Domestic life.

Sounds of summer: the ice cream van chiming in the distance. The Pied Piper of Tunbridge Wells.

I sit in the garden and watch as the herbs - thyme, rosemary, parsley, mint, sage, chives - appear to be growing before my eyes. I make a note to remove the pointed buds from the chives before they flower. A potato salad should do the job.

portrait, retreat, visitor

Somewhere between hope and suspicion.

Lunch with my blogger brother at the Indian restaurant which has now been aptly and imperishably named by blogger, Barrett Bonden as the Bloggers' retreat. There is still a problem with the licence to serve alcohol, but you are allowed to bring your own bottles. So off to the nearby pub, The Savoy Tun, a few steps away, and back to the Curry Club as the restaurant is also known. "You've come well prepared," says the restaurant's gentle owner, as we mount the narrow stairs.

There is a half-window above our front door and next to it wisteria just coming into flower. This morning a long-tailed tit flutters, as I pass the door, from wisteria to window and back. No camera is to hand as it seldom is when such an opportunity occurs. So these few words will have to do, to capture the fleeting presence of an unexpected visitor.

junctions, trails, two geese

Before the leaves.

Something to do with atmospheric pressure today, the sky is criss-crossed with vapour trails; they have thickened a little, but remain interwoven like the script of an impossible language.

From the train,I see two Canada geese in a large playing field. They occupy the cricket pitch in the centre as if it belongs to them; they are inspecting it, as a source of worms.

ivy, dandelion days, cat

You might guess that this door is seldom used. A punster might remark that Ivy lives behind it.

If there is a dandelion season, it is now. The verges are overwhelmed with dense crowds of them, unapologetic and bold. No spherical clocks yet for the wind or passing children to blow. If they were cultivated and the leaves blanched,
what a feast of salad!

In the long cross a black lies, just the ridge of its back showing, its round head and its pointed ears.

euphorbia, postures, Bhudda

 

The greeny - yellow flowers and bracts of Euphorbia often seem surprising in their restraint.

In the Grove, it is like a summer afternoon. A woman lies on her back on the grass, a book held up against the sky. Further, on a man, his knees drawn up and apart,   his hands supporting either side of his head,  is absorbed in a book  open on the ground between his bare feet.

A woman wears an orange tee shirt with the message Buddha rocks.

catkins, rewards, hot

Silver birch catkins.

As the need to garden becomes more pressing, I push myself to weed among the rose bushes, set aside for cutting. The reward is looking back at what little I have done, and feeling satisfied enough to do more.

Summer, rather than spring, today. I rest my hand for a moment on a plastic water butt. The surface feels as hot as a hot water tank in a central heating system.

bluebell, ground elder, matresses

Bluebell with raindrop. The photograph is worth clicking.

Ground elder can be difficult to eradicate. But I am beginning to come to terms with it, and even enjoy the chore. At this time of the year when the ground is soft, after loosening the surrounding earth with a fork, it is possible to lift out, in their entirety, the insidious, white roots, knowing that if cut up with a spade, they multiply and spread. The leaves, when young are quite attractive, and, according to Richard Mabey's book Food for Free can be cooked and eaten as spinach, which, he maintains, the Romans used to do.

Sabrina, who owns Hall's Bookshop tells me that, while pick nicking with friends at Eridge Rocks, a sandstone outcrop near Tunbridge Wells, where climbers come to practice their sport, she noticed that some of the climbers were taking precautions against broken bones, by placing mattresses at the foot of the rock face. Not far to fall, as the rocks are not much more than 20 ft high, but such precautions strike me as a little too comfortable for comfort.

bud, decades, bee

The structure of a bud.

Awake in the early hours, I try get a grip on the landmarks of my life - a difficult task because I have a very poor grasp of dates. To make things easy, I ask myself where I was when I was 10 and then at at the end of every 10 year period. I have nearly always lived in the south east of England, in the counties of Surrey, Sussex and Kent. But what I realize, for the first time this morning, is that the longest period, in which I have lived in the same house is that, which extends over the past 20 years until the present, and that the house, which I now occupy, is the one where I have lived for the longest uninterrupted period.

What is the black cat watching with such intensity in the flower bed? And makes a prodding gesture towards with its paw? It is a bumble bee. The bee takes little notice and continues on it odd, circuitous flight, searching
flight.

cellophane, rain, Tunbridge Wells

Cellophane wrap.

It is raining steadily, but it is a gentle downpour. The Grove, as the buds open on every tree, is overwhelmingly green. It is deserted, but for me, and the bloke who helps behind the bar in the Compasses, who is having a quick puff outside the rear entrance of the pub, where some shrubs provide a little shelter.

