burial mounds, or are they? and their beauty

Decades ago before the birth of blogs, I used to go past these landforms in the meadows around Oving almost daily. I was always taken with them then – their beauty, evocative quality, sense of history – and felt the same in anticipation as I turned the corner to climb the road up to Pitchcott quite recently. They’re quite humble and easily missable especially as the view to the south, in the other direction, across the vale of Aylesbury is remarkable and surely hasn’t changed that much over hundreds of years. There is no geological reason for the forms as far as I can fathom and, to me, they look like the tumuli near Buckingham. 

Jack Hunter farmed this land when I lived there (one of the Oxford colleges had owned it since the desolution of the monasteries) and being a Scot his favourite herd on this land was Aberdeen Angus. The church, nestling in the trees, is now a private house.

Another mound just behind the graveyard in Oving and just behind the family house. Although the ground is rising this formed dome is extensive and has a defined profile. It has a very strong presence. Pre-Roman Celtic Britons had settlements here and the Romans, Saxons and Normans followed. Remnants of a Roman camp were found on Oving Hill at the top of the village. The church dates from 13C but an earlier timber building stood on the site.

I had some house keeping to do here which is always a mix of nostalgia and ‘cup half full or half empty’.

The young village children messed around in this half secret arbour  and but it wasn’t so secret from our house – they didn’t know that of course!

This view reminds me of Gray’s Elegy . . .  a few verses are below . . .

. . . and 2 little lads got very excited when they first saw this headstone . . .

 . . . a lovely group . . .

.  . . . finger pointing the way to heaven or as admonition?

The view past the mound to North Marston where traces of medieval ploughing and ridge and furrow patterns are still evident in the landscape

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn
Brushing with hasty steps the dews away,
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn;

‘There at the foot of yonder nodding beech
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high.
His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

‘Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove;
Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,
Or crazed with care, or cross’d in hopeless love.

‘One morn I miss’d him on the custom’d hill,
Along the heath, and near his favourite tree;
Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;

‘The next with dirges due in sad array
Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne,-
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay
Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.’

structure – hedging and clipping – and contrasts

We’ve been working up some planting schemes on paper this summer and consequently always feel the need to experience planting on the ground as much as possible during the process. Nothing can – memory, experience, note taking, the web – come anyway near the sensory impact of plants and the way they affect one’s mood – brighten, delight, transfix and absorb – I could go on!  Combining plants together is similar to working up a canvas or composing a piece of music – many layers, proportions of density and lightness of touch, textures – all woven together. In this art form we have to consider sound and smell as well. We also consider wildlife especially insect life. The spatial area that the plants are to occupy is another necessary consideration – a framework of paths, hedging, walls – all form part of the composition. The area of sky above is a crucial and often forgotten part of planting design.

Structural hedging, as a visual backcloth as well as providing shelter for plants and those enjoying them, is an important element in these schemes. So, a necessary and always uplifting visit to Great Dixter at this time of year when the hedges are being clipped and ‘tweezered’ is part of our CPD. Anny’s blog (on the  blogroll) is centred on Dixter at the moment. How excellent the lines of Calamagrostis ‘Karl Foerster’ and low Aster laterifolius ‘Horizontalis’ look against the clipped yew in the Peacock Garden in the image above.

The old pear trees are the primary structure in the High Garden. A secondary line of hurdle type constructed structures echo the context of this garden within the farming land of East Sussex. Lovely dark dahlias and teazles!

Back to the hedging and the treatment of the yew which is the predominate material here. Allowance for the clipping with a metre wide maintenance path – enough for ladders and the other paraphanlia for hedge work and for gardening into the border. A channel for air and light between hedge and planting is crucial and also a pleasant experience to wander down the back of a border on occasion.

Great textural planting here – simple large blocks, with a simple range of colour, of eupatorium, persicaria and miscanthus with the sharp weight of the castellated yew beyond emphasising that form and texture and habit are what it’s all about. 

Conversely, this grouping shows more obvious tonal contrasts with the yew. Hot dotted colour with  just one large-leaved canna, maybe ‘Durban’ in the foreground. 

