Swimmers, woundwort, reading and drinking

Ducks on the Medway
Last year at about this time I noticed a wild flower in the wild corner of our little garden which I identified as woundwort. This year it seems  merely familiar and I am unable to remember whether it is there by my intention or through chance. It is  of course chance, last year's  having returned with the summer. It is in fact to be precise  hedge woundwort, a common enough wild flower, but what a pleasure to welcome it again and to be able  eventually to put a name to it.

On a bench in the sun a lean, grey haired man is reading a paper back. He sips a can of beer. As I pass I notice a blue plastic bag at his feet. In it are six tall cans  for steady consumption I suppose in the course of the afternoon. His apparent contentment is something I understand.

Digitalis, notebook and gymnastics.

Behind like other flowers foxgloves are only now at their best.

My notebook is full and ready to give way to a new one. I see that it is dated June 7 2012.  That is the only date. It is in no sense a diary. Yet it contains the fleeting impressions of a year in my life. Most  of the notes are illegible although I have tried hard to write neatly and coherently.

At the end of the checkout a vigorous woman offers to help me pack my few purchases. She is after a donation to her charity which is evident in the shape of a plastic drum with a slot in the top. The charity? Tunbridge Wells Gymnastics Club. I am entirely truthful when I say that I like to pack my own shopping.

In clover,an eight-year blog and theraputic rain

 

Clover. Among the flowers and leaves we take for granted.

Eight years ago in June 2005 almost to the day, I gave in to a whim. The idea of writing  a blog  on a regular daily basis had appealed because for some time,  I had been used to responding to deadlines, which had gradually dropped off. Gradual retirement had dulled the edge of urgency in my life. A blog every day might restore it. But  from what angle? From what starting point? I didn't want a daily beef. Disgusted of Tunbridge Wells was too easy, so much  there was  to be disgusted about. It would have been dull, stale and unprofitable.  Three Beautiful Things Clare Grant's seminal blog (still flourishing ) provided the answer. What a lovely  idea!  To note every day three inspiring, amusing or curious events or objects was the perfect model. It has proved both a therapy and simple pleasure. A source of friendship too. Above all it has made me sensitive to  the world around me,  to the place where I am lucky enough to live and  to the people who inhabit it. Sometimes I think that I should look back to trace the rich and varied  pattern  of a life obscure and insignificant,  made up of innumerable small things, but  taken  together  become  I hope enlightening, a history composed of chance moments.

A walk in the vegetable garden this morning. No chores apart from watering a few plants in the greenhouse. Outside the soft rain was warm and gentle, falling with a sort of kindness as only rain in this damp country can fall when it is needed in a green summer. You could feel the herbs growing in the herb bed responding to the water and the temperature. The scent of oils and resins suspended in the air.  Back indoors I realised that my clothes were not really wet, the skin on my face and bare arms was moist as though subjected to a rare and expensive therapy.

Fish, Seiko watch and emoticons

I saw these fish in a courtyard pool through a window in Maidstone hospital when, it now seems a long time ago, I was visting Dearest.

Rather more than 40 years ago I bought a watch from  a shop in The Strand. Itcost £10.00 and was of Japanese manufacture, something new  for a watch in those days. The name Seiko meant very little to me then. But it looked sturdy and functional. It was of course as watches were in those days powered by clockwork.  It served me well for around 30 years. Then one day it stopped without  warning. The repair shop to which I took asked for £90 to put it right, which at the time was about twice the price of a new Swatch watch. I put the Seiko in the draw of my desk and once or twice since then  have wound it to see if time had healed its sickness. No luck. Until yesterday when, coming across it I wound it up again. The second hand began to move and 36 hours later it is still ticking. Delecate and sensitive machines, watches.

At the town hall office where they provide visitor parking permits and the like, on the desk of the courteous young woman who was helping me, three emoticons are posted with  the words:
 We're getting it right ( mouth turned up at the ends)
 We could do better (mouth in straight line)
 We need to improve (mouth turned down at the ends)
The invitation to borrow  the computer screen seems complicated in order to react to the quality of service.  As it is  I am inclined to  click the first but shy away from  making the request. Meanwhile I am impressed by the large reproduction of the smiling emoticon on the desk next to the screen. It does not  altogether surprise me that such devices are needed to keep civil servants sweet in the face of the public.
 

Beatle, remembering and dunking biscuits

Three fronds with beetle.

