July 18, 2015
apposite as always Richard.
Originally posted on By the factory wall:
As a staunch royalist, I would like to express my own personal disappointment that footage of the Queen and Queen Mother innocently zieg heiling has been published by The Sun.
My own personal take is that it was harmless fun. My grandmother often spoke of how our family did the same in the 1930s before going to synagogue. It was just what you did in those days, and people lacking historical perspective should not think otherwise.
The Royal Family’s record on diversity and equality speaks for itself. You only have to look at the long line of royals marrying people of different races – and indeed social classes – to see that quite clearly.
Similarly, we should not take offence that Prince Charles gave an Asian friend the nickname Sooty, nor that Prince Harry dressed as a Nazi at a party, or called a colleague…
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July 17, 2015
Just a few fleeting glimpses of up above . . . ‘a glimpse is much harder to pin down’ Howard Hodgkin.
And, down on the ground, from a few hours in Uzès. Basalt setts inlaid in the stone to give subtle definition – a pleasing aesthetic.
Old and new – skills and craftsmanship – and atmosphere.
The moment when, after many years
of hard work and a long voyage
you stand in the centre of your room,
house, half-acre, square mile, island, country,
knowing at last how you got there,
and say, I own this,
is the same moment when the trees unloose
their soft arms from around you,
the birds take back their language,
the cliffs fissure and collapse,
the air moves back from you like a wave
and you can’t breathe.
No, they whisper. You own nothing.
You were a visitor, time after time
climbing the hill, planting the flag, proclaiming.
We never belonged to you.
You never found us.
It was always the other way round. Margaret Atwood
June 21, 2015
Originally posted on Raxa Collective:
If you happen to be on Cromwell Road in London, United Kingdom, then let your feet take you to the Victoria and Albert Museum. To be more precise, to this exhibition titled Shoes: Pleasure and Pain. Among the 200 plus pairs of footwear exhibited until January, 2016 are a sandal decorated in pure gold leaf originating from ancient Egypt and contemporary creations from Jimmy Choo, Manolo Blahnik and Christian Louboutin. The exhibit explores three different themes: transformation, status and seduction. Transformation looks at the mythical aspect of shoes in folklore. Status examines how impractical shoes are worn to represent a privileged lifestyle. Finally, seduction explores the concept of footwear as a representation of sexual empowerment and pleasure. Talk about history meeting its contemporary.
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June 6, 2015
France still closes down at lunchtine 12-2pm. Quite civilised and to be respected. Very pleasant sitting in Place de l’Eglise in Fontvieille – a small town that appeals more and more . . .
. . . wandering around the old streets, intrinsic compositions can be seen, admired and recorded.
A garden of pots – well tended plants, all thriving and with somewhere to sit and admire them . . .
. . . and a green roof, which some might say is just ‘les mauvaises herbes’.
Mûrier platane foliage on neatly managed trees shading a small modern square – very inviting – and just close by, in contrast, spreading branches of an ancient plane tree form a ceiling by the quarried stone face of the old town wall.
In the château gardens, now the town park, all ages are catered for. The home of Alphonse Daudet, the writer, now a museum dedicated to him and his work – most notably “Les Lettres de mon Moulin”. Water courses run through the parkland where holm oaks and pines cascade over lauristinius and broom providing a simple vegetation matrix
Following one walking route (there are many others to Les Baux, to San Remy and to Eygalieres) around the top of the town, the landmarks are three windmills named after their owners – Tissot-Avon (2 owners), Ramet and Ribet also called St Pierre and also also called Daudet’s mill with sails completely restored.
rather fell for it and the whole area of Les Alpilles.
J’ai dans mon coeur un oiseau bleu,
Une charmante creature,
Si mignonne que sa ceinture
N’a pas l’epaisseur d’un cheveu.
Il lui faut du sang pour pature.
Bien longtemps, je me fis un jeu
De lui donner sa nourriture:
Les petits oiseaux mangent peu.
Mais, sans en rien laisser paraitre,
Dans mon coeur il a fait, le traitre,
Un trou large comme la main.
