Beehave Yourself!

One of my greatest pleasures whilst tending the flowers out on our terrace is when a passing bumblebee bumps against my arm and I can feel his wings, and he doesn’t get nasty or upset because he perhaps senses that I’m not going to hurt him, or maybe even he knows that I’m his friend (we gardeners are rather fanciful!). Even the ordinary honey bees don’t seem to mind my presence and they often fly close enough for me to feel the movement of their wings in the air. They never sting me, not like wasps – I’m allergic to them (and they seem to know it for they harass me regardless of my pretence at nonchalance); luckily, I haven’t seen many wasps this year.

However, I’ve seen thousands of bees this year, quite recently in fact, and not one by one… Chris discovered them last Friday when he was hanging out the washing in the garden on the sea-side of our house; obviously looking for a new home in which to hibernate for the winter, the bees were buzzing in and around the loose soil all over the steep bank leading down to the railway line. Much as we love bees we weren’t too sure that we wanted our garden to be overrun by them so Chris called Graham, a bee-keeping acquaintance of ours who might have been interested in housing a homeless hive of honey bees.

“They aren’t honey bees,” Graham began, “they’re too small and they are already making homes in the soil. Also it would be too difficult to gather them, and they won’t be honey producers.

“Oh dear,” Chris and I were thinking together, having not yet come to terms with the idea of sharing our garden with so many hobos.

“But they are good pollinators,” smiled the bee enthusiast.

“How many do you think there are?” Chris inquired.

“Oh, it’s only a very small swarm – about four and a half thousand bees,” replied Graham.

Chris was hanging out the washing again this morning (I do help sometimes – really!) and he came back upstairs with something of a triumphant smile on his face.

“They are still there,” he announced proudly.

“And they didn’t sting you or get annoyed?”

“No, most of them don’t even have stings. I was looking them up on Google,” my husband admitted. “I think they are either digger bees or miner bees – not to be confused with a mynah bird.”

I went upstairs and returned with my phone camera, made a bee-line to the hive of activity and took a few photos for my blog readers. While taking shots of our bee-loved new residents I noticed our neighbours’ pampas grass, tall and beautiful against a background of blue sky and sea, and I laughed to myself. 

“Why are you laughing?” Chris asked.

“The pampas grass,” I giggled, “I was wondering if Adrian and Sonia know what it means… Maybe I should tell them… But…”

“Bee-have yourself!” said Chris.

So I’m not going to tell them. They’ll have to read my blog to find out. I’ll copy and paste an article on the subject just in case you’re in the dark.

Ah, what beautiful pampas grass!

Embarrassed dog-walkers pass by with eyes fixed ahead!

Exclusive: Pampas grass sales are falling because it is a secret signal for swingers

For decades it was a common feature of suburban front gardens throughout Britain, adding a touch of exoticism to more everyday native planting.

But an unfortunate association with liberal sexual practices appears to have heralded the end of pampas grass as a gardener’s favourite.

Plant sellers says sales have plummeted – in no small part due to the plant being regarded as a secret signal to passersby that its owners are happy to indulge in swinging.

Many nurseries have stopped stocking it entirely, and even large suppliers have seen numbers plummet, as buyers shun the plant for fear of what it means.

Palmstead Nurseries, which sells plants to garden designers for households, commercial gardens and public spaces, says the plant has fallen out of favour.

A decade ago the firm, based in Ashford, Kent, was selling an average of 550 of the plants every year. Annual sales fell to less than 500 five years ago and are now as low as 250.

The plant is one of the least popular of the company’s grass varieties, some of which are so in demand that it sells thousands of plants every year.

Nick Coslett, the company’s marketing manager, said it had fallen out of fashion in part because it was seen as a signal that swingers lived in a house.

He said: “It’s just not in fashion at the moment.

“I’ve got no evidence that it was ever actually used for that – I think it goes back to the fact that it was planted in people’s front gardens.

“But there is that connotation, unfortunately. It’s all part of that 1970s, kitsch feel.”

The plant’s association with swinging has been dismissed as a myth by pampas enthusiasts, but broadcaster Mariella Frostrup said she had inadvertently identified herself as a swinger by planting the grasses outside her Notting Hill home a few years ago.

Since the arrival of her two Cortaderia selloana plants, the presenter said she had been inundated with unwanted inquiries.

