A few more garden jobs getting done. Kim takes her tulip bulbs (courtesy of Sarah Raven) and pots them up, covering the surface with gravel. I pull handfuls of weed from the pond and drain on the edges to allow the tiny insects living in them to slide back into the cold waters. I then add the shrivelled greenery to the compost. Some strands of curly hornwort I spare. Make a few posies of them, tied with lead fastening, and drop to the bottom of the new tank pond to start another oxygenating underwater colony. Hopefully this clear out of weed will allow more spread of surface plants, encourage amphibians to return next year whilst still keeping enough cover to keep the still water sweet, control UV and still give shelter to all the various life forms that call the pond home.
There are some lovely poems out there celebrating aspects of the season. I have a soft spot for Edward Thomas of course so here’s one from him – ‘Digging’. The lino cut is by Cathy Duncan. (Apologies for layout: It won’t configure in lines but just runs the text together. I need to interrogate WordPress somehow to let me configure it properly, as ET wrote it!)
Today I think Only with scents, – scents dead leaves yield, And bracken, and wild carrot’s seed, And the square mustard field; Odours that rise When the spade wounds the root of tree, Rose, currant, raspberry, or goutweed, Rhubarb or celery; The smoke’s smell, too, Flowing from where the bonfire burns The dead, the waste, the dangerous, And all to sweetness turns. It is enough To smell, To crumble the dark earth, While the robin sings over again Sad songs of Autumn mirth.
Two recent trips to heritage properties swell the fruit store. The nice young man in the shop at Aydon Castle (English Heritage) is happy for me to pick apples and take windfalls in the courtyard garden of that fine medieval fortified manor house. At Cherryburn (National Trust) I’m encouraged likewise to help myself in the Bewick family’s farmhouse garden. Wish I knew the traditional varieties of the tall apple and pear trees growing there. All of the fruit goes to juicing; a fine flavoursome mix it makes, each batch unique. Also bring back cut back lavender flowers which I place in nooks around the kitchen to dry and subtly flavour the air with their fragrance.
A trip to Manchester for a job interview mid week is the perfect excuse to see old friends in Mosely Street….By which I mean half an hour renewing a long acquaintance with the city art gallery’s grandest residents. Amongst others, Holman Hunt’s morally freighted Hireling Shepherd and the social panorama encompassed within Ford Maddox Brown’s epic Work; the sublimely beguiling Hylas and the Nymphs by Woodhouse. A seasonal joy comes of engaging with the odd charm of Millais’ Autumn Leaves. Like the other wonderful pieces it too exudes powerful illustrative qualities; carrying its inner narrative through colouration and composition.
Back in Northumberland all manner of weather rolling in around and over us each day. Dry spells allow some more putting to bed work in the garden. I pick the last of this season’s apples. James Grieve make perfect juicers so we fill a few more bottles. The Arthur Turners make a perfect puree (especially with elderflower cordial, ginger & brown sugar added). Last of the French beans are a rag tag and bobtail but they taste good. Dismantle the sticks and stack them by the railway hut for another year, whilst the helm goes to compost. Kim picks the last of the mini-tomatoes grown in the greenhouse then sets to washing down glass, trays, pots et al. Whitefly is removed and a sparkle re-set. Elsewhere borders and beds are trimmed, leaves swept and grass mowed one last time, with the exception of the lower half where it’s just too wet to cut.
Autumn Hawkbit, Betony, Birdsfoot Trefoil, Common Cat’s Ear, Musk Mallow, Ox Eye Daisy, Ladies Bedstraw, Ragged Robin, White Campion, Self Heal, Poppy, Ribwort Plantain, Wild Carrot, Yarrow…Traditional meadow flowers redolent of summer days, idyllic pastoral settings, vision of a timeless long lost English countryside. Truly lost. A much quoted statistic that tells us some 97% of traditional hay meadows have been lost since the end of WW2. Luckily a corner is at last being turned; nature friendly farmers, numerous charities, growing numbers of local authorities and diverse communities across the country are taking action to establish new meadows and restore old ones. As individuals, in gardens and allotments, we can all do our bit.