It is not often that you find an article about the town where you live in a national newspaper. When you do there is a pleasant start of recognition - not quite your fifteen minutes of fame - but a link with the world beyond your accustomed territory. The article, in the property section, of this morning's Financial Times is headed "Delighted Tunbridge Wells". It is by a resident of Tunbridge Wells called Chris McCooey. The headline is a reference to the catch phrase "Disgusted, Tunbridge Wells", which the author ascribes to "indignant matrons" who signed their letters in this way when writing to national newspapers.
That may be correct, but I can offer an additional source for the phrase. When I was a child there was a comedy programme on the the radio called Take It from Here. Among the regular spots on the programme was one where Jimmy Edwards, a resident comedian on the show, would proclaim, every week, a pompous and angry protest about the state of the country or the world, in the form of a letter to the Press, which concluded with the words "Disgusted of Tunbridge Wells". It was a point I looked forward to every week, because it set out to ridicule values that were stuffy and old fashioned; and, for a young person like myself, there were plenty of targets for such ridicule in a world, which still lay in the shadow of the Victorian era. I'm sure that the phrase, which must have been absorbed into the subconscious of the nation, helped to contribute to the myth of Tunbridge Wells as a stuffy place.
You cannot have lived in Tunbridge Wells for as long as I have without encountering a number of candidates for the origin of D of TW. One, I recall was the Rev John Banner, the former vicar of Christ Church in the High Street, who proudly made it, under this label, on to the magazine section of a Sunday newspaper. Another, more recent D o TW was my friend and neighbour, Tony Wade, who died last year. He was (conforming to the archetype), in fact, a retired colonel, and looked the part with his clipped, white moustache and matching hair. When a national daily paper sent a reporter down to interview him, some years ago, he couldn't have been more pleased. Never more so, than when he was able to show off a double page spread with the headline "The Original Disgusted of Tunbridge Wells".

magnolia, mystery, Mr Punch

Opening time.

Above low cloud, a helicopter circles, unseen, mysterious.

Who will police the policemen? Lucy answers the question in Compasses, with the help of Mr Punch.

wood pigeon, drift, dance

Among the buds.

In a splash of sunshine I encounter a drift of petals flying in the wind.

I meet the same neighbour twice in the space of 15 minutes. Our circular routes, in opposite directions, through the Grove and along the High Street, trace a dance of almost geographical magnitude.

viola, catkins, scent

The heart of a viola.

The catkins of silver birch. Green rain.

The cherry tree half way up Mount Sion billows out in clouds of blossom. The scent. The scent: I try and fail to photograph the scent.

portion control, blotch, blossoms

Blackbirds, have a habit of chopping up an earth worm into bite-size pieces ready to feed to their young, and know how to pack an optimum number of portions into their beaks.

This morning, in a rare confrontation with a mirror, I am alarmed by a red blotch on my cheek. A quick rub and it disappears, as I realize that it must be a splash from the pomegranate I was peeling for breakfast.

A neighbour sweeps blossoms from his magnolia into a pile on the pavement as though they are Autumn leaves.

starling, routine, blessed

On the roof.

To do the same thing at the same time every day; to recognise the days of the week, by particular activities scheduled for those days; to perform every year the same tasks according to the season, can be comforting and reassure the restless spirit. But sometime it helps the spirit to jump ship and see how they do things where you happen to land.


The buds on a broom form a dense cloud of golden flies.


To find out whether Plutarch is smiling visit Compasses. And watch the space there for the guards and those who guard the guards.

light, blackbirds, air

Light in the blossom.

Thanks to The Crow who settles on this blog from time, I have been reading a short poem by the American poet Wallace Stevens that was new to me. I mentioned Stevens in one of those blog discussions that occur from time to time (the more the better as far as I am concerned). I have always liked his poems and a long time ago reconciled myself to the obscurity of his references and their apparent lack of coherence. Fellow blogger, Barrett Bonden, in a different discussion with me describes Stevens' approach perceptively in this way: "Each step is hugely inventive" he says, "In fact its so complex that I get the feeling that the pieces have been lying around for ages, and his sole act of creation has been to bring them together. The poem to some extent has preexisted." The poem to which The Crow drew my attention is Thirteen way of looking at a blackbird. Each of the ways, described in thirteen brief stanzas, is mysterious and yet solid and composed of simple images; and, as Barrett might agree, seems to belong to some system of belief or culture that has always been there.
Stanza 2 for example is:
I was of three minds
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.
Stanza nine is:
When the blackbird flew out of sight
It marked the edge
Of one of many circles.
Stanza 12 has the condensed quality of a haiku.
The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.


