With winter, a change to the garden visitors. An indignant young male blackbird in the front garden is steadily stripping the pyracantha berries; the holly is already bare. More frequent visits from a greater spotted woodpecker where I've opened up the rear hedge to expose the trunk of a dead hazel. Bullfinches and coaltits.
In the tops of the tallest apple and the living hazels and hawthorn, small flocks of birds gather or stage their garden explorations. Even in silhouette blatantly goldfinches. These were rare visitors twenty years ago.
Tuesday 5 December 2017
Thursday 30 November 2017
The rise of the..
It seems inevitable that, with increasing automation in production, services and transport, the route to making money is to own the robots. This future seems destined to increase the perception of unfairness of the economy, since only a small number of people or organisations will eventually own "the means of production".
I consider myself a little ahead of the game in this respect; I at least understand the problem. I understand some of the underlying technologies. Sadly though I have acted too slowly. The opportunity to own the first robot within my means has already gone. I failed to mine Bitcoins.
I consider myself a little ahead of the game in this respect; I at least understand the problem. I understand some of the underlying technologies. Sadly though I have acted too slowly. The opportunity to own the first robot within my means has already gone. I failed to mine Bitcoins.
Friday 20 October 2017
Spread
I have had occasion, some time of a morning, in the breakfast-lunch interval, to indulge in a little toast with spread. Over the last couple of weeks I have been enjoying toast and insect spit mixed with the floral emanations of plants and have found myself dipping the knife into the same jar of honey on different occasions.
One of my children is missing.
One of my children is missing.
Saturday 30 September 2017
Seasons, on auto-repeat
My modern, illuminated (cheap) keyboard has finally gone beyond. It's developed a habit of bounce on the 'D' key, which any vi user will understand can be vexatious, especially on the second strike. From my stock of stuff that I haven't the heart to throw away has come a ps2 connected, Siemens-Nixdorf branded object that must be 18 years old and, doubtless, briefly spent time in a skip. I popped all the keys, cleaned with isopropyl alcohol (an operation almost guaranteed to remove the lettering from modern keyboards) and reassembled. It is a thing of beauty and I look forward to losing all the bad typing habits I've recently adopted from having a dodgy keyboard with poor feedback.
Plenty of time in front of the kitchen sink today to watch down the garden and observe the scene. A mob of blackbirds came through, uninterested in the remains of the apple crop, from which they've already had the best and easiest pickings. Today they came to trash my water garden plants. They pulled strands of re-hydrating sphagnum moss from a tray I intend for carnivorous marsh plants, knocked over a seed pot, turned over some lily leaves, picked a few twigs from a bucket of kindling I was collecting for a neighbour and squabbled the whole time. Also this morning, plenty of bluetits and starlings; a robin bobbing and a warbler. I don't know my warblers and this one was the usual sharp beak, eye stripe, grey/yellow with hints of green and, on this one, almost buff. Leaves are dropping quietly, the first few that are trying to avoid the rush later.
Two weeks ago the first tree crowns began to turn (ignoring the browning horse-chestnuts, which were earlier). One cold night and autumn's starting gun is fired. Heaths are damp, spiders are fattening. The ponies are going towards winter with full bellies this year after a warm summer that didn't suffer drought.
Plenty of time in front of the kitchen sink today to watch down the garden and observe the scene. A mob of blackbirds came through, uninterested in the remains of the apple crop, from which they've already had the best and easiest pickings. Today they came to trash my water garden plants. They pulled strands of re-hydrating sphagnum moss from a tray I intend for carnivorous marsh plants, knocked over a seed pot, turned over some lily leaves, picked a few twigs from a bucket of kindling I was collecting for a neighbour and squabbled the whole time. Also this morning, plenty of bluetits and starlings; a robin bobbing and a warbler. I don't know my warblers and this one was the usual sharp beak, eye stripe, grey/yellow with hints of green and, on this one, almost buff. Leaves are dropping quietly, the first few that are trying to avoid the rush later.
Two weeks ago the first tree crowns began to turn (ignoring the browning horse-chestnuts, which were earlier). One cold night and autumn's starting gun is fired. Heaths are damp, spiders are fattening. The ponies are going towards winter with full bellies this year after a warm summer that didn't suffer drought.
Monday 25 September 2017
Sunday 10 September 2017
Wind noise
Returning West yesterday we watched brooding rain clouds cross ahead of us from mainland to Island. Closer, these storms dropped stray rain on us and threw wind eddies and vortexes that tugged our sails and blew white horse foam across the sea's surface. Rain shrouded vessels in the path leaned heavily and the sky slowly darkened as our own shower arrived.
Large drops fell within the storm system; a contrast to the light spitting outside. Staring ahead, upwind, our faces were washed and the shock of cool rain as it entered our ears became common. In still calm seas the wind peaked, probably around 30 knots and then followed the waves, travelling more slowly than the wind. Another mile and peace returned. A washed sunshine began to warm us and with only the outgoing tide to counter, mooring was simple.
We stowed and tied, made fast and made tea. Just as we were ready to go another shower arrived and we closed the hatch, settled to wait it out and snoozed a little. We watched the peregrine put on a little display flight before motoring the tender back to the pontoon. When we made shore, the retreating rain was still on the South Eastern horizon, making a rainbow whose coloured stripes were cut in sections by bands of rain, looking like an ironic manicured eyebrow.