Et son bec fin comme une lame,
En continuant son chemin,
M’est entre jusqu’au fond de l’ame!…. Alphonse Daudet L’Oiseau Bleu
June 5, 2015
And a return visit – always a pleasure after doing a little work in a garden nearby – and 2 months on. Seeing the shadows on the grass – just a casual pause before hitting the glamour of the garden rooms. Roses in full bloom – it’s that time of the year after all. My interest here is how the rose works against/with the background and as part of the composition – not many idents for the plantaholics, sorry – so below the soft coppery/pink tones of this rose at the entrance that work so so well with the old brick facade.
On the wall that divides the front courtyard and the rose garden – a Clematis – C. montana ‘Marjorie’ and time for a pause to remember a much loved aunt – a lady so confident, elegant and happy with herself and so interested in the younger generation.
From the rose garden, the eye slides easily to the slim towers. The planting here in this garden room appears to have lost its way a little. Once upon a time at the end of ’60’s and into ’70’s, the theme was simple: roses and shrubs with some underplanting and quite a bit of soil showed – this was fine. But now with the custodianship of the National Trust there appears to be a need to provide a continuous show of anything and everything – a fruit salad look has evolved with any old thing popped in to ‘please the punters’. Big organisations taking the individuality out of their product and, in this situation, not the head gardener or gardeners fault. Happily the planting in the Cottage Garden has maintained the original clear ethos – planting with a predominance of hot colours.
Within the nuttery, Dionysus stands calm and thoughtful as he has for years – a quiet interface between the Spring Garden (now in quiet post season mode) and the Cottage Garden. A delightful detail was on show low down – Tulip sprengeri around the peeling trunk of Acer griseum . . .
. . . . here too a specimen Rosa ‘Mme Alfred Carriere’ climbing skywards against the cottage walls.
Overhanging the walls of the Moat Walk are a couple of splendid Wisteria floribunda ‘Alba” . . .
. . . and a single Wisteris venusta with larger fleshier foliage. A more restrained, intriguing and, therefore, perhaps sought after plant.
Near the herb garden, back with the norm – a pair of mauve flowered wisteria standards – old and gnarled and exotic
And at half past five, just the right time to enter the White Garden – another Rosa ‘Mme Alfred Carriere’ clothes a wall. The light starts to fade. A custodian arrives – someone delightful, a Gilbert and Sullivan character and part of the final act – to announce the closing of the garden . . . exit centre stage under a Rosa banksiae ‘Lutea’ on the tower.
All her youth is gone, her beautiful youth outworn,
Daughter of tarn and tor, the moors that were once her home
No longer know her step on the upland tracks forlorn
Where she was wont to roam.
All her hounds are dead, her beautiful hounds are dead,
That paced beside the hoofs of her high and nimble horse,
Or streaked in lean pursuit of the tawny hare that fled
Out of the yellow gorse.
All her lovers have passed, her beautiful lovers have passed,
The young and eager men that fought for her arrogant hand,
And the only voice which endures to mourn for her at the last
Is the voice of the lonely land. Vita Sackville-West Mariana in the North
May 4, 2015
Another year, another May, another Jack-in-the-Green and some delicate window displays, some enigmatic. One of the oldest public holidays in England – the celebration of Spring and the return of life to the land after long winter months. In this quaint seaside town, where passages and ‘twittens’ thread through the narrow streets that lead down to the net huts and fishing fleet on the beach, strange dressing up happens on this day . . .
. . . locals and visitors stop and converse . . . but there’s a focus on arriving by the net huts where Jack will be released and burst out centre stage. For previous posts click HERE. Posts from 2010 will pop up.
The headgear always takes my eye immediately . . . so well crafted, so imaginative, so detailed, so individual . . .
. . . but some simple.
Often the couples dress as pairs but occasionally they can’t restrain themselves. The Hums, the couple below, are always intriguing and so beautifully ‘dressed’ – by themselves. Spend a few seconds looking at the craftsmanship of the back of her jacket and her headress – then Bob Hum’s shoes – from Primark apparently.
Another couple who make returned visits . . . neat, elegant footwear
. . . thank you so much for your gracious presence. Costume detail absorbs me. But to get bak to the main event, Jack, clothed in foliage is like the cows let out into the meadow, full of frolics . . .