Writing on Twitter she said at the time: “Bought two and put them on my balcony. Neighbours have been swarming!”

Steve Dawson, a buyer for Crocus, the largest gardening website in the UK, said it now sold around 300 pampas grass plants a year – a fraction of the amount it sold of other grass varieties.

“A lot of people used to put it in their front gardens – I think people are probably a bit embarrassed about doing that now,” he said.

Another plant nursery, Worcester-based Bransford Webbs, said it had stopped selling pampas grass altogether over a decade ago, because sales figures were so poor.

The plant comes in several different varieties, some of which can grow to up to eight feet (2.4m) tall.  

Most nurseries which still sold them said they tended to sell the Pumila variety, which is a, smaller, “dwarf” version of the larger plant. It grows to around five feet (1.5m).

Pampas grass is native to south America and is named for the Pampas region, fertile lowlands covering Brazil, Uruguay and Argentina, where they originally grew.

It is very hardy and can produce a significant number of seeds. This has led to the plant being seen as a weed in some countries.

In California, it is classed as an “invasive to avoid” plant, and people are discouraged from planting it in their gardens.

George Hillier, of the Hillier garden centre chain, which has 12 branches, said they had almost completely stopped stocking the plants due to low demand.

He said that embarrassment over the plant’s connotations could be a factor, but that its size and the difficulty of removing it was one of the main things putting gardeners off.

“They are very sharp and they’re very thick,” he said. “Once it’s in and really established, getting rid of it is a couple of days worth of work.”

 

Crushed Toads and Fish ‘n’ Chips

Most men would prefer to drive for miles out of the way and waste a litre of petrol rather than ask somebody for directions – wouldn’t they? My Chris is of that ilk. It happened again when we were staying at Nefyn, North Wales, last weekend.

We fancied fish and chips for dinner but our hosts couldn’t recommend any fish and chip shops in the area.

“We’re a bit funny about fish and chips these days,” said our host (also a Chris) in his Yorkshire accent.

After much head scratching, he came up with a place about thirty miles away, which is quite far when you’re in the hills, and neither of us even attempted to assign the place name to memory. In fact, all the driving about we did was simply to find the local fish and chip shop down the hill in the centre of the village.

There was no sign of any fish and chip shop on the main road, or on the beach road, or any of the side roads we took.

“Let’s ask them,” I suggested as we sped past a group of tattooed and chained bikers walking on the pavement.

“What about these girls?” I asked ten minutes later as we passed three tattooed teenagers with prams on the same pavement, but facing the opposite way.

“Why don’t we just go back to the Spar store we keep seeing on the main drag and buy some bread, butter and jam for tea?” Chris said wearily (he must have been sick of driving).

So we went into the Spar store and, whilst Chris ran around picking up the items for our simple tea, I made a bee-line for a sensible-looking lady member of staff and asked for directions to the local fish and chip shop.

Now I like to think that I have a “good ear” but I have to admit that I’m unaccustomed to the North Wales accent. The lady replied, not with a pretty lilt (as expected) but with funny sounds from the back of her mouth suggesting a great deal of spittle – as if she wore ill-fitting dentures:

“Go up to the crushed toads…

“Pardon?” I interjected.

“Go to the crushed toads…” the lady said a little more slowly but with even more spit.

“Hold on a moment,” I looked around for Chris and called out, “Chris..?”

At last he joined us and she was relieved to be able to get her sentence out:

“Go up to the crushed toads, turn right and it’s on the right.”

“What did she say?” I asked when we were on our own walking back to the car.

“Go to the cross roads…”

“Ah, well you would understand as you’re a quarter Welsh I suppose,” I laughed.

 

Up at “Gwendoline’s Chippy” a few minutes later we encountered those tattooed bikers, some tattooed older ladies and The Illustrated Man. (I thought there must be a very busy tattooist in Nefyn but Chris thought the customers were tourists from England.)

Chris and I are a bit funny about fish and chips nowadays. We thought our hosts’ chickens might enjoy our fish and chips that tasted like crushed toads but Pamela eyed the package suspiciously and placed it in her bin. Perhaps she, too, had an idea of what crushed toads tasted like. We had toast and jam for tea, which was delicious.

 

 

 

A Sexy Nightie (Not)

“I wish I’d brought a sexy nightie with me…” I said to my husband. 