Dry to home, but the sky was becoming confused. Clouds seemed to stand on end. Tiered vistas of dark and light water vapour revealed ragged islands of blue. Some cloud appeared completely inverted, showing the mounds and crevices that are normally seen from the air. Fleeting flashes, seen from an eye's corner soon became to dominate the fading sun's brightness. Thunder rolls that sounded like the sky's fabric tearing lasted up to half a minute each. The core of the storm, a dark glowering mass, loomed from the West. Without atomic thunder events, timing the flashes was difficult and the results were stochastic. A mile, two miles, a mile and a half. A quarter mile! The note of the fridge motor changed, the Internet dropped out. Ten minutes later it was gone, just a deep grumble left to remind us and a clearing sky that, after another twenty minutes, was virtually empty. Pale blue with just a few remnants of cloud, like the trail of a distant steam train, miles gone.
Large drops fell within the storm system; a contrast to the light spitting outside. Staring ahead, upwind, our faces were washed and the shock of cool rain as it entered our ears became common. In still calm seas the wind peaked, probably around 30 knots and then followed the waves, travelling more slowly than the wind. Another mile and peace returned. A washed sunshine began to warm us and with only the outgoing tide to counter, mooring was simple.
We stowed and tied, made fast and made tea. Just as we were ready to go another shower arrived and we closed the hatch, settled to wait it out and snoozed a little. We watched the peregrine put on a little display flight before motoring the tender back to the pontoon. When we made shore, the retreating rain was still on the South Eastern horizon, making a rainbow whose coloured stripes were cut in sections by bands of rain, looking like an ironic manicured eyebrow.
Dry to home, but the sky was becoming confused. Clouds seemed to stand on end. Tiered vistas of dark and light water vapour revealed ragged islands of blue. Some cloud appeared completely inverted, showing the mounds and crevices that are normally seen from the air. Fleeting flashes, seen from an eye's corner soon became to dominate the fading sun's brightness. Thunder rolls that sounded like the sky's fabric tearing lasted up to half a minute each. The core of the storm, a dark glowering mass, loomed from the West. Without atomic thunder events, timing the flashes was difficult and the results were stochastic. A mile, two miles, a mile and a half. A quarter mile! The note of the fridge motor changed, the Internet dropped out. Ten minutes later it was gone, just a deep grumble left to remind us and a clearing sky that, after another twenty minutes, was virtually empty. Pale blue with just a few remnants of cloud, like the trail of a distant steam train, miles gone.
Sunday 20 August 2017
Road noise
My target of arriving at my destination with the car registering over 50mpg has been more difficult to achieve lately, due to making fewer journeys of sufficient length to overcome warm-up time. But, today I was on a roll.
Monday 10 July 2017
Brown is the new brown
The switch from meadow browns to gatekeepers was about half a week ago now. Yesterday I visited the Island and saw all manner of butterflies; lots of marbled whites, some ringlets and one I haven't identified yet.
Saturday, as I trudged around the garden in the heat I seemed to be herding insects wherever I went. Grasshoppers in the front garden, bees along the drive and, by the buddleias behind the house, butterflies. Mostly, in this corner, there are peacocks, with a few tortoiseshell (and meadow browns and gatekeepers). Red admirals visit occasionally.
As I passed the buddleias this morning there was a rapid and strong flighted butterfly that moved so quickly I could hardly make out its colour. It's July (check), Wimbledon tennis is on the telly (check) and we have had some warm Southerly breezes (check) - must be a painted lady. This turned out to be the case when the insect finally settled in sight.
Tuesday 4 July 2017
These aren't the sounds you're listening for
I went out to put the tools away from the garden. Large moths fluttered silently, seeking nectar, or mates. Dark spiders sped across the paths, emboldened by the dusk, perhaps hoping to stumble upon the moths. Two thirds of a moon showed.
Light and colour were fading. The slightest opal glow touched the bottoms of the patchy cloud layer from sun rays already attenuated from their multiple reflections beyond the horizon.
I tuned into the sounds. Train leaving the station, far distant dog, neighbour whistling the only song I know by the Turtles, conversation, ticking of cooling house. Listening for that very particular sound of scratching, of scrabbling, of occasional buzzing and heavy chitinous collisions. I fear it is a little chill tonight. No stag beetles yet.
Light and colour were fading. The slightest opal glow touched the bottoms of the patchy cloud layer from sun rays already attenuated from their multiple reflections beyond the horizon.
I tuned into the sounds. Train leaving the station, far distant dog, neighbour whistling the only song I know by the Turtles, conversation, ticking of cooling house. Listening for that very particular sound of scratching, of scrabbling, of occasional buzzing and heavy chitinous collisions. I fear it is a little chill tonight. No stag beetles yet.
Saturday 1 July 2017
Flying and flowering
Three weeks now of meadow browns, recently joined by all the summer favourites. No painted ladies yet.
Young birds practice their dances on the lawn or in the fruit trees: blackbirds, robins, dunnocks, house sparrows, gold-finches, jackdaws, crows and starlings.
Lawn clippings today seemed largely hawkweed and clover. Three boxes for the whole thing.
Young birds practice their dances on the lawn or in the fruit trees: blackbirds, robins, dunnocks, house sparrows, gold-finches, jackdaws, crows and starlings.
Lawn clippings today seemed largely hawkweed and clover. Three boxes for the whole thing.