My mission this year is to improve what we already have and increase its potential. To that end late August saw me preparing the garden’s mini-meadow for a minor make over. It’s roughly triangular in shape, on a slight north facing slope, approximately 450 square yards in area. Originally sown as lawn with hard wearing rye grass it gradually got infested with couch grass and more dominant weeds. It looks attractive enough in its own way, and we delight to see it wave and glow under the late Summer sun. Earlier in the growing season some of the hardier meadow plants – Fritillary, Buttercup, Meadow Cranesbill – are able to muscle in with a fringe appearance where the mass of meadow meets lawn. A local contractor comes to strim what he jokingly terms ‘The Jungle’ in late August and his lads rake and carry off most of the cuttings down to the bonfire in the field. This year I did another thorough rake of what was left to expose more of the rough surface, hoping to decrease any enrichment of the grassy lumps beneath. I then concentrated my efforts on a roughly one yard strip all around the outside, giving it another a rake before scarifying to expose enough soil (at least 50%) able to receive meadow flower seed. Finally I honed in on the apex, an area with a footprint of a small tent, and painstakingly removed the turf to get 100% soil exposure. Tried to remove as much of the pernicious couche root & other weeds as possible before finally levelling and tilling with the rake.
By September’s end, taking advantage of the warm dry weather, I buckled down to broadcast the 20 odd varieties of meadow flower seed I’d purchased online from a specialist nursery. All of them suitable for acid clay soils; a combined 100 grams worth at a recommended 1.5 grams per square metre. To that I added miniscular white foxglove seeds a friend had harvested from their garden. Mixed the whole lot with sand for ease of spreading and, trying not to worry too much about exactitude, got to work scattering the cast of thousands. I then tamped the tiny seeds further into the soil, walking over them thoroughly in my big boots, in imitation of stock let out to graze after harvest. The seeds must now pass a long winter freeze before they germinate next Spring. By way of token protection I spread a thin irregular cover of sand and leaf mold over the open apex area. Finally, around the scarified edges I plant mini-clusters of Snakeshead fritillary bulbs to reinforce those already established.
No meadow seed mix is complete without Rhinanathus Minor, Yellow Rattle.Both my seed packets had 5% in each but I’d also purchased an extra 50 grams of it and spread that separately in the border strip sections. This key pathfinder plant, being semi-parasitic, will live off and thus weaken the established sward allowing other meadow plants an increased chance to take root and thrive. Yellow Rattle gets its name from the prominent seed pods that blacken and harden with ripeness before freely shedding their contents on harvesting. All traditional hay meadows have this freewheeling pioneer at their floral heart. I live in hope of success, although it may yet take more than one season for the bulk of flowers to establish. I will, of course, report further on progress (or lack of it) in due course!
Settling down one evening last week we played unwitting hosts to a visitor. A bat had flown in from the garden via the half opened french doors. Our living room is a former hay barn so it had more range than it could have expected in confined quarters. with all other exits barred it took a sudden dive into my neighbouring study (where I sit making these notes tonight) and promptly disappeared without trace. Having sealed the room off that night some time was taken up the next day with me, ably helped by a visiting friend, on step ladders carefully clearing then replacing a great number of books, box files and papers in a vain search for the elusive flying mammal. The only refuge I think it must have found was a run of narrow gaps between exposed stone wall and fitted cupboards. A joiner friend had fitted the cupboard and shelf units two years since, skillfully using his fret saw to accommodate the rough uneven interface between stone and wood. Just enough room, I suspect, for a fold up furry beastie to hang out in safely. Two nights later it appeared out of nowhere and a rather farcical fandango of humans and aerial evacuee took place in living room and then kitchen. With the french doors now fully open it finally swooped low and out into the big wide darkness from whence it had come. Hurray! We’re used to bats regularly flying around the house at nightfall but never, until now, inside it. Almost certainly it’s either a Common or a Soprano Pipistrelle, the most widespread and numerous of the UK’s 17 breeding bat species. Weighing an average 5oz, with 8″ wingspan its aerial hawking of flies, mosquitoes, midges etc can amount to a catch of up to 3,000 insects per animal on a summer’s night! They are almost certainly roosting permanently somewhere on our property; behind soffits, tiles, bargeboards, roofing felt etc. We’re happy to have them in our happy acre but preferably out, not in!
