mainly trees
January 23, 2022
cold winter weather provides spectacular sunrises beyond the cupressus at the far end of the garden . .
. . . on a brief visit to Ceasar’s Camp at Laudun to walk with a friend, we came across this specimen emerging quite confidently from the footings of a wall. The walk turned into a route march as I chose the wrong path – there was a good deal of grumbling but quite rightly . . .
. . . the site, way up overlooking the Rhone, offers interesting remains and, of course, marvellous views. We were taken with the cloud formations that day and the tones in the sky but unfortunately the images don’t do justice . . .
. . . plenty of Smilax aspera (sarsaparille) giving a seasonal uplift but around my village lining the streams and water courses it’s the poplars that take centre stage now . . .
. . . catkins so – spring soon? wandering back through the village streets and admiring the thick oak or it could be poplar as roofing structure supporting the wall . . .
and on down to home passed the madonna in a niche in the magnanerie wall high above and looking upwards herself. Got quite found of her – I don’t know why – but I do know that there is a general fondness for the neighbours who inhabit the small pasture only 4 metres from the kitchen window – lovely boys.
The persimmon (Diosoprys) called kaki here, as it is in Italy, was laden with fruit this autumn/winter and the starlings loved it . . . .
. . . a trip to the neighbouring village of Le Pin where ‘un pin parasol’ hugs the clock tower . . .
. . . and muriers platanes shade the small place by the mairie.
Over the birthday weekend two trips were made with the furthest to the sea – it only takes an hour though – and the small port of Le Grau. As it’s a ghastly month to be born in all the quayside restaurants bar one were closed – hey ho, the sun and light were lovely though and on to the beach past the etangs . . .
flamants roses, grands cormorans, martins – pêcheurs visible and anguilles not so visible although there was a muge (mullet) flapping around on the surface of an inlet. Cannes de Provence (Arundo donax) are just dying down – the canes cut for all sorts of purposes – the fluffy seedheads magical.
Pointe de l’Espiguette has a wild but preserved part to the east . . . the sea was perfect and such a wide beach can soak up quite e few visitors. Family groups were picnicking intermittently along the 18 kms of flat sand and dune.
So second trip was to Ste Alexandre (thank you Nikki and Stephen for the heads up on Auberge Le Bienheureux) and on to La Chartreuse de Valbonne with church, cloisters and numerous chapels all to discover at a later date BUT those roofs clothed in varnished tiles in the Burgundy style on the church and bell tower were admired there and then.
birthday treat – thank you Anny.
texte de Ghislaine Cuvellier, gravures de Marc Granier,
beach – le grau du roi – december
December 5, 2018
18 degrees forecast so a quick trip to Grau du Roi – takes about 1 1/2 hours from Uzès but with the tensions – blockages and difficulties finding petrol at the moment – all in the lap of the gods. Turned out very well with lunch by the canal.
The village, based around fishing cottages, gained administrative buildings and was recognised as a section of Aigues-Mortes in 1867, becoming a separate commune in 1879. The village of fishers and farmers turned to tourism at the end of the 19th century, with the extension of the Nîmes Aigues-Mortes railway line in 1909:[5] bathers arrived en masse, and on the 26 April 1924 the French President of the Republic decreed that Le Grau-du-Roi was a “station climatique et balnéaire” (beach resort town). The rail line enabled local producers to market their white grapes and fish nationally.
World War II affected the village profoundly. Axis troops were stationed in the village, and the local council dissolved. By 1942, many of the inhabitants had fled: the coast was on the front line and bristled with tank traps and minefields. The village was controlled by blockhouses, and the canal was shut off. Wood from houses was used to build defences. Le Grau-du-Roi was liberated in August 1944, and the coast started to rebuild, with a focus on tourism. The effort was coordinated by the plan Racine. Architect Jean Balladur was put in charge, and he designed structures capable of supporting a large number of tourists, while also supporting the local way of life and environment. Part of the plan included the new marina at Port Camargue.[2] This was launched in 1968 and finished in 1985 – info from Wikipedia.
The sandy L’Espiguette beach sits south-west of Aigues- Mortes ( dead – water) and the étangs, shallow and saline, and surrounding marshes of the Camargue inhabited by flamingoes, white horses and bulls.