Monday 19 June 2017
Still, playing
From the hush of a mooring by Buckler's Hard and on the first pull of an ebbing tide we followed a million small jellyfish down-river before the heat of the day began. A few other boats joined us. Some in a hurry; some just enjoying the free ride to the mouth
The air was still, the only wind apparent from our engine's gentle chug with the flow. We had hopes that the Solent would offer some power to our sails, but the last few trees and bushes before the shingle spit opened to the South stood in a silent pantomime of the prevailing wind, the Marcel Marceaux of Westerly gusts.
Past the sailing club; past the point where the ebb pulls the river South over the spit; following the posts out in silhouette against the rising sun (cans and cones now). Up to the lighthouse and then the channel out to round the Beaulieu Dolphin to starboard. The sun's intensity increased; the wind never even fluttered. We motored all the way to Lymington. That was quite enough engine use for one weekend.
At neaps, the flow past Lymington is quite sedate. Even so, we were in no hurry to actually arrive (other than an increasing desire to stand under a cool shower) and navigated on about 2/3 tide to 1/3 engine while the over-nighters decided to leave their berths before the noon deadline. There was a slow flow of leaving boats as we approached; sleepy Sundays and a few waiting for the breeze to make a show maybe. Just at the moment we cut inside the port buoy and headed in there was a degree of chaos reigning. Ribs towing toys, motor cruisers and yachts were jockeying for position to leave or refuel. We hung by the starboard post until we could see water between the obstacles and got quickly waved to a simple, starboard-to finger berth.
We cooked, we washed and some small amount of tidying and mending went on. We kept in the shade as much as possible until mid-afternoon when, at last, there seemed some chance of moving air; flags were seen to flutter, but still the only sails in the Solent were North, using the sea breeze to sail. As our short-stay time expired we could wait no longer and so set out again. By the last mooring buoy outside we turned 180 degrees to raise a hopeful main; the genoa went out and for a while we made a couple of knots with an angle to vector across to Lymington starting platform with the end of the rising tide.
That was almost the best of the wind that we saw all day, but not wishing to admit defeat we stuck with it; occasionally taking a broad reach due West to keep the window into the river open. Lyminton Bank, off to port, for quite a long time; a Beneteau on jib crosses us, aiming way off in the tide and turned on his engine ten minutes later; we watch numerous boats of assorted sizes motor in the river. There are several episodes of power-boating idiots passing at full speed; these come in small groups, leaving chop that flaps our flaccid sails. At Baverstock I drop the main, the wind now too far astern to make the main easy to sail. The genoa does all the work up to about the fourth port mark where we cut back into the channel from the shallows. Still maintaining over a knot, we have enough control to stay on the port side, out of the way of a ferry leaving for the Island. I cut straight for the last starboard mark on the entrance channel; anyone on engine can just get out of the way, though I time my traverse to be polite. A yacht on engine realises what we are doing and gives a thumbs-up.
One more mark before the lake. I cut again across the shallow corner towards the first mooring buoy and, as we turn East, I have to tack the genoa. I take the opportunity to start to furl it too. The last buoy before our mooring has a boat that is across the channel and I turn around its stern, testing the amount of control the rudder has at this slow speed and with an unknown amount of flow (has the tide turned here yet?). The final swing to starboard almost hits the mooring buoy and stalls us in what turns out to be slack water. We pick-up; tie off.
The air was still, the only wind apparent from our engine's gentle chug with the flow. We had hopes that the Solent would offer some power to our sails, but the last few trees and bushes before the shingle spit opened to the South stood in a silent pantomime of the prevailing wind, the Marcel Marceaux of Westerly gusts.
Past the sailing club; past the point where the ebb pulls the river South over the spit; following the posts out in silhouette against the rising sun (cans and cones now). Up to the lighthouse and then the channel out to round the Beaulieu Dolphin to starboard. The sun's intensity increased; the wind never even fluttered. We motored all the way to Lymington. That was quite enough engine use for one weekend.
At neaps, the flow past Lymington is quite sedate. Even so, we were in no hurry to actually arrive (other than an increasing desire to stand under a cool shower) and navigated on about 2/3 tide to 1/3 engine while the over-nighters decided to leave their berths before the noon deadline. There was a slow flow of leaving boats as we approached; sleepy Sundays and a few waiting for the breeze to make a show maybe. Just at the moment we cut inside the port buoy and headed in there was a degree of chaos reigning. Ribs towing toys, motor cruisers and yachts were jockeying for position to leave or refuel. We hung by the starboard post until we could see water between the obstacles and got quickly waved to a simple, starboard-to finger berth.
We cooked, we washed and some small amount of tidying and mending went on. We kept in the shade as much as possible until mid-afternoon when, at last, there seemed some chance of moving air; flags were seen to flutter, but still the only sails in the Solent were North, using the sea breeze to sail. As our short-stay time expired we could wait no longer and so set out again. By the last mooring buoy outside we turned 180 degrees to raise a hopeful main; the genoa went out and for a while we made a couple of knots with an angle to vector across to Lymington starting platform with the end of the rising tide.
That was almost the best of the wind that we saw all day, but not wishing to admit defeat we stuck with it; occasionally taking a broad reach due West to keep the window into the river open. Lyminton Bank, off to port, for quite a long time; a Beneteau on jib crosses us, aiming way off in the tide and turned on his engine ten minutes later; we watch numerous boats of assorted sizes motor in the river. There are several episodes of power-boating idiots passing at full speed; these come in small groups, leaving chop that flaps our flaccid sails. At Baverstock I drop the main, the wind now too far astern to make the main easy to sail. The genoa does all the work up to about the fourth port mark where we cut back into the channel from the shallows. Still maintaining over a knot, we have enough control to stay on the port side, out of the way of a ferry leaving for the Island. I cut straight for the last starboard mark on the entrance channel; anyone on engine can just get out of the way, though I time my traverse to be polite. A yacht on engine realises what we are doing and gives a thumbs-up.
