house martins, basket ball, warmth

The next installment of Lucy Kempton' photographic account of Handbook for Explorers is complete, and may be found on www.compasses-lucyandjoe.blogspot.com/

The house martins fledge, There is a whirl of wings, and the swooping and wheeling birds are everywhere. Amazing to see them fly free from the tiny nest that once contained them and their endless calls for food. How many are there? Difficult to tell, because the parents still seem to be around. Three, or perhaps four. As part of the celebrations, they fly to the nest, hover outside it, or against the soffit under which it hangs, and they're off again.

On the pavement outside the house is a basket ball net and post, and the base into the pole fits. On the base is a label which reads: "I'm free. Please take me home with you."

During recent chill, rainy days, the vegetable garden, never an unfriendly place, has not been at its best. But this morning, in the warm sunshine, the lettuces and beans, which have been holding back, suddenly seem to revive; and so do I.

good news, meeting, sparrow hawk

Although it had never occured to me to support the Iraq national football team, I couldn't help feeling cheered that the team composed of Shias, Sunnis and Kurds, should have won their Asian cup final match. A light of hope and reconcilliation among so many stories of hatred and murder.

In Chapel Place I meet the elderly gent who goes to Hall's bookshop every Monday for a cup of tea. He is looking a bit frail, as he has been of late, but remarking on the fine day, the first for weeks, he says: "To use an old fashioned phrase, I feel buoyed up!"

Some weeks ago I saw what I thought was a bird of prey circling high over Tunbridge Wells. Now a neighbour tells me that a sparrow hawk was seen yesterday in the garden of his terrace house. Apparently it made off with a small bird in its tallons.

spices, aimant, house martins

Putting together the spices and other ingredients for a cous cous is like making a painting.

A French word threw me today. Aimant. Surely that means lover. But that's amant. So what is aimant? A magnet, of course. And when you think about lovers, because of its association with aimer, to love, it is not inappropriate. Neat really: magnets and iron and steel are attracted to one another like lovers to each other.

House martins have been nesting in the eves of the house opposite. The sound of the young calling for their parents and the sight of them responding, keeps us entertained.

poppy pod, lobelia, chard

I photograph, in close-up, the fruit of a large, white poppy that has shed its petals. It is a little sinister.The greenish hemisphere of the ovary is divided into 12 equal sectors by the dark brown ridges of the stigmas, like miniature hedges radiating from a central node. It's like a bomb containing seeds and, though it's not that sort of poppy, it could be; and would then contain the white juicy substance, the basis of opium, heroin, the lot. It could be a symbol or a logo, standing for something at the same time beautiful and ugly, perhaps planet Earth and its inhabitants.

In the WI Market I buy a tall lobelia, with dark almost purple leaves and scarlet flowers. It now sits in a flower bed by the front door next to a delicate, grey-leaved fuschia.

For a dish planned for tomorrow's guests, I cut big, shiny leaves of ruby chard (bright red stems and red veins in the leaves) and even bigger, green leaves of white stemmed chard. In separate jugs, they look magnificient and bend and twist in the light. They, like the poppy, will pose for photographs. But how different they are!

leeks, idle moments, singing man

I am planting leeks. I make a hole for each plant with a dibber and drop the plant it. Along comes the pretty, ginger and white cat. It says hallo, and sticks it paw into the hole, which I have just made, tests its depth and wanders off.

I think this afternoon: in the two years and a bit during which I have been posting this blog, there have been no boring moments. Waiting for a person or a bus or train is no longer tedious. There is always the sense that something is happening, or going to happen, which will be worth noting.

I have mentioned the youngish man who walks through the town singing tuneless songs aloud, and sometimes executing a little dance. Typically, he chants the words "I'm a naughty boy, I'm a naughty boy" . He usually wears an old bowler hat, but today he has a black, conical wizzard's hat, presumably something relating to Harry Potter. People in the Grove, including the children take no notice of him. They are used to him.

lords and ladies, scallywag, unwanted

The berries of lords and ladies ripen , from green to bright red, in a corner of the garden.

