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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 . . .

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passages + twittens

. . . 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.

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purple couple

big mix

The headgear always takes my eye immediately . . . so well crafted, so imaginative, so detailed, so individual . . .

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. . . but some simple.

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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.

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hum's in parade

hum's rear

hum's hat

hum's footwear

Another couple who make returned visits . . . neat, elegant footwear

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elegant pair

. . . 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 . . .

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jack mask

 

floral

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.

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A high vanatge point is useful . . .

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up high 5

up high

. . . but sometimes a lower position is required.

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Music and drumming and, of course, dancing are integral elements . . .

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music drumming

dancing

. . . 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.

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large sweep

A mature ‘sweep’ with interesting headgear . . . quite delicate . . .

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large sweep headgear

. . . more costumes on the gregarious and the less so.

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head group

This year, a new group, displaying magnificent headresses  . . .  no clue on the concept or the rationale but good fun!

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head close up

wolf head

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But always time to greet friends and acquaintances when the procession has wound down to the Old Town High Street. Wonderful as always.

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last but one

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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

 

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‘Finally’ is used in the title as I feel bad that this post didn’t make it on the day – very poor from the this blogger’s perspective. The alexanders are in full flower now and best to search for the young shoots  if they can be found. It’s an acquired taste but would surely have been foraged at many hundreds, maybe thousands of May Day festivals. Background information and for previous posts on this colourful extravaganza that dominates Hastings Old Town every year on May Bank Holiday. click here

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The crowd was thick down at Rock-a-Nore waiting for Jack to exit the net huts and see the light of day again 12 months on. Headdresses are the first thing that catch the eye with the usual mix – lots of foliage, horns, feathers, tat and more thoughtful compositions – which merge together when folks get closer and closer straining to see when the procession might start . . .

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. . .  a few look nervous about the whistling, loud bangs and unidentifiable noises. Or is he just bored?  Some intricate costumes need close inspection and some couples just look so dapper without much decoration . . .

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. . lots of green and relief to see some red – but who is he, or she?  Finally we get underway and Jack appears festooned with ribbons and his neat crown ribbons.

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For me, the day would not be the same without this couple. They appear in all previous posts and in many guises but all exquisitely designed and crafted. Today, he (Bob) becomes the pope in the foreground and his female companion just hidden behind – well, she shouldn’t be there anyway. A pope with a partner?

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Her hat is something to wonder at – equally the footwear . . .

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. . his mitre held many sprigs of spider plant and a mackerel for good measure. And he had a furry tail.

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So a good deal of banging sticks from The Sweeps and some with garlands and clogs from somewhere more refined than Hastings surely?  A very neat group . . .

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. . . and the fire eater, nicknamed ‘the baby’ goodness knows why as this year the ‘baby’ has developed adult chest hair. He received applause quite rightly from the imbibers at The Dolphin when doing his stuff.

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fire-eater-jack-in-the-green-festival-hastings-1184664 Here his is last year ( image from the web).

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As the procession moves up All Saints Street and then crosses The Bourne to descend The Old Town High Street, I meandered around looking at a property that wasn’t quite right but it was very green and then on to stare at a few shop windows with the usual bits and pieces displayed outside. Also enjoyed the reflections that were offered up . . .

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. . . and find a place by Café Maroc to see it all again.

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And I can see and admire it all for the third viewing when they reach the top of Croft Road (the home of the famous allotment) before the procession turns left and then just makes a short flat run to the castle where jollifications, eating and drinking and making merry can really start.  The pope is already looking forward to the final events. It’s a steep hill, a hot day and many struggle under the weight of costume and heavy musical instruments. Bye-bye  Jack, until next year  – goodness knows where I’ll be then.

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If you were to think of painting May

you would think of a locus of appearances –

the nature-goddess yanked from the soil

like a snake from a hole and shaping herself

 

as a tortoise or a sheaf of barley.