Or more like, the last of Summer. In the sunny still days between the more frequent grey, wet ones we generate productive time in the garden. Our apples – James Grieve, Katy, Discovery – do best out front. Here they are warmed by the sun on that south facing side, sheltered by the road wall and grow as espaliers over heat retentive sandstone. We can rely on a good crop each year with most going to juicing and consumption in the here and now. A good job when you consider how active the resident blackbirds are in pecking and picking their way through the ripening fruit from handy perches, as the picture shows. What they don’t consume wasps, mice, voles and slugs etc will.
I’m convinced we’ve had such a good year for butterflies (and insect life generally) not just because of favourable weather but because the forest of nettles and thistles in the field round our dumping ground/bonfire has proved the ideal nursery for so many of them, especially peacocks and tortoiseshells. It’s always lovely at this time of year to see so many feasting, as here on the profuse masses of Michaelmas daisies in the bank border.
One of this summer’s pet projects has been to create a different kind of pond to the current one, and put it in another part of the garden. To that end I’ve turned a galvanized metal cattle watering trough into a container pond in the kitchen garden and set it in the lea of the stone wall that marks our western boundary, between the new greenhouse and a raised bed. There was a fern already in situ at the wallfoot so have neighboured it with a few more unusual varieties in pots. Re-positioned, and confined to pots, hostas and apple mint which had outgrown their respective berths in the rockery; adding them to the variegated green cohort around the tank. Reluctant to introduce tiny floating millweed to this new watery haven I thoroughly washed the plants taken from the original pond (hornwort, brooklime, scirpus, creeping jenny etc) and added some new ones (iris, lily, water-forget-me-not etc). Need to keep an eye so it does not overflow after heavy rain and also that access is possible for newts toads and frogs as some of the aqua plants are on stands near the surface with overhanging foliage….May need to introduce a small ramp or similar to be sure.
Apparently you can only get plastic baler twine these days. So when a friend who had attended the farm sale of another friend who was retiring saw this old style natural product amongst the host of articles she picked it up for Kim, who loves and appreciates such telling things. It will no doubt appear, in whole or part, in one or more of her future compositions. I can’t help but ponder that biodegradable material like this should be making a comeback in an age which now values all things sustainable and recyclable.
Last weekend I went down with a cold so missed accompanying Kim to one of our favourite local agricultural shows. Our river rises on the watershed between Northumberland and the Scottish Border. The upper valley at Falstone has proudly hosted its annual shepherds show since 1885. I asked Kim to write a few lines about her experience of the event…
Every year in late August sees the Falstone Border Shepherds Show. Up the North Tyne Valley, along a single track, and into a small sheltered field outside the pretty village not far from Kielder Water, I am reminded of farming days with some nostalgia. Wearing my judge’s badge and wandering past the penned sheep, the steady weathered shepherds leaning over stock, the border collies drifting through to sheepdog trials, the smell of wet grass drying in a surprising day of heat, I head towards the industrial tent to help in the looking over of children’s submissions to the art classes.
Thank goodness the partner is an ex teacher and knows much about childrens’ handwriting stages, while I find it difficult to decide between free and funny watercolours, collaged vegetable faces, and interpretations of northern dark skies on flower pots (though we all agree on the special prize going to a starry sparkly one of these).
I meet many old friends, catch up with news, and happily spend too long marveling at prize vegetables, gardens on a plate, and the beautifully carved shepherds’ sticks. This is a simple uncommercial show, meant for gathering at the end of summer, and I love it. Back home I quietly hang my little badge up at home and smile.
A day of time travelling with grandchildren 9 and 6 years of age, proved a delight for all concerned one day last week. Beamish in Co.Durham has been ‘The Living Museum of the North’ since its foundation in 1970 and now covers some 350 acres. To me it represents all that’s best about the region’s culture; by the people, for the people and of the people. Worth the wait to get in once we’d parked up. A number of visits are required to get any feel for the whole. Today we started off with the 1900’s pit village reassembled on site – church, school, silver band hall, cottages with gardens etc. For me though the latter part of our visit was the most poignant and atmospheric…a time where the seemingly unchanging agricultural world really did start to give way to the Industrial. The 1820’s late Georgian period saw great social, political and economical changes. What they’ve managed to create at the Pockerley site beautifully captures a world where intense manual labour with horse and oxen was giving way to a multitude of iron engines powered by coal and steam.
