Showing posts from September, 2021

The sound of Sundays

 Hello m' berry pies, Sundays are for lie ins with tea and books, breakfast croissants, garden pottering, maybe a bit of painting. Here is the sound of a Sunday morning at Long Mizzle, courtesy of the local church bell ringers [video] - Picking flowers to dry - Helichrysum (above) and Statice (below).     From the greenhouse you can watch the lagging tomatoes slowly ripen.   This year's Braeburn apple harvest... thirty of 'em! Some destined for a pie.   If we are feeling adventurous... some blackberry picking, using an old wooden walking stick to hook and reach the high branches. The best ones are always out of reach! In old British folklore, we are told not to pick blackberries after Old Michaelmas Day (10th October), as the devil promptly pisses on them. I am pretty sure I have eaten pissed on berries in the past. It did not result in instant death, but it did simultaneously give me the squits AND make me a better guitarist. Saturday afternoons are for heavier work, such

Fields of Gold

Hello m' sunny reapers, Apologies for the brief break in transmission. Work's got in the way this past week or so. Annoyingly money's one thing I've been unable to grow in the garden on trees.  I'm back now with coffee and biscuits, September sunflowers, and golden fields. I'll try to keep this post relatively short and sweet so I can catch up on some of your blogs! This field of sunflowers was spotted back in August.  To me, the sunflowers are standing tall and cocky as can be, singing 'sun shiiiiinnnnnneeee' in a Liam Gallagher kind of way.  The golden field above reminded me of a Gustav Klimt painting... I'm not sure which one, but not the one with that kiss . Klimt did paint one big sunflower. This is how I've felt this week... head down, working hard, watching over my little ones, a bit frazzled but still on my feet.     The Sunflower, Gustav Klimt, 1908     Vincent Van Gogh painted 'Wheatfield with a Reaper' in September 1889, the s

Just talking to pots, that's all

 Hello m' misty pots,   It has been a peculiar week. One night the cold sea mist silently crept in. By morning, the church tower stood steady, silhouetted. Beyond the unseeing tree line, the outside world ceased to exist. A thick white veil, a sleepwalking bride..the garden was all that was. Then there was the dreaded Track and Trace phone ping 'you need to self-isolate', and the follow up phone call "you do not need to self-isolate", much confusion and a set of negative PCR tests. The mist started to clear. Phew!   Pots are simple. They make sense. They are great to talk to whilst drinking morning coffee and dunking biscuits.    You would not believe the things a pot will tell you at 11pm at night, after a douse of bathwater. Their language is plain filthy! Achillea 'Cerise Queen' and Cornflower 'Black Ball' (Centaurea cyanus)     The shallowest part of the pit (old pond). Only sea thrift seem to thrive here. Above: The dahlia bed During our faux