There have always been Welsh onions in my vegetable garden. They are perpetual, producing new shoots all the time and every year. They grow in bunches and when you want some you simply prise them away at the root, and more will subsequently appear. At this time of year they tend to flower, which bees like this one appreciate.From the train the countryside is like a garden. Elder is still in flower and ox eye daisies spread into fields from the shadow of hedges. But most conspicuous today are the pink brier roses which clamber over shrubs and into trees and fall in tresses over hedgerows. If you didn't know otherwise, you would mistake them for cultivated rambler roses in a cottage garden.
Today we elect not to watch England play the World Cup game, which could see them expelled from the series. Instead we take the train to sit by the sea. Who wants to be in front of the tv on summer day like this! But we do not escape the game completely. In St Leonards, even before it has started, England or the team's manager Fabio Capello is on everyone lips. "|Where does Fabio's heart really stand?" we hear a man ask outside a shop, as we walk past. On the way back we learn that England are leading 1- nil, when we overhear a telephone conversation in the train compartment. Half way home from the station, in the newsagent, we learn that the score is still 1 - nil, and by the time we pass the entrance to The Grove Tavern, it is clear that England has survived. We too.
4 comments:
One of the satisfying aspects of holidaying in France during the World Cup has been the growing excoriation of the French side by the French media. With Occasional Speeder driving I was required to translate direct from L'Equipe (much harder than you'd imagine; lots of unknown sports jargon) to roars of laughter from my captive audience. You ask yourself the question: if the French bare their souls in this way over soccer, what can their contemporary reaction have been towards Waterloo? I must admit I was surprised to find Anelka's condemnation of Domenecch ("Blank yourself you son of a blank" - or would you prefer asterisks?) gained even more sordid power when displayed as a headline, in 110 pt type, to the lead story on page one. L'Equipe rates the French players out of ten after each match and rather too many must have ended up with an average of 3. Small bitter summaries accompany these ratings. In one case Il a disparu. takes on a sinister tone.
It amazes me still that bees can fly at all, but then to carry the baggage of pollen around on their legs - astounding! Wonderful photo, Plutarch.
Yes, the patrons of the Grove Tavern were pleased with the result!! They all spilled out onto the street at the end of the match, probably because it was awfully hot and stuffy inside the pub! And now we have to do it all over again on Sunday! Athough if its a glorious summer day like today - being in the garden would be a much better option!
Football matches are a bit like religious events, and pubs on such occasions not so far removed from churches. Afterwards there is a sense of release after the tensions of the match. The congregation spills out, all passion spent. Passing The Grove on Wednesay, you felt an atmosphere almost of relief.
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