Following the Jack and the Bogies are Mad Jack’s Morris, the Sweeps and the May Queen, Hannah’s Cat, The Lovely Ladies and the Gay Bogies, Giants, visiting performing groups and the rhythm section in no particular order.
A high vanatge point is useful . . .
. . . but sometimes a lower position is required.
Music and drumming and, of course, dancing are integral elements . . .
. . . motorbikes are also part of the day. A large exodus from South London, Kent and West Sussex arrive and fill the seafront down to St Leonards. Shiny metal, much revving and large leather nappies on the riders.
A mature ‘sweep’ with interesting headgear . . . quite delicate . . .
. . . more costumes on the gregarious and the less so.
This year, a new group, displaying magnificent headresses . . . no clue on the concept or the rationale but good fun!
But always time to greet friends and acquaintances when the procession has wound down to the Old Town High Street. Wonderful as always.
This is the laughing-eyed amongst them all:
My lady’s month. A season of young things.
She rules the light with harmony, and brings
The year’s first green upon the beeches tall.
How often, where long creepers wind and fall
Through the deep woods in noonday wanderings,
I’ve heard the month, when she to echo sings,
I’ve heard the month make merry madrigal.
How often, bosomed in the breathing strong
Of mosses and young flowerets, have I lain
And watched the clouds, and caught the sheltered song –
Which it were more than life to hear again –
Of those small birds that pipe it all day long
Not far from Marly by the memoried Seine. Hilaire Belloc May
April 23, 2015
OK, I’ve been sitting on this post for a week now and, within that week, the garden at Sissinghurst will have changed as gardens do. Some April sun to bring on the plants and fill out the borders but the temperatures are still low. So these images are just about relevent and the journey shown here is on the most obvious route. On arrival, a delicate pleasing planting in the urns in the forecourt, even though the hyacinths are ‘over’ . . .
. . . and more delicious container planting – Iris bucharica and auriculas in the front courtyard under the tower.
Gloomy weather and not ideal for photography – too few shadows and a general sense of indistinct – although in this atmosphere the garden seemed to merge more successfully into the surroundings. From the top of the tower – an overriding softness floating over a particular countryside . . .
. . . but down on the ground, brilliant chaenomeles and an interesting signature below the gateway into the Rose Garden.
Just peeking through another entrance from the Rose Garden . . .
. . . this time of year, the expertise of the management of this special garden is easy to see and worth noting.
Perfection in Harold’s Lime Walk, ‘his life’s work’, where the carpet of spring bulbs, like overlaid small Persian rugs, weaves below the espaliered structure of the tree stems . . .
. . . the effect relaxes through the Nuttery. The groupings are larger and the softness of tone provides a floating feel. Always admire the stonking trilliums that interupt the effect . . .
. . . and also the hard landscape detailing. Such craftsmanship; so sublime and impossible to find today. Big colour contrast in the Cottage Garden, as always . . .
. . . and out in the Orchard, snakes heads on the floor and blossom overhead.
The moat is quite congested where it ends – looks like someone else’s close by – but is cleaner where it runs . . .
In Delos, blossom abounds with spreads of anemone and magnolias in full frontal. It starts to rain – just a little – enough to take shelter in the library where this arrangement takes my attention. Colour . . .
. . . but I’ve never taken to this colour composition – the Purple Border. Why? It’s a colour I like, but not here for some reason – perhaps this needs some analysis.
The White Garden is restful and low key in April – neat and composed – maybe overly so – but to be respected. Here she is reading a little from The Land.
Days I enjoy are days when nothing happens,
When I have no engagements written on my block,
When no one comes to disturb my inward peace,
When no one comes to take me away from myself
And turn me into a patchwork, a jig-saw puzzle,
A broken mirror that once gave a whole reflection,
Being so contrived that it takes too long a time
To get myself back to myself when they have gone.
The years are too strickly measured, and life too short
For me to afford such bits of myself to my friends.
And what have I to give my friends in the last resort?
An awkwardness, a shyness, and a scrap,
No thing that’s truly me, a bootless waste,
A waste of myself and them, for my life is mine
And theirs presumably theirs, and cannot touch. V Sackville West