One more mark before the lake. I cut again across the shallow corner towards the first mooring buoy and, as we turn East, I have to tack the genoa. I take the opportunity to start to furl it too. The last buoy before our mooring has a boat that is across the channel and I turn around its stern, testing the amount of control the rudder has at this slow speed and with an unknown amount of flow (has the tide turned here yet?). The final swing to starboard almost hits the mooring buoy and stalls us in what turns out to be slack water. We pick-up; tie off.
Thursday 8 June 2017
Not playing
Drumming, like the fingers of a dozen teenagers all bored in the same instant interrupts my reverie. The rain has come; the washing is on the line.
I rush, bare footed, up the path already polkadotted with drops, stepping over a slick steel drain cover. In the sky a small grumpy cloud eclipses the garden. I begin to gather in the near-dry laundry, pushing pegs (necessitated by the breezy conditions) into my pockets. The rain stops.
I glare at the cloud; it glowers back. I tentatively start to spread out the sheet I was pulling on and replace the pegs. A few drops fall, then a few more. I gather half the items from the line and the rain ceases, the small cloud is crawling past.
Uncertain, I return indoors with the items that seemed driest, although they still need airing. The path is wetter than the garden, but the sky is brightening. After ten minutes and no further rain, I restore the clothes to the line and find something else to do.
The forecast for the day says showers will die out towards the evening, so I expect to get my laundry dry eventually. I return to my office and my earlier thoughts. From time to time a half dozen teenagers set to with the fingers again, but I'm not playing.
I rush, bare footed, up the path already polkadotted with drops, stepping over a slick steel drain cover. In the sky a small grumpy cloud eclipses the garden. I begin to gather in the near-dry laundry, pushing pegs (necessitated by the breezy conditions) into my pockets. The rain stops.
I glare at the cloud; it glowers back. I tentatively start to spread out the sheet I was pulling on and replace the pegs. A few drops fall, then a few more. I gather half the items from the line and the rain ceases, the small cloud is crawling past.
Uncertain, I return indoors with the items that seemed driest, although they still need airing. The path is wetter than the garden, but the sky is brightening. After ten minutes and no further rain, I restore the clothes to the line and find something else to do.
The forecast for the day says showers will die out towards the evening, so I expect to get my laundry dry eventually. I return to my office and my earlier thoughts. From time to time a half dozen teenagers set to with the fingers again, but I'm not playing.
Monday 5 June 2017
That drinking earth
We interrupt this occasionally baking sun to bring you severe gales and rain curtains with a variety of raindrop sizes and wetness. It is nice to play indoors without the garden guilt though.
We let the boat dry out over the weekend, largely because a new shaft anode was needed. All looks well below the waterline. Waiting for the tide to do its cycle we also had time for other, more routine maintenance, such as an engine oil change, a bit of wood cleaning, a gel-coat repair. It is hard to fully relax and enjoy the wild weather, knowing that she will be bobbing about rather violently on her mooring, but, first world problems.
We let the boat dry out over the weekend, largely because a new shaft anode was needed. All looks well below the waterline. Waiting for the tide to do its cycle we also had time for other, more routine maintenance, such as an engine oil change, a bit of wood cleaning, a gel-coat repair. It is hard to fully relax and enjoy the wild weather, knowing that she will be bobbing about rather violently on her mooring, but, first world problems.
Friday 26 May 2017
Almonds?
The yellow of the gorse has faded over the past week, pausing at rich gold, on its way to brown. A small scattering of foals have been delivered and alternate feeding and sleeping, much in the manner of human infants.
The bees have transferred their attention to my pyracantha.
Wednesday 24 May 2017
Tuesday 23 May 2017
bitten, not stirred
Four days of sailing as the temperature slowly increased and the wind speed abated. A trip that took us East up the Solent and back again. As well as visiting some new places, the trip was a minor shake-down for the crew to assess readiness for greater things and to confer some fitness by firming muscles and hardening hands. The third day was the longest at about 8 hours, largely taken downwind on the way back West to Cowes and I have to say it engendered extremely satisfying sleep on Sunday night. As is often the case, it was the things that went wrong that punctuated the journey that stick in the mind.
There is a worrying trend towards uniformity in the running of the Solent's marinas. Everything is computer controlled. It is obvious how these marinas, bought up in bulk by large holding companies, make their money. They charge impressive sums for use of their space, they diversify into waterside property, they replace humans with robots and sell concessions to the highest bidder. This leaves the visitor, however efficient and clean the facilities are, with a feeling of being processed, rather than welcome.
Chichester marina is such a place; I had to provide all my personal details except my inside-leg measurement before being allowed through their lock. On entry to the lock I had thrust into my hand three booklets, an access tag and a sheet of hand-filled paper consisting of a map and the usual mooring details. If this simple map with its human annotation had been complete and accurate it would have been a wonder, but the line indicating the berth was too thick and on a first visit it is not entirely a simple thing to orientate ones-self on a map whilst concentrating on the rise of water in a lock and the movement of the three other vessels in there. To add joy to this mildly disorientating experience, the prop-shaft anode decided to make a bid for freedom at his point, although of course we didn't find out the cause of the noise until later.