A Spanish neighbour addresses me in Spanish. I reply in Spanish without thinking and proceed down the road rather pleased with myself because I haven't spoken Spanish for almost a year. My memory always fragile seems to be holding up in certain quarters. I suppose language is a bit like riding a bicycle. You are not supposed to lose the knack. Mind you if I mounted a bike, as it  occurred to me to do the other day  I would, after 30 years abstinence, probably fall off.

Dunking biscuits is one of  those activities which was always frowned upon when I was young (bad manners), probably still is, but which is nevertheless worth ignoring the rules for. Proust's example with  the Madelaine, half cake, half biscuit, anyway should surely have made dunking respectable.

 

Gunnera, bees and bee

The giant leaves of genera growing by the moat at Groombridge Place. The very large like very small is always fascinating.

Bees, despite their depletion, are more evident in our garden than I can remember. Or perhaps it is because I notice them in view of the threat to their and our existence that we read so much about. They have  now migrated from the the cistus where the flowers are beginning to fade and transferred their attention to the newer bloom of cosmos, nasturtiums, geraniums and fuchsia. Today I can hear them as well as see them in their relentless pursuit of nectar.

While preparing a meal in the kitchen I feel an  itch under my shirt. I believe,  having scratched it, that what ever it was, will trouble me no more. But a minute later it appears again on my neck. It turns out to be an enormous bee. Hard to identify but I speculate that it is probably a bumble bee, perhaps a queen looking for somewhere to nest. I hasten to set it free as much as I like bees and approve of bees, this one in the confines of a small room is a wee bit scary

 

dandelion clock, what is wild? and sparrows

 

 

 

Clock at the edge of a wood.

The wild flowers which I sowed in broad strips at the ends of vegetable beds to attract bees and butterflies are beginning to bloom. But what is wild? Groundsel, scarlet pimpernel and chickweed are for my purpose unwelcome.

A woman with grey hair and dark grey raincoat is visiting a neighbour. She is carrying a weekend bag.  She stops by the house with the tall holly tree at the edge of The Grove. She says to the owner, "Thank you for housing the sparrows in your holly tree. We have none left in London."



Lace, wounds and desecration

Lace or parsley? Until fairly recently I always thought of this plant as cow parsley which if course it is.  But then I noticed a number of people referring to it as Queen Anne's lace. When I checked it I found that it has numerous local names of which Queen Anne's lace is only one. Names like Adders meat and Devils oatmeal remind us that the plant was connected with the Devil,as Geoffrey Grigson reminds us in The Englishman's Flora.

Until I had a minor operation a couple of years ago I always thought of the word "wound" as depicting something inflicted by an enemy or by fate. It came a surprise to  discover that it is used by the medical profession for the incision made during an operation. Mine took a couple of weeks to heal and Dearest's will take longer. But I still can't get used to the idea of something with a benign purpose however drastic sharing a name with the result of a bullet's or a piece of shrapnel's impact.

Tom commented the other day on how angryfring it was to see big business desecrating our culture with soul-less, vulgar money-making devices. I was describing an absurd use of language to attract customers to a restaurant.   He did  not condone my sang-froid in the face of such abuse. I am not sure that I approve it either. But the starting point of this blog is specifically to look for beautiful things or at least things which deserve attention because they are interesting or amusing. Wherever possible I try to stick by the aim. The problem arises when a beef is called for. When that occurs irony must be assumed I am afraid. Ridicule too can be a powerful weapon to apply within what is admittedly a narrow focus.
 

Reflections, out of date and spiky

Reflections in still water.

It is is too trivial to be irritating but the use of old fashioned words and spelling, if it does nothing else serves as a deterrent rather than an attraction in advertising. The restaurant behind The Town Hall  which promotes itself as "purveyors of seasonal local fayre" despite my interest in eating out fails even to make me want to walk 50 yards down the street to inspect the menu.

Today's blustery weather has blown down spiky green conkers which lie on the path under a horse chestnut a foretaste of Autumn on the longest day of the year but one.

In case I have misled anyone the address of my short story blog is www.hnjh.blogspot.com.  I may have typed "co" instead of "com". The story  consists only of two short paragraphs.

Speedwell, appetites and careless

Prompted by the pretty blue speedwell I recall the time when  some London telephone numbers were prefixed by the names of wild flowers. Primrose for example for the St Johns Wood area. The first telephone number I knew by heart was my grandmother's, Speedwell 8124.  That was in the days when numbers resided in our memories rather than in the memories of electronic devices.

In the supermarket a man with an angry moustache and  big appetites loads bags with bottles.

A  slight woman in her middle years in a worn straw hat floats down Mount Pleasant popping toffees into her mouth. She walks without a  care in her head, her eyes raised and her arms swinging.