The teazles again, Dipsacus fullonum, self-sown most likely with Fergus making the final decision on whether the seedlings are allowed to develop into these candelabra statements – brittle architectural giants rising above the firm framework of the yew. A line of grasses with glimpses of pokers beyond – layers and screens.

Here is the wider picture, quite complex if deconstructed but fairly perfect in the simplicity of the visual composition . . . .

. . . but just shifting the angle and the focus and mood change. Dramatic topiary – brilliant scale – forms a full stop and sets off the foreground planting in a different way. Applause here I think?

The ‘transparent’ grass . . .

 . . and soft tones and seed heads against the strength of the background trees. The foliage of the macleaya is starting  to turn buttery . . .

 . . a tapestry of delicacy made more prominent by the tall block of miscanthus . . .

. . . moving to a stronger colour palette against the mellow tones of Great Dixter house. Canna indica ‘Purpurea’ is the prima donna. Below shows the compact Viburnum opulus, guelder rose, with berries that remain as rich luscious fruits because birds don’t like them. Thank goodness! Love the touch of Mina lobata,of the Morning Glory family but looks nothing like it, in the bottom right hand corner.

. . . .  and perfection of contrasts with Dahlia ‘Ann-Brechenfelder’ and Selinum – a later cow parsleylike umbel – more delicate with a sense of the wild. And some music since it’s Dixter.

seafood – and eat it (thank’s Stan) festival

This weekend, the glamorous beauty from the May Day procession was given an airing again. She looks coyly around the lamp post! Strange to see deck chairs, parasols, palm trees, bits of arundo in the Winkle Island area. This grouping marks the entrance to the local Seafood and Wine Festival

This year we are directed further along the Stade to Rock-a-Nore as building works for the new Jerwood Gallery cover the Stade at the moment. This will be a public space for the events of this kind next year, we all hope – well, some of us do! There are lovely corridor views through the spaces between the tall fish net huts . . .

. . . bustling and busy . . tasting all kinds of food from local restaurants and suppliers and sipping and quaffing local ale and wines. I like these mackerel rolls that Amy and her mother from Judges Bakery  are selling . . . crisp and juicy . . .

Visitors drifted onto the beach. The sea was calm until the water skiers got going but they entertained us with varying degrees of skill . . . dogs and children paddled and swam, artists painted  and the gulls watched too . . .

Turning around to go back into the Old Town, I caught this glimpse of the Marina Building to the west.

It’s also Coastal Currents at the moment, when many artists studio are open to the visitors so, an opportunity to see into Oak Passage Studios behind George Street and capture this arrangement on a window sill.

I started Early—Took my Dog—
And visited the Sea—
The Mermaids in the Basement
Came out to look at me—

And Frigates—in the Upper Floor
Extended Hempen Hands—
Presuming Me to be a Mouse—
Aground—upon the Sands—

But no Man moved Me—till the Tide
Went past my simple Shoe—
And past my Apron—and my Belt—
And past my Bodice—too—

And made as He would eat me up—
As wholly as a Dew
Upon a Dandelion's Sleeve—
And then—I started—too—

And He—He followed—close behind—
I felt his Silver Heel
Upon my Ankle—Then my Shoes
Would overflow with Pearl—

Until We met the Solid Town—
No One He seemed to know—
And bowing—with a Might look—

At me—The Sea withdrew                     ” I Started Early”   Emily Dickinson

hard stuff

Interesting to wander around this immediate vicinity – described or assessed as ‘run down’ and therefore needing government grants. Many residents try hard to make their mark on the area so that it looks inviting to others – just part of the regeneration that is pushed on by individuals and their creativity. Some may say it’s  ‘on the up’ while others moan on about ‘gentrification’. I thought I’d make a circle of about a 100m radius and see what took my fancy of the ‘hard stuff’. Very close by, in Market Street,  is this old sandstone block retaining wall  – quite tactile in its softness –  with a decent batter that supports the base of the raised land along Market Passage . . . .