Chichester marina's fine map shows a road that runs around the perimeter of the site, but isn't ever so clear about whether the lock itself is passable by pedestrians. It has an arrow indicating a convenience store. Sadly, with its human annotation and its (relative) charm, this map contains some historic detail which might mislead. The convenience store has been upgraded to a marine super-store stocking everything you could want (with a high margin) to get you onto the water and keep you safe and comfortable there. Inconveniently this store now only opens normal shop hours. It stocks one brand of semi-skimmed, over-advertised milk. On our visit, 9:10 on a Sunday, it had no bread.
Just before embarking on this short odyssey I took a flying run round the garden, in my sandals and waving a camera. Ten minutes of carelessness. On our first day afloat on the first short voyage I had an itch that I noticed whilst helming, back of my left knee. Wearing jeans and controlling a yacht in the lively but pleasant conditions of the day did not permit investigation and I forgot the minor irritation until dressed for bed. Inevitably after my last piece, I had been bitten by a tick; it came out fairly simply.
An excursion to hang the first load of washing this morning revealed that summer is moving quickly on. The cotoneaster has lost its buzz; the lily of the valley is half over. I was greeted by a curious hornet, noisy, orange. Last week I saw my first young blackbird and whilst excavating roots disturbed a stag-beetle larva.
There is a worrying trend towards uniformity in the running of the Solent's marinas. Everything is computer controlled. It is obvious how these marinas, bought up in bulk by large holding companies, make their money. They charge impressive sums for use of their space, they diversify into waterside property, they replace humans with robots and sell concessions to the highest bidder. This leaves the visitor, however efficient and clean the facilities are, with a feeling of being processed, rather than welcome.
Chichester marina is such a place; I had to provide all my personal details except my inside-leg measurement before being allowed through their lock. On entry to the lock I had thrust into my hand three booklets, an access tag and a sheet of hand-filled paper consisting of a map and the usual mooring details. If this simple map with its human annotation had been complete and accurate it would have been a wonder, but the line indicating the berth was too thick and on a first visit it is not entirely a simple thing to orientate ones-self on a map whilst concentrating on the rise of water in a lock and the movement of the three other vessels in there. To add joy to this mildly disorientating experience, the prop-shaft anode decided to make a bid for freedom at his point, although of course we didn't find out the cause of the noise until later.
Chichester marina's fine map shows a road that runs around the perimeter of the site, but isn't ever so clear about whether the lock itself is passable by pedestrians. It has an arrow indicating a convenience store. Sadly, with its human annotation and its (relative) charm, this map contains some historic detail which might mislead. The convenience store has been upgraded to a marine super-store stocking everything you could want (with a high margin) to get you onto the water and keep you safe and comfortable there. Inconveniently this store now only opens normal shop hours. It stocks one brand of semi-skimmed, over-advertised milk. On our visit, 9:10 on a Sunday, it had no bread.
Just before embarking on this short odyssey I took a flying run round the garden, in my sandals and waving a camera. Ten minutes of carelessness. On our first day afloat on the first short voyage I had an itch that I noticed whilst helming, back of my left knee. Wearing jeans and controlling a yacht in the lively but pleasant conditions of the day did not permit investigation and I forgot the minor irritation until dressed for bed. Inevitably after my last piece, I had been bitten by a tick; it came out fairly simply.
An excursion to hang the first load of washing this morning revealed that summer is moving quickly on. The cotoneaster has lost its buzz; the lily of the valley is half over. I was greeted by a curious hornet, noisy, orange. Last week I saw my first young blackbird and whilst excavating roots disturbed a stag-beetle larva.
Wednesday 17 May 2017
Stung. Not bitten
05:38, wasn't bad by recent standards and I lay, light beginning to creep in, aware that my inner right ankle was itching.
We live in a forest, domestic animals mix with wilder ones; both visit gardens and one of the upshots of this is that even doing a bit of gentle weeding holds the threat of deer ticks and any diseases they might be harbouring. After a day gardening then it is of some interest when an itch comes along, it prompts thought, rather than simple idle scratching.
Cosy and, with my ankle seemingly too far away to reach easily I scratched gently with my left heel callous. The sensation of touch brought back the cause. The previous afternoon I had brushed my bare ankle with the fresh foliage of pulled nettles as I worked to extract as much root as possible. It was a healing itch, an almost pleasant sensation, but one I had to avoid scratching.
Reassured, but not back to sleep. The six o'clock trains rumbled, I broke for the washing-up, Radio 4's early news, watching the passage of gold tits from tree top to top and the post Jurassic ambling of jackdaws probing the fresh-mown grass for food.
We live in a forest, domestic animals mix with wilder ones; both visit gardens and one of the upshots of this is that even doing a bit of gentle weeding holds the threat of deer ticks and any diseases they might be harbouring. After a day gardening then it is of some interest when an itch comes along, it prompts thought, rather than simple idle scratching.
Cosy and, with my ankle seemingly too far away to reach easily I scratched gently with my left heel callous. The sensation of touch brought back the cause. The previous afternoon I had brushed my bare ankle with the fresh foliage of pulled nettles as I worked to extract as much root as possible. It was a healing itch, an almost pleasant sensation, but one I had to avoid scratching.
Reassured, but not back to sleep. The six o'clock trains rumbled, I broke for the washing-up, Radio 4's early news, watching the passage of gold tits from tree top to top and the post Jurassic ambling of jackdaws probing the fresh-mown grass for food.