“Oh, haven’t you?” Chris asked with mock disappointment (at least I think he was feigning).

Well, we have been married for over twenty years so my night attire wasn’t exactly my first priority (oh dear – what am I saying?). Perhaps it was the novelty of being away together in a foreign country that made me think of it.

Actually, North Wales is not foreign to Chris as he is one quarter Welsh and spent nearly all the summers of his childhood in Nevin (now Nefyn, since the return to Welsh language on all the signs); however, this was only my second visit to the place held so dear in my husband’s memory. And to make it even more exciting for me this time Chris took me first to the fantastic village of Portmeirion, which I had seen on television when I was child, for it was the location of the strange series called “The Prisoner”, the brainchild of Patrick McGoohan who devised the series and played the leading role of “Number 6”; but the most amazing thing about Portmeirion is that you would think you were in Italy. We were walking through the beautiful cliff-side village when the thought about sexy nighties (or the lack of one) hit me.

Much later on, after a wonderful night’s sleep in an “Air B’n’B” on the other side of Llyn Peninsula, I awoke and sat on the side of the bed to have a stretch; I was wearing a white vest with a navy blue stripe running through it and blue and white pyjama shorts. I could hear Chris laughing behind me.

“What’s so funny?” I asked.

“You look like a Breton fisherman!” he chuckled. “All you need are some onions around your neck!”

I laughed too. Not quite a sexy nightie!

“But I love this Breton fisher-woman,” Chris said, putting his arms around my waist and kissing my shoulder.

Turning around to kiss him back I noticed he was wearing a white t-shirt and blue and white striped pyjama shorts.

“Hey, you’re a Breton fisherman like me,” I observed with a giggle.

Pah to sexy nighties!

Below are some of my photos taken at Portmeirion last weekend .

 

Pretty as a Picture

 

 

Penelope Porch is something of an oil painting!

 Penny entered the world almost seven weeks too early but, just over a year later, you wouldn’t know it. She’s an avid reader, pianist, swimmer, ballerina, DJ, pop star,  animal-lover and animal and fruit impersonator. However, my favourite painting of the year just happens to be a portrait of my darling granddaughter as herself!

Should’ve Gone to Specsavers (Yet Another Instance!)

Earlier today Chris and I were leaning over the balustrade on our terrace to admire the work we did in the bottom garden on the sea side of our house yesterday. We had laboured hard with pruning, strimming, clearing and removing weeds and soil from the steps going down the steep slope (forty-five degrees) so we were feeling pleased with ourselves.

“From here it looks like a grave,” Chris said as he pointed out the loose soil on the brick steps edging the lawn.

“I don’t think so,” I disagreed.

All the same, I turned on the hose and held it over the balustrade letting the water cascade like heavy rain onto the brickwork beneath. Water collected in brown puddles over the brick steps and, Chris, thinking he might do better than me, took over. He didn’t.

Convinced that it was simply a matter of perseverance and quantity of water, I commandeered the hose and stood for quite a time leaning over the balustrade. Every now and then I made a comment to Chris about the slowness of the task and how much water it was taking. He didn’t say much – I thought him either bored or deaf (he is a tad deaf) – but I enjoyed his company nevertheless. I like us doing chores together.

After ten minutes or so I was getting a bit fed up with just standing there holding the hose and continually watching the water plop onto the soily wet steps. I seemed to remember Chris saying earlier that it might rain today, which, if so, would obviate the requirement for me to hose the steps to stop them looking like a grave.

“Did you say that it’s going to rain later today darling?” I asked.

No answer.

“Is rain forecast this afternoon Darling?” I ask a little louder this time.

Nothing.

So for the first time since I’d begun hosing I looked up from my lowered gaze upon the garden.Turning to the right to where I had sensed Chris’s head to be I was greatly surprised to find that it wasn’t his head at all but the stone ornamental flowerpot in the middle of the balustrade! Should’ve gone to Specsavers!

I laughed to myself. My ornamental (if not monumental) husband was inside, engrossed with his tax forms on the table – not such an empty vessel after all.

Is it going to rain later today Darling?