. . . there must have been storage within the wall or this could be the old portal to the flights of steps that climb the cliff face. The concrete steps just visible on the left are relatively new  . . .

. . . the corner of Market Street and the London Road stands the old Admiral Benbow pub. I like this building and I think a lighting designer likes it too. On the roof of the building next door, the vegetation isn’t part of a roof garden but a bit of buddleja . . . .

 . . . and next to this at the corner of London Road and Norman Road, we can enjoy a piece of street art that causes some puzzling looks. Unfortunately, the subject  received a swastika on his conk within a couple of days – no surprise – but everyone’s behaving like good subjects now . . .  I understand that it’s by Ben Eine . . .

 . . . and down at Deborah’s, more childish stuff but, more interesting and attractive . . .

Looking in to the house at close quarters, there is a roof garden here  . . .

 . . and as  Deborah designs wall paper, she’s added this in too, along with a reference to upholstery . . . very jolly . . .

. . . a look towards the back of her workroom/shop window shows she knows how to arrange objects . . .

. . . and looking back into the doll’s house, I see there’s a nod to the local dilapidation . . .

. . . walking west along Grand Parade towards The Marina, there’s a very decrepid building with a balcony that is rather lovely in its fragility . . .

. . . and close by, an ‘installation’ created late at night . . .

. . this is the ‘gentrification’ that some criticise, olive trees in tubs and buildings receiving a makeover. 

Higher than the handsomest hotel

The lucent comb shows up for miles, but see,

All round it close-ribbed streets rise and fall

Like a great sigh out of the last century.

The porters are scruffy; what keep drawing up

At the entrance are not taxis; and in the hall

As well as creepers hangs a frightening smell.

There are paperbacks, and tea at so much a cup,

Like an airport lounge, but those who tamely sit

On rows of steel chairs turning the ripped mags

Haven’t come far. More like a local bus.

These outdoor clothes and half-filled shopping-bags

And faces restless and resigned, although

Every few minutes comes a kind of nurse

To fetch someone away: the rest refit

Cups back to saucers, cough, or glance below

Seats for dropped gloves or cards. Humans, caught

On ground curiously neutral, homes and names

Suddenly in abeyance; some are young,

Some old, but most at that vague age that claims

The end of choice, the last of hope; and all

Here to confess that something has gone wrong.

It must be error of a serious sort,

For see how many floors it needs, how tall

It’s grown by now, and how much money goes

In trying to correct it. See the time,

Half-past eleven on a working day,

And these picked out of it; see, as they climb

To their appointed levels, how their eyes

Go to each other, guessing; on the way

Someone’s wheeled past, in washed-to-rags ward clothes:

They see him, too. They’re quiet. To realise

This new thing held in common makes them quiet,

For past these doors are rooms, and rooms past those,

And more rooms yet, each one further off

And harder to return from; and who knows

Which he will see, and when? For the moment, wait,

Look down at the yard. Outside seems old enough:

Red brick, lagged pipes, and someone walking by it

Out to the car park, free. Then, past the gate,

Traffic; a locked church; short terraced streets

Where kids chalk games, and girls with hair-dos fetch

Their separates from the cleaners – O world,

Your loves, your chances, are beyond the stretch

Of any hand from here! And so, unreal

A touching dream to which we all are lulled

But wake from separately. In it, conceits

And self-protecting ignorance congeal

To carry life, collapsing only when

Called to these corridors (for now once more

The nurse beckons -). Each gets up and goes

At last. Some will be out by lunch, or four;

Others, not knowing it, have come to join

The unseen congregations whose white rows

Lie set apart above – women, men;

Old, young; crude facets of the only coin

This place accepts. All know they are going to die.

Not yet, perhaps not here, but in the end,

And somewhere like this. That is what it means,

This clean-sliced cliff; a struggle to transcend

The thought of dying, for unless its powers

Outbuild cathedrals nothing contravenes

The coming dark, though crowds each evening try

 With wasteful, weak, propitiatory flowers.  The Building  Philip Larkin

a garden – some plants and the nursery who supplied the plants

A very fleeting visit to a garden designed, constructed and planted over the last 3 years. Overcast skies so almost no no shadows showing on the these pix . . . moody, maybe muddy shots, oh well . . .