Monday 15 May 2017
vortex scentral
Just at the back of the house, in a sheltered spot, it is difficult to guess which scent will arrive next. A playful breeze whips around, carrying mixed florals and new-cut grass. The cotoneaster hums with happy honey bees and has underplanting of ragged robin and cranesbill geranium; both self sown. I reach through the rough branches to snip tendrils of ivy trying to make for the roof. The bees don't seem to mind.
Neglect has a dual effect on the garden. Some features spoil of course, stronger plants push out the more delicate and fussy. Nature creates its own beauty though and, while trying to make up for too much neglect and bring some old beds back to cultivation it is hard to remove the wild accidents, the happy chaos. Weeding is in the eye of the beholder, considering that weeds are plants in the wrong place. I aim to tame and train, rather than delete heavily and impose my own order.
In the last six weeks I think I've found every football that my children ever owned. I suppose this must happen, given that they are not biodegradable and we never threw them away. Lodged underneath box hedging seems to be the popular spot. Less welcome in the hedging are bramble and field maple, but I forgive the phormiums and aquilegia.
Neglect has a dual effect on the garden. Some features spoil of course, stronger plants push out the more delicate and fussy. Nature creates its own beauty though and, while trying to make up for too much neglect and bring some old beds back to cultivation it is hard to remove the wild accidents, the happy chaos. Weeding is in the eye of the beholder, considering that weeds are plants in the wrong place. I aim to tame and train, rather than delete heavily and impose my own order.
In the last six weeks I think I've found every football that my children ever owned. I suppose this must happen, given that they are not biodegradable and we never threw them away. Lodged underneath box hedging seems to be the popular spot. Less welcome in the hedging are bramble and field maple, but I forgive the phormiums and aquilegia.
Friday 12 May 2017
New tea-towel
After sailing an old (but not yet vintage) yacht for a couple of years, the shortcomings of the original main sail had become apparent. Raising the main was closer to hanging out half a large tea-towel, cut corner to corner, than it was to applying more power or direction to travel.
After a particularly fortunate investment decision provided the funds an investment in boat futures was made and, after a couple of small problems, installed. Yesterday was the first opportunity to test this new arrangement. In a force 3 to 4, and a very calm sea thanks to the wind being largely South Easterly, we sailed about nine miles, there and back. Raising the main (after fiddling with the new cars that get stuck on the old sprung slot) is more like erecting a wing in the middle of the boat. Lots of power, very quickly.
It's going to be a fun year finding out how this behaves in heavier conditions.
After a particularly fortunate investment decision provided the funds an investment in boat futures was made and, after a couple of small problems, installed. Yesterday was the first opportunity to test this new arrangement. In a force 3 to 4, and a very calm sea thanks to the wind being largely South Easterly, we sailed about nine miles, there and back. Raising the main (after fiddling with the new cars that get stuck on the old sprung slot) is more like erecting a wing in the middle of the boat. Lots of power, very quickly.
It's going to be a fun year finding out how this behaves in heavier conditions.
Tuesday 9 May 2017
Friday 14 April 2017
The start of the apple cycle.
Standing in the broken shade I can feel the skin around my eyes smooth. I switch on the flying lawn-mower filter and the ambiance is now disturbed only by the distant grumble of light traffic (no trains or planes for a moment). Birds in far trees call and sing. In high fidelity, three dimensional sound, my ears fill with the buzzing of honey bees. The fresh pink, veined blossoms fill the air with the appetising scent of apple. Sun touches and warms cryptic patterns on my skin through the boughs and buds. Over-long lawn tugs gently on my toes.
Saturday 18 March 2017
Not lambs. Better!
A morning spent playing in the garden, the Solent being a bit breezy. This is evidently the magnolia time. Stellata varieties are well out with the tulips just behind; crowding in on the daffodils and primulas that have only had a couple of weeks of spring to themselves. The last week has been particularly mild, bringing on the camellias, launching the bumble bee queens as well as a host of other insects. I was very surprised to find a large slowworm just outside my front door, taking advantage of the slight warmth of the concrete path before slipping into undergrowth when I disturbed her.
We took a short walk to the sea front at Hurst Spit this afternoon and poked our heads above the shingle bank enough to confirm that the decision to not sail had been a wise and well informed one.
Back in the car-park I noticed that the black Skoda in the next bay had a peppering of sulphurous green pollen coating all of its angles and faces. The shape seems more stealth fighter than aesthetically pleasing to me. It must live somewhere under a willow or a hazel hedge. The windscreen wipers had swept the film from the glass and left it as a yellow stripe on the off-side; a colourful addition to the stark outline.
We took a short walk to the sea front at Hurst Spit this afternoon and poked our heads above the shingle bank enough to confirm that the decision to not sail had been a wise and well informed one.
Back in the car-park I noticed that the black Skoda in the next bay had a peppering of sulphurous green pollen coating all of its angles and faces. The shape seems more stealth fighter than aesthetically pleasing to me. It must live somewhere under a willow or a hazel hedge. The windscreen wipers had swept the film from the glass and left it as a yellow stripe on the off-side; a colourful addition to the stark outline.
Friday 17 March 2017
Forest snaps
I may have casually mentioned that I have the option to drive across beautiful countryside on my daily commute and, other than a few special features, such as the custard maple, this has been very much left to the readers' imaginations.