In the Grove this morning, it is warm; it is raining and not raining. The air smells of the oils and resins which buds release as they open.

afloat, cooking, conscious

A superior being, able to fly and swim.


The prospect of preparing a meal this evening. Hard boiled quail eggs arranged in croustades, garnished with lumpfish roe. Roast leg of lamb, and cous-cous. Brie, Roquefort and Cabra cheese.Creme caramel served with blueberries.

In the health food shop, a notice above a tray of chocolate bars reads: "Conscious Chocolate. Dark chocolate is the new superfood, healing you in a delicious way".

daffodils, shady, swirling

Resting in the Grove.

There is one side of our garden dominated by a bay tray, which is dry and shady. It has taken some time to find the sort of plants - mostly those used to a woodland habitat - which will grow there. Just now one of the most successful of these, Solomon's Seal, Poligonatum in the gardening books, is just now sending up its long, narrow spikes, which will unfold to become handsome lanceolate leaves. It grows almost fast enough to see it move. Soon it will put out its pendulous clusters of tubular white flowers. A stately plant.

In the Grove they have been cutting the grass. Apart from the scent, the sight of the swathes of cut grass swirling across the open spaces, is another local sign of Spring.

sun, flying, opening up

Time for dandelions to look the sun in the face.

Silver spotted skipper, Dingy skipper,
Scotch Argos, Ringlet, Gatekeeper. Brimstone, Purple hairstreak, Orange tip, Duke of Burgundy, Grayling. These are a selection of the 58 commonly occurring British butterfly species. All are shown on a wall chart, issued today by the Independent newspaper. Commonly occurring ? Let's hope so. Round here, we see very few butterflies nowadays and, because of their scarcity, it is sometimes difficult to recognise them when you do, or put names to them. For want of the real thing, I shall enjoy studying the chart, and hope to see coloured wings staggering over the flower beds.

When the sun comes out, groups of young, and some older people, spread themselves on the grass in the Grove. Scattered under the trees, among the daffodils, they themselves resemble a variety of flower, opening their petals to the warmth.

shoots, pictures, launched

Where the pruners have been the sap is still rising.

The antithesis of the way Marcel is described looking at pictures in A La Recherches du temps perdu, is found a little further at the very dinner dinner party, the start of which was delayed because he became absorbed in a group of paintings belonging to his host.
' " Ah the Hague! What a gallery! " cried M. de Guermantes,' (he who had conducted Marcel to the paintings, and left him to contemplate them on his own). 'I said to him that he had doubtless admired Vermeer's 'View of Delft'. But the Duke was less erudite than arrogant. Accordingly he contented himself with replying in a self-complacent tone, as was his habit whenever anyone spoke to him of a picture in a gallery, or in the Salon, which he did not remember having seen: "If it's to be seen, I saw it." '

Now Compasses is truly relaunched. I've answered Lucy's question; Lucy has answered mine and asked me another question: "Are you smiling?" The motor is ticking over.

abandoned, castaway, squeak

I find this abandoned roller near the cricket field on the Common and think it needs to be remembered. It must have been new once.

A dog called Sophie Tucker fell from her owners' yacht, off the coast of Queensland, swam through shark invested seas until she came to a desert island, and survived there for 4 months. I hear the story on BBC Radio 4 this morning. An Australian cattle dog with short hair and tough disposition, she was well quipped for the ordeal. Apparently she lived off goats, which ran wild on the island and crabs. She was mistaken by her eventual rescuers for a wild dog, but when reintroduced to her owners, recognised them immediately and settled quickly back into her old domestic routine.

Pigeons, I notice, squeak as they fly past me in the Grove, as though their wings need a drop of oil.

detritus, brick, Compasses

There's a bench on the Common looking down on the London Road, where people sit with some beer and cigarettes of an evening. The worn earth round the bench carries the imprint of their leisure.


No harm in laughing when someone drops a brick which doesn't hurt any one. I guess the editor of Kent County Council's magazine Around Kent, dropped a brick with the cover of his latest issue. It has a good photograph of two empty deck chairs on some shingle facing the sea. The caption picked out in large print is Enjoy Kent this summer. The only problem is that the cover also boldy announces "Competition Win a trip to Brussels with Eurostar".

Some time ago Lucy Kempton and I worked together on the blog called Compasses in which she illustrated my sequence of sonnets called Handbook for Explorers. The site has been lying dormant since. Now, starting to day, we are launching a new collaboration. It is called Questions and consists of a series of poems, each of which is prompted by a previous poem plus a new question. It is a process of exploration and discovery. We do not quite know where we are going, but enjoy the excitement of getting there. We hope that visitors to Best of Now and Lucy's Blog Box Elder, will be able to share it with us.

magnolia, seeds, privet

It's magnolia time.