Comfortably situated atop a small hill, Pockerley New House was built in the early 1700’s and sits next to (but is not physically connected with) the Old House next door, which dates from the 1440’s and was originally a pele or bastle in the age of Anglo-Scottish raiding. Along with the extensive farm outbuildings they are the only original buildings on the Beamish estate. The Pockerley was still the centre of a tenant farming operation right up until 1990. The delightful stepped front garden is on three levels – flower & herb, vegetable & orchard – giving way to a patchwork of small fields under ‘rig (ridge) & furrow’ cultivation alongside traditional meadows, partitioned by split oak or thorn hedge and hazel hurdles.
The old house is dark and cool. As a former defensive structure it has massive thick walls, small windows, a cheese press, worn flag floors, large undercroft. The new hall by contrast oozes a modest prosperity. Wonderful lived in feel, mix of best (carpeted parlour) and everyday (large flagged kitchen & entranceway) settles and rag rugs, artifacts and decorations, worn & warm, coal fired kitchen range, lots of small interconnecting rooms, creaking narrow stairs, simple and sufficient…Feels as if the inhabitants had just stepped out and were to be expected home any moment.
I imagine that stout political reformer and countryside advocate William Cobbett calling by for lively state of the nation conversation with the tenant farmer which we would later read about in one of his ‘Rural Rides’. His contemporary Thomas Bewick was born and grew up in a similar yeoman farmhouse by the banks of the Tyne at Cherryburn. The great naturalist and printmaker would have been equally at home in such a setting, which he might have come by on one of his many long walks about the north-east. Beamish has a great advantage over the National Trust and country house owners who open their properties to the public in making nearly everything they have on site is as ‘hands on’ and experiential as it can be. The atmosphere created is as charged and realistic as the steam engine we see & hear slicing its determined course through the otherwise peaceful pastoral scene. In contemporary art terms: more of a Turner landscape than Constable is animated before our eyes.
The Pockerley Waggonway allows non stop comings and goings of a prototype mine locomotive, ‘The Steam Elephant’, which has benn reconstructed on site from an original oil painting of 1815. It tears through the rural topography at a steady 5mph, returning at end of day to the 1825 engine shed it shares with a replica of Stephenson’s famous ‘Locomotion No 1’. We queue patiently to ride the rails, peering from the open carriageway at the young volunteer engineers, blackened like medieval imps, taking the revolutionary grease black creature through its steaming piston pushing paces….Only a short run there and back but worth every moment!
We finished today’s ventures into the 1820’s with a visit to the nearby recently opened Joe the Quilter’s Cottage. (The first building to be complete in their £11million lottery funded ‘Remaking Beamish’ project). Joe Hedley, a cottage industry quilt maker whose work was known and admired beyond his native north-east was brutally murdered at home on or about 3rd January 1826. The crime was never solved, despite the public outcry and reward offered by the crown. Joe’s original humble cottage just down the road from us at Warden, by the confluence of the north & south Tyne rivers, was demolished in 1872. But those clever people at Beamish, together with community volunteers, working from an original print of the place and official post murder inventory managed to identify its site and remove the original flagstone floor. The distinctive local sandstone and oak used in building walls and roof frame along with tons of heather for thatching were all sourced in Northumberland. Beamish’s blacksmiths made door locks, hinges and candlesticks. The broadcloth quilts old Joe produced at home were of the highest quality (example pictured) and much sought after by the gentry. Living alone in such a relatively isolated spot the poor man was clearly a vulnerable target for those intent on robbery with extreme violence.
For someone hefted to the hills it’s a rare treat to set foot in the relative flat lands of Norfolk. But for two days this week I was enhanced by water and big skies; from living in a lighthouse to cruising in a pleasure boat on the Broads. A lovely few days holiday with the extended family opened my eyes to the quiet delights of coast and inland waterways.