Since I've just adopted a camera and it needed testing, I thought I might correct this lack of visual information in some small way.
Since I've just adopted a camera and it needed testing, I thought I might correct this lack of visual information in some small way.
Wednesday 15 March 2017
Fire and ..
I saw some butter fly today,
And geese and ducks and gulls at play.
This morning I was on the sea,
The afternoon in forestry.
I work to eat, that is my sorrow,
Or I would do the same tomorrow.
And geese and ducks and gulls at play.
This morning I was on the sea,
The afternoon in forestry.
I work to eat, that is my sorrow,
Or I would do the same tomorrow.
Wednesday 22 February 2017
Through the anonymity of the commute.
Filling my mirrors this morning, queuing into the market town, two tonnes of German engineering, a huge grey Mercedes. We lost contact at the first T-junction and I glanced up immediately after to find the bulky thing still there, but now separated by another grey Mercedes, just a slightly sleeker model.
On the one-way, waiting for the lights, they drew parallel. I looked in, a small lady, dark hair, perched on the driver's seat.
A bright morning with moderate temperatures (for the time of year). A perfect day for a drop-top, impractical, unreliable Italian model in red. Don't wear that corporate cage, swap Teutonic for frivolous. "Live a little" I thought. We went our ways.
On the one-way, waiting for the lights, they drew parallel. I looked in, a small lady, dark hair, perched on the driver's seat.
A bright morning with moderate temperatures (for the time of year). A perfect day for a drop-top, impractical, unreliable Italian model in red. Don't wear that corporate cage, swap Teutonic for frivolous. "Live a little" I thought. We went our ways.
Monday 20 February 2017
Out and a-boat.
Saturday was still and quite beautiful on the water, but not sailing weather; picnic on the boat weather, watching the gulls and the visitors to the town quay.
Sunday, though duller and initially still, had a gathering breeze through the day and, while it was not enough to get us to the island without motored assistance, got us back easily. We motored down river slowly, peacefully until we came to a start line of dinghies. They let us through, politely, despite it being less than three minutes to the off. So we followed a small fleet down the river channel and shortly after another small fleet followed us and, with great fortune and a little consideration from the ferry there was nothing trying to get up river at the same time. Once on the last leg of the channel, by the marshes, and with a strengthening breeze on our right cheeks we flew the jib and, by releasing the main sheet and turning slightly to the West, the main went up too.
Half a dozen boats up by us, as well as forty or so dingies that all turned West and, to the East, maybe a dozen more boats towards Cowes, all drifting in the faintest of mists that clung to the water, blurring distant headlands into water-colour washes.
We took a long starboard tack until the flooding tide pushed our path too far East to meet the next harbour entrance. Tacked up into the relative shallows again, but the wind wasn't up to beating the cross-flow unless we had gone all the way up to the castle and wanting our lunch and a bit of shelter, since the sun was only reluctantly showing, we tacked out again having made all of 250 yards and resigned ourselves to using the engine to our destination once we hit the deeps again.
A few rays of sun broke through, spotlighting small sections of rippled water, occasionally a boat, sometimes even our own. We moored on a finger into wind. I jumped the rail with the stern line, although there was really no hurry as we came in in fine control.
Our favourite island coffee house with a shared tea slice, our own sandwiches and an apple. We re-acquainted ourselves with the port as the slow rhythm of the arriving and departing ferry made waves in the marina. We worried over wear and tear, planning repairs.
Just before slack tide we cast off again to reverse the journey. A single port tack straight across; meeting the channel half way to let the outgoing ferry by and then chased up stream by its returning twin which passed us before the wave barrier, forcing us to choose a side and start the engine.
First time under canvas this year, six or seven miles. Wind increasing 2 to a good 3 and overcast.
Sunday, though duller and initially still, had a gathering breeze through the day and, while it was not enough to get us to the island without motored assistance, got us back easily. We motored down river slowly, peacefully until we came to a start line of dinghies. They let us through, politely, despite it being less than three minutes to the off. So we followed a small fleet down the river channel and shortly after another small fleet followed us and, with great fortune and a little consideration from the ferry there was nothing trying to get up river at the same time. Once on the last leg of the channel, by the marshes, and with a strengthening breeze on our right cheeks we flew the jib and, by releasing the main sheet and turning slightly to the West, the main went up too.
Half a dozen boats up by us, as well as forty or so dingies that all turned West and, to the East, maybe a dozen more boats towards Cowes, all drifting in the faintest of mists that clung to the water, blurring distant headlands into water-colour washes.
We took a long starboard tack until the flooding tide pushed our path too far East to meet the next harbour entrance. Tacked up into the relative shallows again, but the wind wasn't up to beating the cross-flow unless we had gone all the way up to the castle and wanting our lunch and a bit of shelter, since the sun was only reluctantly showing, we tacked out again having made all of 250 yards and resigned ourselves to using the engine to our destination once we hit the deeps again.
A few rays of sun broke through, spotlighting small sections of rippled water, occasionally a boat, sometimes even our own. We moored on a finger into wind. I jumped the rail with the stern line, although there was really no hurry as we came in in fine control.
Our favourite island coffee house with a shared tea slice, our own sandwiches and an apple. We re-acquainted ourselves with the port as the slow rhythm of the arriving and departing ferry made waves in the marina. We worried over wear and tear, planning repairs.
Just before slack tide we cast off again to reverse the journey. A single port tack straight across; meeting the channel half way to let the outgoing ferry by and then chased up stream by its returning twin which passed us before the wave barrier, forcing us to choose a side and start the engine.