 

You would look with a clear eye

of Aphrodite Kyanopeis at her washing day

and see the starched iris, the hyacinth,

the sickle-blade of every stainless shadow,

 

and you would dream of a going-into-blue

like a stippled brushwork of wisteria

and the blue glaze of the sky where the bees meet,

 

then also of its exact golden opposite,

 

for honey is the colour of sun through eyelids

and above all the pure food of the Oracle,

transparent as the truth her handmaids the Melissae

 

etch on the air by their way-of-buzzing,

their way-of-flying.  Alison Fell  6   May  from Lightyear

 

 

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A misty start to Green Man Day this year. We wandered down the front  . . . 2

. . . and passed the pier shrouded in sea fog. But then the mass of metal hit us as the roar of exhausts filled the air . . 3

. . and on to Rock a Nore where the crowds milled around innocently, made up of small groupings catching up on the local gossip as well as meeting and greeting 12 months on. (Click on the bold to see the previous 3 years posted here + more info on the why, what and the wherefore of this event). here + here + here4 wigs 4 6 7

Jack is set free from the net hut and Mad Jack’s Woman dance around him before the procession starts with Mad Jack’s Morris waving hankies, slapping each others buttocks in a manner that brings to the fore many other British eccentricities . . . 8 9 10

. . the Gay Bogies, Hannah’s Cat, The Lovely Ladies and Green Participants enter into the spirit of the occasion . . . 11

. .  many costumes  are to be admired . . .

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. .  Giant figures enter into the procession at significant stages – but don’t ask me when or why. I like the ‘shy lady’ though with her coy glance . . .

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. . the Sweeps arrive looking dark, dusty and threatening . . . . 14 sweeps 15 sweeps 17

. .  the decoration of their top hats needs a closer examination – bits of everything cobbled together. 16 sweep headress

More hats and head dresses . . . easy to see above the mellay. headress 1 headress 2 headress 3 headress4 headress 5 headress6 headress 7

After the group of dark sweeps, more colourful costumes pass by including dogs suitably attired . . . 18 colour 19 colour

. .  there’s a good deal of drumming and banging of staves and some sort of dancing – quite a lot is about thrusting at opposing partner!

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My favourite well dressed participant (above) – different costume every year but always recognisable. Well done again, Sir. 22

It becomes difficult to differentiate between the ‘live’ and the model . 23 courthouse 24 courthouse

In the Old Town High Street, doors and windows have been adorned . . . . 25 door 26 window

. .  it’s a tight, narrow street, so the sound wells up and the excitement created by the enthusiasm of those in the procession and the onlookers blends into a fantastic festive eruption of movement and colour. 27 28 29

The costumes can be better appreciated from the rear. 30

Some in the procession appear resolute and determined . . . . . and others want to remain incognito. 31

Some appear swashbuckling and cavalier . . .

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. . and some want a rest now and then.

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The sea front fills up with more metal, leather, sweat and  . . . . the sense of anorak. 34

It’s a strange occasion! The so-called modern world of the machine meets the world of myths. 35 36

It is not growing like a tree in bulk, doth make Man better be; or standing long an oak three hundred year, to fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere; A lily of a day is fairer in May, although it fall and die that night- It was the plant and flower of Light. In small proportions we just beauties see: and in short measures life may perfect be, Ben Johnson The Noble Nature

jack-in-the-gloom

May 7, 2012

Gloomy weather for the Jack-in-the Green festivities today . But those in the procession were full of enthusiasm. These pix were taken at the top of Croft Road which  links the Old Town to the West Hill, Ladies Parlour and the Castle where the Morris Dancing and the Slaying of the Jack happen at the end of the day. Croft Road is a steep climb even without fancy dress and instruments!

The baby had been nosed with green paint, of course,  but some one was also running around doing blue nosing . . .

. .  the younger element made a presence  . . . .

. . and this coterie always come to the party in style and substance. Like the nonchalance of the rucksack and the dedicated detail of the costumes . . .

. .  and the rear view of a parrot on the shoulder and the quite magnificent ribbons . . .