The promise of 125 miles of navigable lock free rivers allows most of us untested travellers to confidently set sail on inland waters during the easy months of summer. We hired our motor cruiser for the day, complete with sink, fridge, toilet & overhead retractable covers. Embarking from the boatyards at Potter Heigham we soon joined the sedate River Bure which has been fully navigable since 1685. In the old days the seven rivers that make up the Broads had locks in strategic places and the extensive waterborne trade on wherries and skiffs made this a prosperous rural area. The coming of the railways and better roads, combined with a disasterous flood in 1912 all helped put an end to this phase of industry. Sail boats still ply the waters but now purely for pleasure. Engine gives way to sail on the water road and in pausing our progress we witnessed them skillfully tacking cross the current, bank to bank, to catch the wind. Was put in mind of all those genre paintings of sails under huge skies with complex lighting effects skillfully captured in oil or water colours.
Our principal destination, where we came ashore, was Ranworth Staithes. Once a centre for maltings and brewing and now a popular port of call for boaters and boats of all descriptions. After a convivial lunch in the pub we walked up to the village church of St Helen on the heave of land which passes for a peak in these parts. My only regret on leaving was not taking the opportunity to climb its tall tower via ancient steps and ladders to take in the view it would offer of the wider wetlands. Never mind. Just viewing close up the outstanding 15th century rood screen and wood panel paintings of saints was reward enough. How this luminous and exquisite example of late medieval art survived the reformation is a miracle in itself.
One of the reasons I chose not to delay our party in ascending the open door to belfry and roof was that I was sleeping for two nights at the top of the lighthouse the family had rented for the week at Winterton by the Sea, so already had my happy fill of heights and views. Lovingly restored by architect wife and publicist husband, this was their idylic country retreat from London along with their two children. A host of magazines featured the building and its location. My bedtime eyrie was 75 steps up. The last two floors being pitched very steeply, requiring all who passed to practice backward descent. The 360 degree view from this ultimate mezzanine, complete with sunken mattress and arty lamps, provided a view to another lighthouse northwards and the suburbs of Great Yarmouth southwards. East, an expanse of grey north sea stretched to the horizon beyond marram grassed dunes (a protected S.S.S.I.) A seemingly endless strip of sandy beach gave way steeply to crashing waves. Further down the coast a line of wind turbines pointed in the direction of Holland. At one point lightning flashes told us of storms over that country. The next night, gathered in our circular viewing platform from 10 – 10.10 pm, we were treated to a firework display over Great Yarmouth. To the west golden stubble cut cornfields, mature trees in hedges, churches, hints of the inland water world of the Broads beyond.
Fascinated to discover the history of evolution that produced these intensively plied rural waterways. Rich religious houses, like Saint Benet’s abbey, whose ruins we passed on the River Bure, were behind exploitation of the land they owned or rented and which consequently brought the Broads we know today into being. Their extensive turbary activity in the middle ages resulted in the removal of some 900 million cubic feet of peat around the seven rivers of the sub region. Combined with gradually rising sea levels this resulted in flooding of the low lying river valleys, leaving inland promontaries in between. All this further further accelerated water borne import/export of agricultural produce, coal, bricks, tiles, timber etc to towns even further inland and increased the importance of Norwich as the regional centre. St Benet’s strikes the eye with its hulk of an 18th century brick windmill dominating the remains of its medieval stone gatehouse.
Masses of masking reeds, isolated ancient oaks, woods of water loving willows and alder masking silted wharves and inlets…I think of the ghost story I will be reading this autumn on tour in Northumberland & Dumfries; ‘Three Miles Up’ by Elizabeth Jane Howard (1951). Inspired by living on a canal longboat just after WW2 and her role in founding the Inland Waterways Association, her beguiling tale really is the most disturbing of fictions, combining on board love triangle with exploration of unchartered waterways. Quite brilliant and chilling. Having this chance to be on the water has given me experience of a dream like setting to play with in my head and project into the reading.
One benefit of the County Council upgrading our C Road was that they appear to have re-seeded the verges with wildflower and grass mix. Seeing patches of poppies and harebells at the passing places is a joy. I’m also convinced that poppies are becoming a common sight in cornfields again in recent years, being tolerated or encouraged where once they would have been chemically eliminated. The raising of consciousness about the dead of World War One and the symbolism of this distinctive flower has elevated it from from common weed to timely icon. And that must be a good thing.
