After The Storms...

The world seems washed clean by the torrential rain of recent days. The sky is finally clear blue, and a brisk wind chases away the last vestiges of storm clouds. In the late summer sunshine, the colours of the countryside seem to sparkle.

As the chickens scratch contentedly on the lawn and clean washing on the line dances in the stiff breeze, the world seem bright and fresh and new. At the end of summer, when it might be expected to seem that things are on a downward slide to the introspection of winter, there is a sense of optimism and newness and possibility. It seems to me it ought to feel jarring, but all I feel is anticipation and happiness.

And it's not just the weather. In the last few days I have heard news of the safe delivery of a friend's first baby; not one but two engagements have been announced; happy new relationships are springing up seemingly out of nowhere. And I have received an invitation to the wedding of my beloved Goddessdaughter next summer.

Happiness and fresh starts seem to be springing up everywhere like wildflowers. Hurrah! Long may it continue!

Scent Memories

I have written before on the way scent conjures powerful memories. Today I experienced that phenomenon again. Although it's happened to me many times before, I still find it amazing.

There are many plants I don't even try to grow at Halfway Up A Hill. They are way too attractive to slugs, and believe me, the slugs and snails here are voracious. My usual gardening strategy for ornamentals is to grow the things slugs find unpalatable, so that I only have to concentrate my slug-control measures in the veggie patch. Thus my cottage garden is filled with hardy geraniums, penstemons, lady's mantle, aquilegia, foxgloves, astrantia, woody herbs and roses, and I'm quite cautious about wasting my time and money trying anything else.

But this year, a friend gifted me with some clumps of mixed seedlings that had self-seeded in her polytunnel. An eclectic mix of dill, cornflowers, tomatoes, nasturtiums, morning glories and French marigolds. I planted them with minimal protection, with a 'They'll either thrive or not' attitude. The dill was the first casualty, succumbing to the sluggy hordes almost overnight. The tomatoes were probably passed on a bit too late to produce much of a crop, but to my amazement they haven't succumbed to blight yet either, so if we're lucky enough to get an Indian summer they may come up trumps. The nasturtiums, cornflowers and morning glories are romping away. I haven't grown either of the latter two before but all three are now added to my list of slug-proof plants worth growing again. The French marigolds - which from past experience I fully expected to be razed to the ground in short order - actually seemed to be doing OK, and even when the slugs tracked them down, a brief slug-control patrol in the evening seemed to be keeping things within acceptable limits. The bright orange of their flowers looked wonderful with the brilliant scarlet nasturtiums and the glorious blues of the cornflowers and morning glories. So far so good.

Unfortunately the slugs stepped up their attack on the marigolds and today I finally had to admit defeat and pull out the last remaining marigolds after their main stems were severed overnight. I salvaged as many flowers as possible and brought them back to put in a jar of water. At least they will brighten the kitchen windowsill for a few more days.

I stripped the leaves from the stems, and the scent released by the crushed foliage brought memories flooding back. At the age of twelve I was given a small patch of ground outside my bedroom window as my first garden. At a summer fete in the village I bought a tray of French marigolds - I think they were actually the first flowers I planted there. Suddenly I was twelve again, digging over the soil in that small patch, earthy hands carefully tending the marigolds, a chamomile plant, some mint, and the 'Wargraves Pink' hardy geranium, bought at the same village fete and from which I still have a cutting to this day growing against the wall of the workshop.

I hadn't thought of that garden for a very long time, but the smell of marigold leaves brought it all back so clearly. How amazing that our senses can do this for us. Our bodies and brains are such wonderful things!

P.S. I know the photo isn't actually a French marigold, it was the closest I could find!

Phew!

Things have been a little quiet on here of late. My computer crashed spectacularly and for several weeks with fingers crossed I waited to see if it could be resuscitated - and whether or not I had lost all the precious photos and documents I had been meaning to back up and not got around to...

Well, the computer is duly back from the dead and I am eternally grateful to Stuart for not only reviving it but also restoring all my files. Phew!

I have been itching to get blogging again and have lots of posts waiting to be written. There is a lot of lost time to be made up for...

Gunny

IB's beloved cat, Gunny, died yesterday. He had been ill for a few weeks with some kind of lung problem,, gradually fading in front of our eyes. He was only 9 years old.

