my grandfather - in memory of Knysna, SA.

Supper when we got home - a celebration of the first broad beans, the first green beans -  all from the farmers'  market - ours at the allotment are a long way off.

Today was my favourite kind of day - no appointments - husband in the company of dear people morning and afternoon. I spend some of it in the hot sun at the allotment, weeding, picking, breathing.

Come home in time to make lunch with bags so heavy I contemplated leaving them behind and going back with the car to collect them. But I'm too impatient, can't wait, so lug them all the way -  which isn't that far -  only about 8 minutes -  and unpack a box of strawberries, two boxes of red currants, two huge lettuces - one floppy, one crisp, eight stems of perky asparagus, five globe artichoke heads, a fat bundle of slender pink rhubarb and the heaviest of all  - nearly 4 kilos of gooseberries.

Now I have the happy task of deciding what to do with them. My allotment neighbour who has even more of them than us suggests jam, chutney, cordial, sauce, crumble, fool and freezing them. Up to now I haven't loved gooseberries  - all that sugar required to make them edible.

 But they look fit to burst with such juicy promise that I'm going to put my prejudice aside and Google gooseberries.

Missing My Own Life

Captive owls and ducks outside, copper sinks, brass ladles and  Japanese lacquer cabinets inside  at Saltram House near Plymouth where we spent the longest day of the year.

 I was slaying memories of the last time we came here in January when I  was lost to myself in a black hole of rage and righteousness - marching  along the river path round the perimeter of the grounds - longing to be in the middle of the winter gardens instead.

So now I've picked some different memories  - a half finished picnic on a bench looking out over the estuary...gathering wild garlic leaves on their last gasp of life, wilting in the shade of an avenue of beech trees....an  expensive pot of coffee drunk out of elegant tea cups, and a slice of Bakewell lime tart sitting under a towering oak tree.....not going for a walk  -long or short - and not minding about it.

Driving home I have a thought that twists my stomach.  Buried within the longest day is the beginning of the end of summer....endings hang around me like net curtains at an open window, always ready to blow in my face, brush away my present moment, if I'm not careful.  And I wonder how many longest days I have left. Not an answerable question and one I don't usually think of.

But it takes me to another question....as my days and years are finite what if I was squandering them, carelessly, these one I have left, these ones I take for granted? What if I was missing them  - these hours and these years, rushing on to the next thing and the next, holding my breath till it's over and  then what? Missing my own life for the sake of taking a breath.

Going With The Flow

At the allotment this evening I transplant the four little very healthy looking basil plants in the greenhouse  into bigger pots - using the copper trowel is supposed to stop the slugs and snails. It didn't work on the Russian Kale  though which has been decimated by something hungry.

This slightly prehistoric looking plant - might be flax - has seeded itself into the asparagus bed. Can't bring myself to pull it up. The bees love it.

One the birds didn't eat yet....

or these - but only a matter of time.

Masses of red currants trying to break out of their cages which the black birds have still found their way into. I don't mind them eating the red currants though - less for me to  pick - not my favourite anyway. Give me a blackcurrant any day....

Victoria plums in their prime before the wasps break and enter....

I remember I have three of these globe artichokes in the fridge that I picked the other day and we still haven't eaten them...will need to wash off the invasion of black fly in the base of their leaves first.

Loving this fountain of lettuces....

The tomatoes in the green house have nearly reached the roof - the smell of them always takes me back to my father's vegetable garden and his long rows  of them in the polytunnel  - the hot perfume of high summer.

It feels like the beginning of summer today - endless heat stretching the air to its limits.  After an economical shopping trip to Aldi we drive out to Bickley in the Exe Valley for the treat of lunch in a pub - lawns sloping down to the river. Every time we drive past we say we must go there  - and decide today is the day.

As soon as we enter the cool darkness of the pub Robin pulls a face and says he doesn't like it. I pick up a menu and take it outside on the terrace. I read him the options - it sounds like good basic pub fare. Most of the tables are full. The river splashes over a weir below. I can see he doesn't want to stay.

Shall we go somewhere else?

No.

Would you rather have lunch at home?

Yes I want to go home. I want to go to bed.

 So, leaving the rushing river, we get back in the hot car and drive home through the lanes fringed with white cow parsley waving to a blue sky.

  He says sorry.

I say it really isn't a problem  - better to go with what you feel. And I realise after a brief, initial 'Oh for  God's sake' moment I really don't mind. Not like I used to when I thought I could push the river in the direction it wasn't flowing.

 So while he sleeps I fill up two plates with lettuce and wild garlic, herbs from the garden, cucumber, celery, red peppers and tomatoes, a square of savoury carrot and oat flapjack I bought in the market yesterday, a sprinkle of pumpkin seeds and a slug of French dressing. 

I cover his plate, leave it on the counter  and carry mine out into the hot bright  garden where I eat it at the table to the sound of the neighbours having an argument - imagining I can hear a river roaring over a weir instead....going with the flow.

Cotton Bud/Small White Maggot

Ladybird 

blessing

 our garden oregano.

Down by the river Otter this afternoon in sunshine and shade -  walking off last night's lost sleep - encouraging husband not to eat the hedgerows.

Spent last night in the A&E at the hospital. Mostly in the waiting room. Waiting for the doctor to look down Robin's ear and hoick out the end of the cotton bud lodged in there.  Cotton bud in his ear - steam coming out of mine. I'm cross and tired - it's 12.30pm and we've just been told it'll be a two hour wait to see the doctor. Robin says he wants to go home. I bribe him to stay with snacks from the vending machine.  But no coffee as the machine is broken. A few people sit slumped in the plastic covered chairs, heads in hands  - waiting like us.

I read The South West Herald, Cat Monthly and Hello Magazine while Robin tuts and sighs and apologises endlessly beside me. This has happened before. He's been banned from cotton buds but he has found a way..... The problem is his itchy ears. He's agreed to stick to ear drops instead now.

At 2am we are called in to the ward. The young doctor peers into Robin's ear with a pointy torch and pointy forceps. She can't get it out...... calls for the Ear/Nose/Throat man who comes twenty minutes later with another pointy bendy instrument. He looks about 12 years old but digs out the offending cotton bud like a small white maggot. The relief - for both of us - is like drawing breath for the first time.

Back home and in bed by 3am where I remember to take more deep breaths and give up being cross.