In the last couple of days I have read the word, scallywag, twice in the same newspaper and, this morning, heard it again on the BBC. It seems originally to have been used in 19th Century America to describe a southerner who supported the Federal cause, and has come to be a general word for a scamp or scoundrel. I seem to remember some grown-ups calling me a scallywag when I was a small child. And I believe I was but I hadn't supported either side in the American Civil War.

In between the handles of a wheelie bin in the street outside a house someone has thrust a fresh bunch of chrysanthemums. An unwanted gift? Has someone said it with flowers and someone else said no thanks. Thereby hangs a tale.

runner beans, not worried, surprise

I pass a house, where runner beans are growing on the balcony. Their scarlet flowers nuzzle a TV dish.

An unseasonal, chill wind blows. Rain threatens. But I don't care.

In Chapel Place, I meet Heidi unexpectedly. A happy, warm feeling, as she takes my arm.

Anti-climb, bucket, silk

A high wall with an iron gate in the middle of it bears this notice:
"These premises are protected with non-drying anti-climb paint. Unauthorised entry will result in damage and contamination to you and your clothing. KEEP OUT."
I rub my finger against the painted brick. It leaves no stain.

One of my favourite tools in recent years is a plastic garden bucket. It is not at all like a conventional bucket; it has two handles, and is much wider. You can squeeze it to pour liquid or shake out earth or compost and, because of its width, it is ideal for collecting weeds and trimmings. Also, because it is so wide, in the last few days, it has collected a considerable amount of rain water, which I comfortably transfer to a watering can.

While Heidi is in a clothes shop, I notice some white roses in a vase in the window. Are they real? Surely not. But there appears to be water at the bottom of the vase. I ask the shop assistant. "Silk," she says. What about the water?" I ask. She picks up the vase, and tilts it. The water, too, is ersatz, some sort of transparent plastic.

The Three Graces

Princess

longing,swords,crow

Another word from Foyles Philavery, which keeps circling in my mind, is:
groak verb, to look or stare at lovingly, especially at someone who is eating. "A very uncommon word", writes the compiler, "which I was unable to find in any dictionary. This is an ancient art still widely and ably practiced by pet dogs everywhere."

I watch as a mother and two small boys cross on a zebra. Each of the boys has a plastic sword, with a bright, silver blade and a golden hilts. They wave the swords energetically and proceed along the pavement, looking for someone to fight.

In the Pantiles, where usually pigeons look for crumbs amid the feet of visitors, today, in the drizzle, a hefty crow waddles to and fro. He usually hops but occasionally flaps a lazy wing, to get from point to point. As crows often do, he gives the impression of owning the place.

dance, longing, blog

In the Hight Street, a couple are dancing to the sound of catchy music coming from an open, top floor window above the shops on the opposite side of the road.

An extract from a treasury of unusual words Foyle's Philavery, by Christopher Foyle appears in the Independent newpaper. It includes:
brool, noun. A deep low humming sound; a murmur as of a large crowd.
oniomania, noun. Compulsion to make purchases.
pilgerous, adjective. Covered in hair or down.
zaftig, adjective. 1 Full bosomed. 2 Having a full, shapely figure; buxom.

A response to something you have written, any response, is always pleasing. When it is a felicitous response, what bliss! I refer to Tristan Forward's comment in Compasses, where he writes: "Blogging seems a bit like casting out a message in a bottle to drift away for who knows how long, far beyond that "long white skyline".

stillness, clouds, counting Gormleys

Is there anywhere in the universe, I ask myself as I wake up this morning, that is absolutely still? No particle in motion, no matter perishing or burgeoning, no string vibrating, no star exploding, no bubble bursting? No source of energy lying low, undreamed of, or revving up? Probably not, I tell myself. But would anybody know? Does anybody know?

Coming into London on the Hastings train, we watch the sky laden with cumulus, spread out over a new city: Canary Wharf, the Dome, the Gherkin, countless, tall, glass buildings and more go up. Round them, cranes cluster like curious birds, ( like the cranes after which they are named).