The Little Art Connoisseur and the Packet of Crisps

Despite her years (not yet two) Miss Annalise Sanchez has already enjoyed some little fame as an “International art critic” (according to the Reuben Lenkiewicz Art Gallery, Teignmouth) and would be juggler (Mamhead Village Fete 2017). And she’s always been a bit of a food connoisseur as well…

Recently my great little niece has impressed again with her new skill at blowing bubbles…

I expect that you’re wondering if there is no end to her talents… No, there isn’t. Annalise continues to amaze with her brilliant intellect. Now I heard that only two mornings ago, when her parents were still in bed, she had awoken early with a tremendous appetite for crisps. Apparently she went downstairs to the kitchen and found the crisps she had set her heart on.

Have you noticed how hard it is to open goods nowadays? Lord only knows how old ladies manage! Well, the same applies to children, especially tiny tots like Annalise. Try as she might, she did not have the strength to pull open the bag of crisps.

“Oh dear!” she must have thought, “I’ll have to ‘come clean’ and take them up to Mummy and Daddy to open them.”

“Oh no!” said mummy Katie, “You can’t have crisps for breakfast. Have a banana…”

“Or an apple,” chimed in her dad.

“No, these,” pleaded Annalise with her most charming expression and she tried again to pull open the stubborn packet.

Katie took the packet and pulled, not too hard, against the seal.

“Well I can’t open them either,” said Katie with mock exasperation.

“Neither can I,” said her dad as he did the same.

“You’ll just have to settle for a banana,” added her mum.

“I find the scissors!” said Annalise.

 

 

Autumn Leaves and the Obelisk at Mamhead Forest

Henry has arrived at Heathrow

My brother Henry is over from Australia (that’s us in the photograph above) and, after a week, he’s just about over his jet-lag. So this morning Chris and I thought he might enjoy a walk to the obelisk at Mamhead Forest as it is not a particularly long walk and it’s pretty flat terrain. Best of all, the lookout point has a magnificent panoramic view of all the rolling countryside leading down to the mouth of the River Exe and the sea. Oh, and the trees are beautiful on a sunny autumn day.

None of us realised it had been raining until we stepped outside the house but it didn’t matter because we were togged up in coats and sensible walking shoes. Chris wore his shorts because my better half insists upon wearing them into November, or as long as possible (providing it’s not snowing), and Henry wore his Aussie shorts because I haven’t taken up his new jeans for him yet. I wore long jogging pants because I was going to the gym after our walk (dieting and keeping fit again) and Malachi had on nothing but her black coat – well she is a black Labrador (we picked her up from Rosie’s farm nearby).

Unfortunately, it wasn’t a sunny day, and as we drove “onward and upward” to the forest we noticed that the hilltop was shrouded in cloud. Nevertheless, as you will see from the photographs below, the mist did not detract from the beauty of the autumn leaves; in fact it was very atmospheric.

And in case you’re wondering why I’m on the Cabbage Soup Diet again – well, you can only do it one week at a time…  I lost seven pounds, subsequently put on two (on holiday) and now I’m back on the cabbage soup to lose some more so I can put it on again. Diets are like the seasons – they come and they go, and I end up pretty well the same.

 

 

A Sunny October Day in the Devon Countryside

Yesterday was a perfect day for walking with friends – sunny, warm and with a hint of a breeze to make easier going on the hillsides. I was looking after things at Rosie’s farm – for a day only – and my companions and I could not bear to be inside on such a lovely day. Even Sasha, the old lady, was not content to have just one short walk to the orchard; after lunch she joined we younger ones on a walk to the top of the hillside from where one can see the all the farm and the rolling hills all the way down to the sea. Of course, we were in no rush and took our time, and sometimes we sat down on the grass to enjoy the view at our leisure, and sometimes I carried her… Sasha is a very little old lady. I think she rather liked it when I paused to take her photograph because it gave her (and me) a bit of a breather.

                                                                     Sasha!

 

How is Noel?

“Have you seen Noel recently?” I asked my mother, who was sitting in the back of our car.

Long ago, when I was single and lived at the gallery, Noel was my neighbour; and when I left, and Mum bought the property, he became my mum’s neighbour for a couple of years until he moved into another house that had been left to him by a dear friend. At the time of our friendship Noel had been retired early from his teaching post in Exeter.