. . . . and on to some pairs. Some wearing suits and holding hands . . .

. .  and some not holding hands, but being supportive  . . . .

. . and as in previous years, simply the best pair, below. Check out the footwear on the rooster – such dedication to the costume!

And finally, in the misty composition of figures and landscape  . . . .

. . and the flowering performance of the rocket. The sun shone later for all to enjoy! For previous posts on revels in Hastings,  click here and here.

Spring came again, and the flowers rose
From their quiet winter graves,
And gayly danced on their slender stems,
And sang with the rippling waves.
Softly the warm winds kissed their cheeks;
Brightly the sunbeams fell,
As, one by one, they came again
In their summer homes to dwell.
And little Clover bloomed once more,
Rosy, and sweet, and fair,
And patiently watched by the mossy bed,
For the worm still slumbered there.
Then her sister flowers scornfully cried,
As they waved in the summer air,
‘The ugly worm was friendless and poor;
Little Clover, why shouldst thou care?
Then watch no more, nor dwell alone,
Away from thy sister flowers;
Come, dance and feast, and spend with us
These pleasant summer hours.
We pity thee, foolish little flower,
To trust what the false worm said;
He will not come in a fairer dress,
For he lies in the green moss dead.’
But little Clover still watched on,
Alone in her sunny home;
She did not doubt the poor worm’s truth,
And trusted he would come.  Louisa May Alcott

the all green day

May 5, 2011

Monday was Jack-in-the-Green Day again. All quiet in Croft Road with pretty ribbons fluttering down the frontages and woven through railings. The house below is St Just where the policeman Foyle of Foyle’s War can be seen going in and coming out during filming. The shops are decorated up too – inside and out.

Locals and visitors start to gather – many in fancy garb. Not sure how a bookie and an explorer fit but anyway they like dressing up . . .

This chap always looks marvellous. His costume is exquisite and he wears it with panache. It’s all very busy and crowded on Rock-a-Nore as the old Jack has to be brought out of the fish hut before the procession forms in a ‘loose’ way. There’s much standing around and informal jostling for position.  

The gentleman with the fuzzy pork pie hat and what looks like a slow-worm over his shoulder is equally well adorned each year – very neat and compact – in contrast to the group below. 

Some wait quietly and some start banging sticks together. I think this is a famous Kent group of bogies called the ‘Rabble’ . . .

 . . and some need to do ‘adjusting’!

The ‘hunter’ shades his snout under a parasol! I liked this green beard and also the head gear  – a Philip Treacy tufa concoction.

Ah, the flamingo has a dog – well this is Dogville . . .

 . . and another hairy thing and a smooth head with an ivy and fern mask  – ticklish?

Feathers and parthenocissus – a delicate touch – and silverware also carefully interwoven below.

Ah, off we go. The procession starts along Rock-a Nore and meanders through the Old Town streets before the steep climb up to West Hill and the Castle Meadow for the finale.

The ‘Russian Ballet’ dancer in mauve. His daily wear anyway is pastel tone tights and little bodices, so no surprise to see this get up! 

A lovely group here holding hands with splendiferous outfits that put me to shame.

Here is Linda dressed as HM The Queen. Not sure which Queen but a tall one! Note the heels!

And why should I be surprised to see a minotaur ambling up the hill . . .

 . . and across between Bob Geldorf and Mr Pastry!

The town is fair buzzing. The need for a good vantage point is obvious – the giants have that. Nathandriel and the Moon-Goddess tower over us but they are only allowed out once a year to get the best view. Last years post on this event is here

Jack – in – the – Green is the main event here on May Bank Holiday with Jack seen as the winter form of the Green Man – the spirit of the forests. So it’s basically ‘green’ everywhere – rather a difficult colour in my opinion unless it’s on ‘live’ vegetation but hey, let’s get festive . . .

 . . Jack appears on left with his posie on right . . . the blue chimney brush is important here as we still sweep our chimneys ourselves . . .