Flexibility, cruising and an accordian

A flexible approach to diet has many advantages.

In the bookshop while I am trying to find some Elizabeth Taylors which I have not read, an old man is hovering in my line of vision. He points to a book called The Lifeboat. It is by Charlotte Rogan. "Have you read that?" he asks me out of the blue. I say  no.  I know nothing about it. He says that it is gripping and enjoyable. "Unless you are on  cruise," he adds. I say that I have no desire to go on a cruise. He says, "the trouble with cruises is that you never want to leave the ship," at which point he moves off, and I find two novels by Elizabeth Taylor which are new to me. While looking for something else I put down my prospective purchases for a moment . Cruising past he regards them, (is it my imagination?), with a flicker of contempt.

In Monson Road a man is sitting on the pavement playing an accordion. The music has a central European  rhythm, a Slavic mixture of melancholy and high spirits. What appeals to me is  that there  no  amplifier   to torture the air waves.  The sounds drifts towards you slowly. It has no hard edges; it merges with other sounds. It charms without intruding. I cross the road to give him some money and to thank him.

Pond, memory and bees

A pond on the way up to Burrswood. I don't often walk past ponds and this one holds me for a few minutes  mild contemplation on my way to visit Dearest, who is now home.

Someone on the radio is talking about how numbers nowadays are stored on electronic devices especially telephones so that we no longer have to remember them. Are we likely to lose our capacity to remember them because we no longer have to? Probably not. It occurs to me that instead of remembering telephone numbers we now have to remember lists of  access codes, pin numbers  and passwords, which is almost if not equally exacting.

The humming in the garden comes this fine morning from the cistus which is covered in bees. This murmur of bees is counterpointed by the buzzing of electric saws on the building site next to the vegetable garden. To see and hear so many bees when the  population is said to be declining  is a hopeful sign that plant life may yet survive.  Bees rather than saws. But  the occasional sound of sawing conveys a similar and not unpleasant  sense of busy-ness.

Wagtails, home, hedges and walls

Pied wagtail on lawn at Burrswood.

Dearest is home. Despite warnings that she would be weak and rather tired for a few weeks, she is already proving unexpectedly energetic and if not swooping like a pied wagtail, busying herself around the house despite very severe restrictions on most physical aspects of housework. We have a new GP who came to visit us, a favour never conferred by his predecessor.

Our hedge now reduced in height still presents a problem but a manageable one. It occurs to me as I tend it that hedges in common with walls may serve as barriers; but whereas walls collect only graffiti, hedges attract birds and insects and allow for the passage of life from one side to the other.

Swimmers, issues and etiquette

Ducks and geese on the Medway.

A woman informs my taxi driver outside the front door of Burrswood that the exit he is taking is one- way. She is wrong, A little further on the two-way drive branches to the left to avoid the one-way flow. Obediently the driver reverses and takes the long way round. He is Indian and speaks with the staccato intonations which witty people sometimes adopt to appear incisive. I point out that there was no need to turn. "It's not an issue," he says. " At least, there are more important issues."

In the supermarket a grey-haired man ahead of me in the check-out queue apologises for omitting to position the "next customer" sign behind his purchases on the conveyor. Such is the evolving etiquette of shopping.

The third and final part of The Cat's Tale on One Fine Day concluded and according to the statistics ignored by most regulars, I have just published the shortest short story yet. It is called The Eye and should take less than a minute to read. See http://www.hnjh.blogspot.com

This path through a buttercup meadow behind Groombridge Place makes me want to say that it's a good year for buttercups, and perhaps because of the cold Spring, it is.

Robbie's comment yesterday questioned the attractions of sudoku. As it happens I have been thinking about them recently trying hard to explain the addiction to myself.  The rules are simple, part of the charm: each row, column and 3 x 3 block must contain  the numbers one to nine. There are nine block each with nine squares. Some of the squares are already provided with numbers. By a simple logical process of elimination you supply the missing numbers. What appeals to me is the the sense of things being connected which the process involves.  Again it is satisfying to apply logic to solving a problem. The pattern created by every sudoku , I find, has its own harmony. Coming to the end of the puzzle is like coming to the end of a piece of music with a resonant final chord which harks back to the those which precede it. 

 As children identify with the characters in books written for children, I find myself  more and more fascinated by Mrs Palfrey at the Clairmont, the Elizabeth Taylor novel about ageing residents in a Kensingtin hotel, which I mentioned the other day. Once I was Biggles or William Brown in Just William or the the Walker family in the Arthur Ransom books. Now it seems  I am momentarily one or other of the old people passing their last days in a sad London hotel, with nothing but a care home of worse to look forward to. Gloomy, not a bit of it. So precise is the observation, so acute the humour that I finish the book, sad though it is,  with a sigh of pleasure. Reality can be harsh and tragic but hilarious at the same time. Note to self: read more Elizabeth Taylor. What a shame  that this notable novelist should have the misfortune to share her name with a movie star.