First time under canvas this year, six or seven miles. Wind increasing 2 to a good 3 and overcast.
Thursday 9 February 2017
Eternal spring hopes
Last weeks' dawns were delayed by clouds whose soft patterings filled the semi-conscious interludes of night. Thursday's dawn brought calm, after a stormy night and finally, on Friday, the promise of earlier mornings was met by an almost clear, pale blue. What small clouds there were scudded Northwards along the Eastern horizon. Shadowed, they were more like a wolf pack than a sheep.
It is to the skies that my spring hopes have been focused; waiting on the bright herald of sun to draw me from bed early enough, instead of the dull alarm call and fumble for light switches that mark winter. Yesterday morning though, after the birds had sung to me around half after six and I'd managed to beat the alarm down to the kitchen, I saw snowdrops on the way to work; the first flowers to greet the year and signal a return of hope to ground level, to the garden, the Forest and the sea.
It is to the skies that my spring hopes have been focused; waiting on the bright herald of sun to draw me from bed early enough, instead of the dull alarm call and fumble for light switches that mark winter. Yesterday morning though, after the birds had sung to me around half after six and I'd managed to beat the alarm down to the kitchen, I saw snowdrops on the way to work; the first flowers to greet the year and signal a return of hope to ground level, to the garden, the Forest and the sea.
Wednesday 25 January 2017
The F in fog
After a cold, occasionally sunny weekend, today is the third morning of freezing fog. Three mornings doing the ice-scrape tango to the gentle hum of warming engine.
Out on the back roads, untreated, tyres have occasion for metaphysics. Twice Monday, once today, the car forgot about following the commands from the driver's seat. Not much; enough to be mildly disconcerting, enough to give warning of worse to come.
The air, cold, has gone stale. What air we have has been used already and contains memories of its last user. Traffic smells; the stale stench of burnt pig bedding (transmuted from smokey-bacon flavour to bacony and old smoke). Even indoors there is a lack of freshness: the admin ladies miasma, the unsubtle edge of washroom disinfectant, laser printer ozone and a thousand applications of fabric conditioner. It is unhelpful that I'm recovering the olfactory landscape after a cold last week. Odour returns, only partially welcome.
Out on the back roads, untreated, tyres have occasion for metaphysics. Twice Monday, once today, the car forgot about following the commands from the driver's seat. Not much; enough to be mildly disconcerting, enough to give warning of worse to come.
The air, cold, has gone stale. What air we have has been used already and contains memories of its last user. Traffic smells; the stale stench of burnt pig bedding (transmuted from smokey-bacon flavour to bacony and old smoke). Even indoors there is a lack of freshness: the admin ladies miasma, the unsubtle edge of washroom disinfectant, laser printer ozone and a thousand applications of fabric conditioner. It is unhelpful that I'm recovering the olfactory landscape after a cold last week. Odour returns, only partially welcome.
Sunday 15 January 2017
As bad as Water World?
Living close to the sea, although more than a stone's throw I admit, engenders a poetry of the soul, some of which I try to express here. This afternoon on BBC Radio 4 was a programme whose subject was Philip Larkin, a recognised poet who lived within the influence of the Humber Estuary, which he made a common theme of his work. I was relieved on hearing this programme quote some of his water inspired works, since they sounded exactly like the sort of Bollocks I write. I should be famous; sea?
Wednesday 11 January 2017
Not drowning
Motored a couple of miles on the water Saturday. Far enough to visit the summer mooring, not enough to feel the tug of the rising tide surging East up the Solent. It felt good to be afloat, even without wind; letting the boat battery and our own batteries recharge that little bit.
It's remained mild here, though windy today and mostly overcast with the same front that is dropping wintry showers further North. For three mornings in a row the dawn clouds have had a coral tint, but now, after dusk, there is the full moon that had soaked through my bedroom curtains every time I woke last night.
The turning of the year, the spring tides dragged by the waxed moon, daily rhythms of sun: all slow, low frequency, inexorable waves. The trick is to surf them.
It's remained mild here, though windy today and mostly overcast with the same front that is dropping wintry showers further North. For three mornings in a row the dawn clouds have had a coral tint, but now, after dusk, there is the full moon that had soaked through my bedroom curtains every time I woke last night.
The turning of the year, the spring tides dragged by the waxed moon, daily rhythms of sun: all slow, low frequency, inexorable waves. The trick is to surf them.
Wednesday 4 January 2017
Once again round New Year's buoy
With the shortest day behind I study the unpromising landscape for signs of better. The trees stand bare, as dead as ever they can be except for death itself. Leaf litter sinks to mud. The Forest beasts slink in shelter, moving economically, wearing their thickest; carrying layered ice on the harshest days. People walk heads down; celebrations done, back to the grind mostly. Network television's annual film budget is gone.
Only the birds seem cheered. Mornings I hear them, yes, sometimes fighting, but sometimes singing out the territories they need to raise new young; when the sun comes again.
My brood is overflowing the nest. Fledged, though they don't all know yet. Myself I yearn to sail again; to lay trust in wind and wave and tide but not be bound by time.
Only the birds seem cheered. Mornings I hear them, yes, sometimes fighting, but sometimes singing out the territories they need to raise new young; when the sun comes again.
My brood is overflowing the nest. Fledged, though they don't all know yet. Myself I yearn to sail again; to lay trust in wind and wave and tide but not be bound by time.
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