Anthony Gormley's life sized sculptures, moulded from his own body, are becoming familiar sights. We have seen them looking out to sea on Blackpool beach, and now a large number of them stand in prominent places on rooftops in the city and on either side of the Thames. From the new bridge, which connects Charing Cross station with the south bank, we look towards the City, and see who can spot the most Gormleys. We count eight (or is it nine?) from where we stand.

rain, growth, flow

This morning outside the window, not a shower. Rather the rain is falling in a steady, dense, continuous downpour.



Because I have been unable to get through to the vegetable garden for four days I am confronted by what seems a prodigious growth. Lettuces have bulked up and the oriental mustards are asking to be sheered. The weeds are looking pleased with themselves, and require immediate hoeing.



After this morning's heavy rain there is a strange pattern of twigs on the footpath up which I climb. Is it the work of a child? Then I realize that the heavy rain of this morning, overflowing from the paths in the Grove, has streamed down the pavement leaving a parabola of detritus.

Compasses a New Installment

A new set of photographs by Lucy Kempton illustrates five more of the Handbook for Explorers (15- 20) poems on www.compasses-lucyandjoe.blogspot.com/

monbretia, lemon grass, iced lolly

Sprays of monbretia, tending to scarlet rather than orange, are transferred from a flower shop window to a vase in our sitting room.

The fresh, spicey taste of lemon grass, lime leaves, gallingal and chilli linger after a Thai meal, on the palate and later in the memory.

A father and son are walking side by side through the Grove. Both are sucking bright yellow iced lollies.

lavender, winged seeds, shadows

If on the train from London, Charing Cross to Hastings, sit on the left of the train and look out for the fields of lavender after Orpington and just before Sevenoaks.

Today, winged seeds twirl in the wind, presaging autumn, when summer is barely with us.

Copses on the sunlit common have deep and mysterious depths.

cricket, age, ragwort

A mother and father are playing cricket with their small son. The little boy stands in front of a miniature set of stumps. The mother stands behind the wicket. The father lobs the rubber ball gently to the boy. The boy whacks it as far as he can and runs to the far end of the improvised pitch and back. There are no fielders, and the father ambles after the ball, as though he was on his way to a buy a Sunday paper, while the boy runs and runs. This happens again and again. The father never hurries and the boy never misses so that the mother, behind the wicket has nothing to do.



Today, I reflect that I now see people as young, who once I would have thought of as old.


Yellow clumps of ragwort are scattered over the fields, just now. In Scottish and Irish legend, it was used by fairies, who rode on ragwort sticks between islands, as a means of travel. Known as the herba sancta Jacobi, it is associated with the feast of St James, July 25, when it is in full blossom.

cheers, quark, fuschia

"Cheers, bruv," says the guard on the train when I show him my ticket.

The word quark signifies two very different things: a low fat curd cheese, and a sub atomic or elementary particle, hypothetical rather than directly observable. Setting aside the cheese, I learn today that the quark is linguistically rich. Six kinds of quark have been named. They are: up quark, down quark, charmed quark, strange quark, bottom quark and top quark. Bottom quark is sometimes also known as beauty and top quark as truth.

Two fuschias are in full flower in the garden just now. Lineaus would have enjoyed the sight. He compared the sexual parts of flowers to complicated human relationships. The fuschia, which usually has eight stamens, he described, "as eight men in the same bridal suite with one woman."

surprise, buddleia, cheers

A young woman, who, for want of friendliness in the past, I supposed did not like me, stops to talk to me in the Grove. We walk on together until our ways part.

Buddleia is everywhere in flower. Most of the year the shrub looks faded and untidy, particularly on the edge of railway lines, where it seems to have found a friendly place to grow. But today, the usually purple, sometimes white, cones or spikes of crowded, tiny flowers, each with a yellow centre only noticeable when you look closely, are spectacular, as they twist into the sun. Buddleia is sometimes known as the butterfly shrub because butterflies like it, but in the vicinity of the buddleias I see, there are no butterflies in sight today.

In Dover Street in London, a stately man wearing a panama hat and a black tail coat stops in a doorway to address a small grop of tourists. He is wearing a green carnation; a matching green handkerchief flows out of his top pocket.