. . another floral exhibit which probably has a hidden meaning . .. .

. . giants are also important as they protect the town! Goodness knows how, as they’re just made out of papier-mache but, at as they’re  4 metres high, that makes us feel safe especially as the town is inundated with ‘bikers’  . .  and people canvassing for this election . . .

. . another giant – a mermaid ? ? ? – who looks great when she’s turned full face – extremely supercilious . .

. . below is a hunter . .

. . some of the get ups are really fine . .

. . you must understand that this is normal clothing here – not dressing up at all  . . . looking at the backs of people, you notice their attention to detail even more . . .

. . this coterie are very all together – fashion designers or costume designers . . .

 . .  like to look at details . . .

. . and some headdresses and hats . .

. . individually some people look brilliant . . .

. . this is the fire-eater – he is part of the parade and the festivities in the castle meadow before Jack is slain to enable the spirit of summer to be released . . this year he’s a wasp!!  . .

. . the bogies are spirits that live in dark places and support Jack. They fall into 2 groups – Hastings bogies and Gay bogies – no more to say . . .

. . you can cover a face in green paint and the figure could be in a Breughel painting  . . .

. . or, in this case, Commedia dell ‘arte . . .

. . and to finish with Sonnet 18 (William Shakespeare). Good night. 

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm’d;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm’d;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander’st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

above the Gardon

March 12, 2016

A jaunt out above the gorges to see if the new seedling growth of the ferula is showing and, yes, frothy and fresh in tone, carpeting the ground around the forebears which are still strong but wonderfully light to hold as the stems are hollow now . . .

ferula old

ferula + euphorb

. . . young ferula growth here mixed in with low, lime green euphorbia, but the taller Euphorbia wulfenii also claims attention. A black-eyed form and perhaps crossed with others to form  E. x martini . . .

euphorbia 1

iris pumila purple

. . . Iris pumila – in papal cloth and in soft yellow – stop me in my tracks, not only to admire visually but, also to avoid squashing them where they sprout through the stony path.

iris pumila cream

iris pumila in stones

By le Castellas and at Table de Lecture de Paysage, the view forces the eyes to lift up away from studying up from studying the minutiae on the ground to this tableau  – the river Gard flowing in a cup shaped curve; a quite splendid panorama . . .

gardons to east

. . .  as it enters from the west  beyond Russan and beyond Anduze . . .

gardons to east detail

 

gardons to west

. . . and as it moves to the east flow under Pont Saint – Nicolas and then under Pont du Gard before entering the Rhone. Some folks do other physical and challenging pursuits here but I just gaze.

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narcissus + globularia

How the tiny narcissus occupy this terrain and how enjoyable they are . . . so it’s eyes down again and especially when the path becomes a solid sponge like form of limestone. Perhaps it’s more like walking on a giant food grater.

narcissus in path

limestone path

Then again the view demands attention. Pont Saint-Nicolas and surroundings can only be enjoyed from this high aspect – there is nowhere to park nearby – hurrah.

pont st nicolas

church

Back in Vic, Commune de Ste Anastasie, grave stones neatly placed on the church wall face a flowering Rosa banksiae – my first this year on March 4th- and a wall hosting Umbilicus rapestris – great texture contrasts.

The poem reads like an old song or fairy tale to me – but no claim is made on this landscape but just simple grateful appreciation.

rosa banksiae

umbilicus rupestris 1

walking by the waters

down where an honest river

shakes hands with the sea,

a woman passed round me

in a slow, watchful circle,

as if I were a superstition;

 

or the worst dregs of her imagination,

so when she finally spoke

her words spliced into bars

of an old wheel. A segment of air.

Where do you come from?

‘Here,’ I said, ‘Here. These parts.’ Jackie Kay In My Country

 

 

 

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At the de la warr, it’s difficult to ignore the views out and concentrate on the work within. For me, the world beyond the windows offers up good compositions especially if the views are uninhabited.