He was a clever, witty and good-looking man of around sixty, and he had a soft spot for me. We shared a love of art and books. He had a vast library and helped me with research for my Art History course (well before I had a computer). We went together to art galleries and yacht clubs. Many was the occasion I had dinner with Noel and his bachelor friends, Frank and Walter – both old enough to be my grandfathers (and then some!). He had urged me to go to the town of Bath (Somerset) with him. I didn’t go.

 

“No, I haven’t seen Noel for years,” answered my mum.

“Nor me,” said Chris, “I used to see him around the town… but not for ages. Of course, he never acknowledged me. He just couldn’t accept me. It’s a shame because I would have enjoyed his company – an interesting man.”

“I wonder if he’s alright,” I said, not expecting an answer.

“He was very fond of you – wasn’t he?” Mum observed.

“Yes, and I of him but he was too old for me…”

 

That conversation took place last Sunday, just three days ago.

Yesterday evening Chris and I were driving home after visiting a friend in the Royal Devon and Exeter hospital, and we were discussing food – we were hungry. The car rounded the corner at Cockwood Harbour (one of our favourite places) and we noticed with astonishment that the harbour was full almost to bursting with the high tide.

“We could scrap the idea of fish and chips… and have a bowl of chips at the Anchor?” I suggested.

Chris agreed and took a side road which brought us back to Cockwood. We parked and walked around the harbour – the light is beautiful on summer evenings – and the reflections on the water were wonderful last night. It was too cold to sit outside and eat so we decided to go home for beans on toast instead. I continued to take photos as we dawdled back to our starting place. A man, standing alone by the harbour wall, had his phone camera out also.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” he began with a broad smile. “I love it here!”

“So do we!” I enthused.

And that was beginning of a long conversation. Earlier, the jolly stranger with the nice face and smile had been feeling unhappy and decided to lift his mood by going to the harbour and having a beer at “The Anchor”. It transpired that Alex came originally from Norfolk but, quite by accident, one and a half years ago he fell in love with a house he saw for sale in Dawlish and he bought it, although it is his second home. It is a large house with a wonderful garden… along West Cliff Road… The house belonged to Noel, and before that, Walter.

How is Noel?

The new owner didn’t know the circumstances, only that Noel was revered and missed by all his neighbours. To me, Noel will be forever charming, witty, generous and gentlemanly… in loving memory.

.

 

 

 

 

Lavender Hill

I didn’t know there was a song called “Lavender Hill” by the Kinks – it was a bit before my time (even if I was alive) – and actually, I was thinking there was a song called “Lavender Fields Forever” by The Beatles… but, of course, it was “Strawberry Fields Forever”! Nevertheless, the inspiration for such a title to this blog post comes not from any song but from a real lavender field at the top of a hillside on Rosie’s farm.

Zumba class had been cancelled and Rosie and I decided to take a different form of exercise. We walked the dogs up the field, zig-zagging our way in order to pull out the yellow ragwort flowers (which are poisonous to some animals), to the top and the French lavender. The sky was overcast but the air was mild and the colours rich; and the sun broke through intermittently, and for a time it was “the only place” we wanted to be… “Lavender memories”.

I found also this pretty piano piece called “Lavender Hill” by Brian Crain. Chris says it is akin to the works of Debussy and Eunardi – what Chris would call “impressionistic” music.

  50+VIDEOS PLAY ALLMix – Lavender Hill – Brian CrainYouTube

The Kinks- Lavender Hill – YouTube

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KrEzi28yga0

Lavender Hill

I want to walk eternity,
In through the land of make believe.
And watch the clouds roll over me,
And let the sun shine down on me.
The only place that I want to be,
Lavender Hill for me.
Wish I could live on sugar and milk,
Then I could live on Lavender Hill.
Then I could raise my head to the sky,
And let the sun saturate me with love.
I want to walk you up Lavender Hill,
Everybody loves Lavender Hill.
Even the bird that sits in the tree,
Seems to sing sweet melodies.
Even the breeze is whispering,
Lavender Hill for me.
While people eat their biscuits with tea,
They dream of daffodils that sway in the breeze.
And every Sunday afternoon,
Tidy ladies shine their shoes.
And every little lady dreams,
Lavender memories.
Lavender Hill for me.
Lavender Hill for me.
I want to walk you up Lavender Hill.
I want to walk you up Lavender Hill.

Songwriters
DAVIES, RAY

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Read more: Kinks – Lavender Hill Lyrics | MetroLyrics