Sleeping dog, political alegiance and alertness

Fellow diner resting at The Griffin,Fletching.

Politics are not for me. I  see both sides of the question and sometime other sides as well. So to choose I am directed rather more by the quality of the writing, the wit and the judgement. Years ago I read The New Statesman as a literary as much as a political magazine. Now it is not so much a swing to the right as entertainment that draws me to The Spectator. I buy The New Statesman the other day to see what I am missing, and even contemplate switching to it, but in terms of a good read it simply does not match.

When I was young they told me that I spent too much time in a dream. Sometimes, apparently  I would start undressing when I was supposed to be dressing and vice versa. My Father used to tell me how important it was to be alert. That was a favourite word of his, alert. I think of it now as I do the sudoku in The Independent every morning. Not waste too much time on it you have to be alert in order to avoid spoiling the show by inserting the wrong number and failing to notice the mistake.

Pylons, promises, falcon

I have taken this photograph before from the garden of The Griffin at Fletching. A year ago I think. It shows in the top left hand corner  a crowd of grey  pylons striding towards the downs. Perhaps next year I'll have another go. Meanwhile I wonder what has changed and what will change.

Sometimes I say I'll do something. Time intervenes and I don't get round to doing it. I dislike broken words  in others, even more in myself. A few weeks ago I said I  would let the Friends of Calverley Grounds have some vegetable plants when they were ready for transplanting for their new kitchen garden venture.  Today I remember, ring them up and leave beans, courgettes and lettuce plants to be collected from our front garden. On returning home I find with a small sense of satisfaction that they have gone.

Sitting  with Dearest in the sun above the lawns of Burrswood. A train hisses past in the valley among the trees. A falcon rises on a  spiral course above the wood and circles slowly overhead  against the blue, balancing on the breeze, barely moving its wings.

Four swans, Atilla and bugle

Four swans in the moat at Groombridge. It is almost impossible not to photograph a swan if you have a camera to hand.

When I first met Henry, who works across the road whenever  they are building a pond or laying paving stones,  I called him Attila because of the way he razed the deserted garden where I had begun to grow vegetables. I resented his intrusion into what had become for me a haven of wildness and peace, and he couldn' t quite work out who I was and why I was there. Some years later with the vegetable garden  now laid out in tidy beds divided by brick paths, we seem to have got used to one another. Today we discuss horticulture, last year's terrible summer, and this year's terrible Spring. "Nice to see you again," he says and I reciprocate.

Walking up the drive to Burrswood through woodland, past a couple of fishing ponds and some fields I count and name the wild flowers on the verge. They include a few spotted orchids. The blue spikes of bugle are frequent, but a group in a patch of sunlight catches my eye and makes me reach for my camera.

Swans on the Medway gather for a photo shoot.

"I love England," the Turkish taxi driver tells me. "I mean England, not Great Britain.
I reply that I thought I  detected a strain of Scottish in his accent. "I don't like Scotland. They are rude."
I tell him that my other half comes from Germany. "I don't like German," he says. "Have you been to Germany?" "Berlin," he says. "They are rude."
I suggest that people in big cities always seem rude. London, Paris, New York."  "Yes," he says, "New York very rude. I like Tunbridge Wells. People are very nice, very kind."

"I am never depressed," says Milo my retired gynaecologist neighbour through the grey, drizzling rain this afternoon. "But with this weather I feel like being depressed."

Fledged, hair combings and wirelessness

The top of the pillar where starlings nest and what is I suspect a newly fledged bird considering a brave new world.

Elizabeth Taylor the novelist may well have been  overlooked as the brilliant writer she is because she shares a name with with a film actress. Mrs Palfrey at the Clairmont, the novel I am currently reading,  rather short and I linger over every phrase because I do not want to come to the end of it. It describes the  elderly inhabitants of a residential hotel in Kensington. Her observation of detail makes me laugh out loud almost on every page. Today I read for example: "Mrs Post put her small hair combings out of the window - London birds she had read were short of nest building materials."

What a relief to find that electronic items are at last becoming wire -less.!Oh what a tangled web we weave when first we practise to compute.Behind every desk and table it seems is a spaghetti junction.
Wireless is a lovely word and  the quicker it takes over the better.