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The strong grid of the light diffusing blinds makes an interesting additional layer. I snapped away,  the gallery assistants looked doubtful but then pleased, when eventually I turned to absorb the compositions on the walls.

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The current exhibition ‘I Cheer a Dead Man’s Sweetheart’  – the last verse of Housman’s ‘Is My Team Ploughing’  – shows work of artists in Britain today who refer to the past combined with a conceptual and contemporary journey in their method and practice.  The poem is on the wall in the atrium and having read it, it seemed as though the building also enhanced the ethos of the exhibition.

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At 135, All Saints Street in Hastings Old Town, it’s possible, on the odd occasion, to view a house built in 1500’s. Alistair Hendy has restored this house, especially the exterior, to something like it might have been. Guttering and down pipes are a nod to gentrification but windows, beams and the ‘jetty’ overhang are now revealed having been masked by the Georgians in their love of the flat façade.

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A small group of us were welcomed into the parlour which could have been a shop in earlier times. There is electricity and other services all discreetly hidden but the house is lit with candles to give an ambience of the past. All the fires were working – wood smoke covered us in a pleasant manner – as we wandered around the ground floor being mindful of the low thresholds, changes in level and admiring the eclectic taste of the furnishings – things Alistair likes as and not necessarily truthful to ‘period’. It’s his home after all.

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Looking down to the new kitchen which leads on to what supposedly was the town mortuary but is now the dining room.

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Outside in the enclosed courtyard, giant hogweed, tree ferns and a huge gunnera fill the space . . .

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. . .  and on the first floor, a box bed with a view out to the street. May 5th is Jack-in-the-Green day and decorations are up. A post on this will follow as usual (last years is here).

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all saints

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The thunder box and the chair mounted on the wall took my eye as did windows with the original glass. Shutters, quite rustic, are a recent addition. The floor below the  zinc bath required extra support – discretely done to the conservation officer’s satisfaction. Not a good idea to ask too much about the local conservation officials in this house . . . folks here know the brain ache that accompanies this relationship.  . . .

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. . a touch of Vermeer above and quite exquisite other touches to conclude. Lots of wonderment and looking in.  It’s worth a visit.

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Caught in a fragment of forgiven light

The past’s refracted and the present lies

Waiting to be caught. Now feeling dies

 

At the year’s edge, the dark-to-be of night

And then the migrants homing and the spring

New as always, meaning everything.

 

Day has its attitude of sovereign height,

Birds discourse, the long hours spread, we are

In the best moment of the travelling year.

 

Now the dark is light and sound is sight,

Winter written off, summer is then,

Spring is the season for begetting man. Elizabeth Jennings  Caught.

 

site

Creating landscapes and building gardens carries on through all types of weather. Certain processes are not possible when the ground temperature drops below freezing – this is well understood by all who work in this industry. We are now experiencing changes in the climate that mean we need to be aware of the effects of incessant rain as well. Last year, in the South East of the UK, spring stopped in mid March, summer didn’t exist and autumn was a washout. Winter was mostly wet – some days the temperature stayed below freezing and there have been light snow showers and one dramatic snow storm last week. Consequently, the ground is full of water. Gardens aren’t very important in the scale of things. Farming is much more important and times in that industry are tough. Flooded fields mean crops cannot grow and access is difficult. On this site in a rural setting, we have another problem that exacerbates the state of the ground. The original farm road of compacted rubble including building materials and layers of concrete was simply turfed over and the ground levels were not adjusted to take the water away sufficiently. It’s amazing what turf will grow on! The clients, who are being very courageous, were warned that their garden would look like The Somme . . .

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water 2

water lying

. . . so jobs have to be dealt with while the new land drains do what they should do.   These contractors are cracking on with digging in gravel to break up the clay . . .

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. . .  and some hard landscape work such as extending and renewing the brick terrace under the watchful eye of Liam.