Large seeds, such as beans and peas, rattle in their packets. Small seeds like lettuce, parsley or carrot, tend to rustle. Both, large and small seeds, resting in their packets, are the best prod to action in the vegetable garden.

The privet hedge, sparse all winter, has erupted in small green buds. It is a pleasing sight, but one that contains the knowledge of summer chores to come.

car park, whirlwind, doves

The car park at Sainsbury's.

Like a benign whirlwind, Plutarch junior descends on Tunbridge Wells, where, equipped with spade and fork, rake and wheelbarrow, he clears the winter dross from the vegetable garden, leaving the easy work of sowing, hoeing and harvesting for me during the coming summer. Of that summer people are already saying, as they said last year and the year before, it's going to be hot one.

As I look out of the window this morning, I see, instead of the ubiquitous wood pigeons, two ring doves and then a third. They flutter down on to the road and occupy themselves with something on the tarmac interesting, but invisible to me. Only when a car approaches do they flutter up into the lime tree and on to the roof of the house opposite. There, they watch, stretching their necks forward and tilting their heads sideways to see better, for the road to be clear before descending to peck again at their strange breakfast.

layers, looking, pizza

There is a reflection in the glass screen with its metal frames, of the photographer, me (leaning sideways) so as to include his companion, Heidi, in the reflected view. Graffiti has been scratched on to the glass. Sitting with his back to the screen, and seen through the glass, is a passenger( not reflected) waiting at a different stop. Beyond the screen and this passenger is a bus with other passengers. On the far side of the bus is a waiting room, with a time table on the outside wall. Between the photographer and the glass screen is a railing. Various shadows intervene. There are, I think, at least six different layers.

Although I have drawn and painted since I was a child, I believe that it is only recently that I have begun to look at pictures with the care and attention they deserve. Even now I admit to paying insufficient attention to detail. As I do my stint of A La Recherche Du Temps Perdu to day, I realize how far short of Proust's narrator, Marcel, I must fall in this respect.
After trying for a long time to get to know the aristocratic Geurmantes family, Marcel is invited to a dinner party given by the Duke and Duchess. One of his expressed interests which has brought him into contact with the Guermantes in the first place is their possession of paintings by Elistir, a fictional impressionist painter, based largely on Monet. Before dinner Marcel is conducted by his host to the room, where the Elistirs are hanging, and asks to be left alone with them. So absorbed is he that he forgets the time, and realizes that he has delayed the serving of dinner.
He tells the story to illustrate the manners of the Guermantes who are at pains not let him feel embarrassed by the delay, which later he learns to have been no less than three quarters of an hour. Marcel tells the story to illustrate the rules of etiquette and courtesy observed by the family, but it also argues that looking at pictures is a serious business.

In the street, I pass a man carrying in one hand a pizza in a large, cardboard pack, like a waiter carrying a tray. In his other hand is a mobile phone into which he talks to continuously

surprise, another one, haze

I post this and lo and behold Marga-Leena visits before I have got any further. (Welcome M-L!) It's the first time that a comment has appeared before I have finished posting. A Pet? It could be. Or a hairy slug. In fact it's a pussy willow catkin. It has fallen on to the top of one of those boxes in the street, which contain telephone connections, where I photograph it without arranging it in any way.

Even in a small and unimportant garden like ours, surprising things happen. This morning, I spot a violet, which has sprung up by the roots of an acer in the large pot, where it has lived for the last four years.

A green halo surrounds a silver birch in the Grove. It is composed of tiny, green buds like dots made with a crayon.

left overs, prime numbers, ice cream

Left over from the Autumn.

In a TV programme on mathematics, last night, there is a reminder that the pattern formed by the distribution of prime numbers, is constantly reproduced by the distribution of events in nature. This is a teasing fact which recalls the curious relationship between the number of petals in flowers and the sequence of numbers discovered by the 13 th century mathematician Leonardo Fibonacci. The numbers follow the pattern 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34 ... and so on. It is formed by adding the two previous numbers in the sequence to make the next one. It has been well established that the number of petals in most plants are Fibonacci numbers. An other mystery to think about to escape what is mundane and selfish.

At the entrance to the Grove, an ice cream van acting as a magnate to children just out of school, who run towards it screaming to get a place in the queue. Even one or two grown-up, possessed by the sunshine and opening of the buds, buy themselves cornets to sweeten their afternoon chores.