Stands of the upright grass Calamagrostis x acut. ‘Karl Foerster’  with fluffier Deschampsia and Aster x frikartii ‘Monch’ . . .

. . . cow parsley like Selinum wallichanum and soft yellow Nepeta goviniana with backcloth of the brown flower heads of Calamagrostis brachytricha and the more autumnal flowering tones of Calamagrostis x acutiflora  ‘Karl Foerster’ again – designers love it for the strength of its habit . . .

. . Calamgrostis brachytricha again with Persicaria amplexicaulis ‘Taurus’ and the dark claret buttons of Sanguisorba officinalis . . .

. . . Deschampsia again with some gaura in the foreground . . .

 . . . the light is getting worse looking down the shrub walk under the branches of the Acer griseum. It’s pointless pursuing taking photos and anyway, the purpose of the day is to visit a favourite hardy herbaceous wholesale nursery for one of their open days where designers are invited to discuss requirements, view the order beds and generally to much needed CPD.

I am completely transfixed by the persicarias . . . these are in pots but the effect is sublime. I try to think where and how I can use this plant in this scale . . .

. . . Persicaria amplexicaulis ‘Alba’, mmmm, . . . .

 . . . and pink with red, all very yummy . . .

 . .. looking across wide bands of colour, the verbascum stands proud . . . alone . . .

 . . . and seed heads with Stipa gigantea . . .very muted tones . . .

 . . . delicate textures sit well against the background bands of plants waiting to have new homes. 

IT was a perfect day
For sowing; just
As sweet and dry was the ground
As tobacco-dust.

I tasted deep the hour
Between the far
Owl’s chuckling first soft cry
And the first star.

A long stretched hour it was;
Nothing undone
Remained; the early seeds
All safely sown.

And now, hark at the rain,
Windless and light,
Half a kiss, half a tear,
Saying good-night.

Edward Thomas

firehills

a rather beautiful part of the herd of Aberdeen Angus on the Firehills at Fairlight .

. . very long fringe . . . and the rest of the cast  . . . they graze a semi -natural grassland managed to encourage clover for the bumble and long horned bee colonies . . .

. . the elder berries in the hedgerows look sumptuous in late summer . . .

 . .  looking west to Hastings the slithers of liquorice black seaweed are obvious –  laid out on the shore by the waves . . .

 . . from Sue’s seat  the view is wonderful . . .

 . . . across the glens –  Warren, Ecclestone and Fairlight –  where ferns grow in the valleys of sandstone rock carved by the trickling streams on their way to the sea. The name Fairlight comes from Fernlye meaning the place of bracken, or it could have come from Pharos Light the Roman for lighthouse. Anyway, it seems that the locals call the place Firehills due to the number of gorse fires that happen in full summer. It’s a gorse and tree covered glen landscape with cliffs tumbling down to the shore. Once upon a time 70 Martello towers, 66 churches, 40 windmills, 5 castles and 3 bays could be seen from here!  To the east, Dungeness and Folkestone beyond and to the east,  Beachy Head and, maybe France to the south . . . the gentle humming of the mast . . .

. . . and the lines of the footpaths through the vegetation . . .

Exultation is the going

Of an inland soul to sea,

Past the houses — past the headlands —

Into deep Eternity —

Bred as we, among the mountains,

Can the sailor understand

The divine intoxication

Of the first league out from land?   Emily Dickinson

 

 . . and post script to the graffiti pantomime – everyone loves Banksy now  . . .

You are no more, but sunken in a sea
Sheer into dream, ten thousand leagues, you fell;
And now you lie green-golden, while a bell
Swings with the tide, my heart: and all is well
Till I look down, and wavering, the spell–
Your loveliness–returns. There in the sea,
Where you lie amber-pale and coral-cool,
You are most loved, most lost, most beautiful.

Genevieve Taggard