Later that evening the screen saver on my computer, displaying random photos from my files, brought back so many memories. Not just Gunny, but so many other loved and much missed animals. Cats - Teasel, Tigger and Herbert. Chickens, from our first three (Josephine, Daphne and Sugar) all the way through Blanche, Blodwen and Bronwen to our rescued battery hens (Ginger, Babs, Mac and Norma-Jean) and more recent arrivals like Blodeuwedd I who was snatched away by a fox. Ted and Dougal, the guinea pigs. Our original geese, Buffy and Angel are now gone, along with their goslings, Snowy (killed by a predator) and Sunny (re-homed after fighting with his father). Further back, there are older, pre-digital era photos - Algie, Koshka, Julie, Mina, Thomas (cats), Max the budgie, Frances the duck, Nicky the dog.

Anyone who has had a companion animal can tell you that they are all individuals, each one a unique character. Oh, how they worm their way into your heart - and the pain when they are gone.

Today, in beautiful sunshine, we buried Gunny in an area we have earmarked for a forest garden. He was wrapped in one of IB's T-shirts, and we placed flowers and a favourite toy with him in the ground. We planted an apple tree on his grave. In years to come I imagine us sitting under the tree on such a sunny day, sharing our memories of Gunny. In the meantime, we will continue to create new memories with  Bear, Marley and Dandilo, the cats. And enjoy the antics of Bella, Dot, Daisy, Blossom, Ceridwen, Blodeuwedd II, Misty and Morag, our current flock of hens, and Spike, the gander. Our animals bring such colour to our days. Sharing our lives with them is a privilege, and the pain of their loss is a small price to pay for the joy they bring.

RIP Gunny August 2002 - June 2012

Beltane Delights

To me, Beltane is all about celebrating life and enjoying its pleasures. For the Celts, it was the start of summer, the season of long, warm days, abundant food and easy living. So I like my Beltane to be a celebration of beauty and pleasure. 

Though the Beltane weather is cool and rainy this year, there is beauty in abundance in the woods and fields. Tender, translucent birch leaves, the haze of bluebells carpeting the woodland floor, the swooping joy of the returning swallows. This is such a stunningly beautiful time of year.

This evening we feasted on cheese and leek tartlets, mushroom risotto, fresh asparagus and garlic bread. We toasted each other, and the coming summer with glasses of champagne. Later we munched on the most delicious brownies in the world (if you're ever in West Wales, these can be found at the Pachamama restaurant or the Carrot Cruncher organic food shop, both in Newcastle Emlyn).

As the season unfolds I intend to continue joyfully revelling in the delights of early summer. I may not be able to afford to make champagne toasts every evening, but I do intend to consume my body weight in local asparagus while the season lasts. And I will walk barefoot in the lush grass, bask in the sun, laugh with the swallows, walk bareheaded in the rain, and spend as much time as I can with those I love. This is my solemn pledge at Beltane. 

A world this beautiful deserves to be thoroughly appreciated. Anything less would be disrespectful.

Happy Beltane!

Taking Eggs to Mair Part 2

Today, having been ill with a 24-hour bug, I forgot to take a box of eggs down the hill to Mair until 9pm.

The walk down couldn't have been more different to last week. This week I walked in rainy dark, not sun. And I thought of all the times I have walked up and down this hill in the 11 years I have lived at Halfway Up A Hill. I have walked in sun, in rain, in wind, in snow, by moonlight and in pitch dark. I have walked at dawn, and midday, and afternoon, at twilight and at night. I have walked in spring and summer and autumn and winter.

This evening it was still just light enough not to need the torch I took with me. Rain streaming off the fields ran down the edges of the road. Bareheaded, I enjoyed the sensation of raindrops on my hair. The only sound was falling rain, and the rushing of the swollen stream. No owls, no foxes, even the sheep were silent in the fields. Accompanied only by the bats swooping overhead. The smell of rain and woodsmoke. Down in the valley the few street lights glowed orange; the headlights of an occasional car swept along the road. Across the hills, the scattered lights of surrounding farms. Back up this hill, only the warm glow of lights at Halfway Up a Hill are visible.


Isn't this one of the ways we connect with the spirit of a place? By repeating a journey, an action, a chore, week after week so that we experience the place in all its many moods and modes? I am envious of the people whose families have walked these hills for generations. I imagine a bone-deep knowledge of the land.  My own relationship with this land will never have those accumulated ages of connection. But I approach the spirit of this place in friendship, with respect and openness. And as I open to Her, she opens to me and reveals Her many layers. Like any relationship, work, patience and understanding are required. But the rewards are well worth it.

Heron Dreaming

Last night I dreamed that a heron flew above me, scattering blue-grey feathers like magical gifts in my path.

This morning, as I travelled through the rain-blurred river valley, a pair of herons wheeled gracefully overhead, before disappearing into the trees...

Sometimes the line between dreaming and waking seems fine as spidersilk...