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Ryan drills the walls for vine eyes to support the stainless steel wiring for the climbers. Once done, the Grasses and Movement border can be finished by completing the neat gravel filled trench between wall and planting.  I’ll be unwrapping the climbers and attaching them to the supports myself. The chaps will finish up with final mulch. A corner of the new soft fruit frame shows top left.  Steve,  Andy and Ryan made the frame with chestnut poles – it’s waiting for the netting jacket.

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Capacious compost bins need a dark stain and a screen of buckthorn, species roses and Cornus ‘Winter Sun’.

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Nick and Adam tackle one of the oaks. It’s a marvelous specimen – probably about 300 years old – and needs gentle attention before the buds swell even more . . .

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nick close up

nick + adam (2)

It’s been decided to pull off site at the end of the week, let the ground drain and return in mid April to finish off creating  gravel paths, prepping the borders and finally planting. By the way, these contractors have just one a big prize and since they’re working on 4 of our jobs at the moment. We’ve all worked together before – one of the projects is here.

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Friendly faces surround this site!

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The rain it rains without a stay

In the hills above us, in the hills;

And presently the floods break way

Whose strength is in the hills.

The trees they suck from every cloud,

The valley brooks they roar aloud–

Bank-high for the lowlands, lowlands,

Lowlands under the hills!

The first wood down is sere and small,

From the hills–the brishings off the hills;

And then come by the bats and all

We cut last year in the hills;

And then the roots we tried to cleave

But found too tough and had to leave–

Polting down the lowlands, lowlands,

Lowlands under the hills!

The eye shall look, the ear shall hark

To the hills, the doings in the hills!

And rivers mating in the dark

With tokens from the hills.

Now what is weak will surely go,

And what is strong must prove it so–

Stand Fast in the lowlands, lowlands,

Lowlands under the hills!

The floods they shall not be afraid–

Nor the hills above ’em, nor the hills–

Of any fence which man has made

Betwixt him and the hills.

The waters shall not reckon twice

For any work of man’s device,

But bid it down to the lowlands, lowlands,

Lowlands under the hills!

The floods shall sweep corruption clean–

By the hills, the blessing of the hills–

That more the meadows may be green

New-mended from the hills.

The crops and cattle shall increase,

Nor little children shall not cease.

Go–plough the lowlands, lowlands,

Lowlands under the hills!  Kipling  The Floods

a wander

December 1, 2010

a wander around  . . .

 . .  thick snow for us down here, about 4″  and enough to send the gulls back up to the rooftops.

Wandering up Quarry Hill by the gardens – lovely mature holm oaks make a frame to the composition. Thinking about the Burtons, who kick started this town, I turned up West Hill Road to look again at the pyramid, a mausoleum for members of the family. 

 

James is supposedly buried here in this small family graveyard. The inscription on the  pyramid ‘May Jackasses sit on your Father’s Grave’ was a family notion on how to evade the Eastern curse. The rather ugly church is post war as the original built by James Burton was doodlebugged.

Safe in their alabaster chambers,
Untouched by morning and untouched by noon,
Sleep the meek members of the resurrection,
Rafter of satin, and roof of stone.

Light laughs the breeze in her castle of sunshine;
Babbles the bee in a stolid ear;
Pipe the sweet birds in ignorant cadence, —
Ah, what sagacity perished here!

Grand go the years in the crescent above them;
Worlds scoop their arcs, and firmaments row,
Diadems drop and Doges surrender,
Soundless as dots on a disk of snow   Emily Dickinson

Decimus receives an acknowledgement as the tenth son and architect of the town but he was buried elsewhere.

A light hedge of hippophae makes a boundary between the grave yard and the cliff edge. Hippophae is salt tolerant, fairly evergreen and spiny. At  St John Bread + Wine, a tart is served topped with a jelly made from the berries. Most delicious! They use a forager for produce that grows in the wild. 

 

Making the loop back home and looking at the rear view of Undercliff Terrace, a Decimus creation, across Len‘s collection of exotica.

Then down the long flight of steps to the front of the terrace. An invitation to sit. But others see this as an invitation to take the plants – naughty!

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