Old friend and Demi-paradise associate Richard Sails was our guest last week; a first in arriving on foot from the south bearing a heavy rucksack. He is walking from Land’s End to John’o’Groats and we would be his last stop in England before crossing the border into Scotland. Richard was game enough to play my guerrilla version of croquet round the lawns and do a spot of shooting tin cans off the gateposts with my old BSA Meteor air rifle. He also made himself very useful undertaking a meticulous job prepping the blackcurrants from the garden which I then made into jam. Richard has passed through some of the best of English countryside this summer and his interest in flora and fauna has grown with it. A real pleasure to host and support such a genial, resourceful and determined man on his epic trek. (Richard’s progress can be followed on Facebook)
A small herd of Southridge’s stabilisers has been let loose on cornerhouse field. Apparently there’s danger in letting cattle graze too early on land where hay or silage has been cut and fresh lush pasture pushes through. They can get a type of pneumonia commonly called ‘fog fever’ and the grass everywhere, in field and garden, is profuse in growing during these damp warm days. The bullocks are wary but curious so I converse with them over the wall to gain trust and some come in close enough to lick my hand. I do a spot of pruning and later feed them branches of alder, willow and ash which they curl their tongues around to deftly strip the branches of fresh leaves.
Delighted to discover that pipits (tree or meadow) are most definitely back. There’s a lovely cone of a small nest in the fork of a birch tree in the copse that I’d like to think was to do with them but the book tell me both species nest on or near the ground, so who knows? It’s been a great season for insects in general and butterflies in particular. Lots of tortoiseshell, peacock, red admiral and veined whites aflutter round the garden but have also logged ringlet and painted lady. The latter has been present in great numbers this year apparently, having moved up from North Africa through Europe and across the channel into all parts of the country.
Both Kim & I resolve to sit quietly and enjoy the garden without feeling compelled to do anything therein. Reading helps in my case (Checking out potential ghost stories for future touring, so it’s still work related. Oh dear.) Ears gradually open to the natural world around us. Standoffish blackbirds skirting the boundaries with warning cries. They are sampling the blackcurrants (That prompts me to gather the fruit today for jam making) The parent birds seen with their beaks full of worms and insects so assume their brood in whole or part have safely fledged. (There was no sign of eggshells under the empty nest discovered in the spinney wall (pictured) so I wondered what had passed). Our pair of resident pied wagtails quarter gravel and grass bobbing up and down as they go and I saw one the other day remorselessly bash a moth in its beak until it ceased to flutter. Their nest is hidden in the deep folds of the prolific Clematis Montana on the west end corner of the house. The swallow family now sometimes skate the skies in company with others. Planning migration in a month or so I wonder?
Neighbours sheep are all shorn and the handful of tups in our field spend a lot of time sleeping so you forget they are there beyond the fierce chomping of eating or creaking of gate as they rub their itches bare. Other distant flocks raise occasional bleats. One day a Hercules transport plane wheeled and turned at the forest’s edge with more agility than you might expect of such a large military craft and with only a whisper of engine noise; quite ghostly, flying low over the land in the exercise of radar evasion before gliding out of sight. Later we do not see, but clearly hear, tawny owls calling one to the other, very close by. One day a male sparrowhawk flew by, just inches off the ground, gone in an instant.
The studio border is a virtual firework display of colour and texture. The white & grey livery of Lychnis, lime green of Nicotiana, the floating finery of yellow Ridolfia intertwined with white Ammi Majus; Crocosmia Lucifer an erupting volcano, Eryngium and Alium with their brilliant spikey heads; showy delights of purple Phlox; Echinops and Leucanthemum too, with Sanguisorba about to flower…The contrasting, competing, coasting forms at their most fabulous. The presence of Ragwort, a beggar amid the beauties, does not distract. Quite the opposite. Insects are everywhere; from harvestman, winged beetles and flying ants to all manner of bees, wasps and hoverflies feasting on the flowers.
Our much cherished new greenhouse has courgettes and cucumbers on ground level with shelves presenting a riot of flowering tomatoes. A sight never seen here before, so very exciting. Have to make sure we are not away on holiday when all the fruits start to arrive, probably all at once!