Patterns of the effect of wind and water but no plastic to be seen. As a regional parkland it is very well maintained. one of those extra special days. The poem is about a different coast but I like it.
dungeness – birds – habitats – landscape
January 31, 2018
an afternoon with some sun prompts a visit to birds, habitats, landscape at Dungeness. Flat lands – gravel pits, pebbles, tamarisk, buckthorn, reeds – offer diverse habitats. Sparrows and Cetti’s warblers sing in the hedges. . .
. . . while shovelers, Slavonian grebe and smews can be viewed from the hides.
Apparently, just missed the Bewick swans and a bittern but a glimpse of a great white egret storking the shallows made up for the misses and there’s always someone to let you know what is where or was here – just now.
EDF own the power station and, now, the Dungeness estate. A strange back cloth to the cormorants perching like black shrouds on the submerged scrub . . .
. . . it’s very mellow and somewhat ghostlike. Perhaps this is fleece stretched into the twigs. The sheep are huge with thick wooly coats and some big bellies.
Lydd church standing proud and a few spreads of coppery willow . . .
. . . at Prospect Cottage as the clouds move in across the low sun – all is quiet.
A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its lovliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o’er-darkn’d ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
‘Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven’s brink. John Keats
A busy month of eclectic experiences starting with the city – looking from the 6th floor of the Pompidou Centre across the panorama . . .
. . . and looking down onto a canopy of plane trees. Here to see . .
Cy Twombly’s work from a career spanning 60 years. It was a marvellous exhibition; sadly over now. ‘Untitled’ painted in Rome during his minimal and conceptual phase in 1970’s to . . .
the ‘Rose Series’ Gaeta 2008 drawn from influence/ inspiration/ silent dialogue with Rilke’s poems. Stunning and thought provoking and an exhibition that has kicked me into reading Homer again – what a delight.
City to coast and plant buying. As equally pleasurable as being immersed in paintings. At Pépinière Filippi, plants suitable for dry gardening are displayed in a garden setting – this below is perhaps yucca spp – possibly Yucca rostrata – as well as . . .
. . . in the nursery. I can’t describe the excitement and anticipation of seeing lines of pots and the plants that they hold – mad I know.
And then it’s off to Bouzigues for some seafood to be enjoyed with a good view of Sète.
Coast to country and walking for a few days in the Cévennes. Through the chestnut woods and over streams passing dry stone walls coated in mosses and lichen. Moss is a plant but lichen a type of fungus needing algae so a symbiotic relationship . . .
. . . we encountered some history too – a group of huts set on a plateau -restored in hommage to the protestants who fought in the Camisards’ War in early 18th C. They fought a guerilla warfare ambushing the King’s men and them melting back into the wooded countryside. Locals also hid in the the buildings in the 1940’s – the Nazis being too lazy to climb through the dense landscape.
In Saint Hilaire-de-Lavit, forgotten vehicles and a wondrous chêne vert in the graveyard . . .
. . . and iris and wisteria still in bloom.
May Day is celebrated in the village with a Marché des Fleurs under the 55 plane trees – my front garden – which shade the colourful displays. Some are very bright . . .
. . . some less so . . .
and some are quite discreet. The poem from Rilke should wrap this post up well. à bientôt.
Rose
so cherished by our
customs
dedicated to our memories
became almost imaginary
for being so linked
to
our
dreams Rainer Maria Rilke
limpid landscape – low tide at pett level
January 9, 2017
No wind, a little sun and some cloud and low tide so the beach is revealed offering a large expanse for strolling, digging for lug worms, bird watching and play in the pools – the gulls and oystercatchers are busy too.
This landscape in the foreground and the distance is etched in man-made lines but, close to, the organic forms of nature can be discovered. Crambe maritima throwing up pink bulbous shoots already . . .
. . . sand particles, clays and rocks with smooth rounded surfaces make small individual landscapes within the larger landscape and always changing amongst the constant of the lines of groynes – some hundreds of years old and some highly decorated by the tides.
Signs of peat extraction – methodically cut in parallel lines – and the dark, almost black, slippery ground surface of the petrified forest that stretches elegantly into the sea, show again how man interrupts nature. Nature’s lines are altogether more beautiful.
Turning to the west from the path along the sea defense, reveals a different vision of quietude – the brow of the ridge running from Winchelsea along Wickham Rock Lane with Icklesham beyond.
And the poem, it describes me or as I feel within my self.
There is particular music
Hunted for, dug up
Near airy, planet-spaces,
Or on the cold, sure lip
Of a cliff that will not take
The climb of a white break
But only permit a foam
Rising. So I make
A music out of places
Unsurrendered to,
Watched on careful nights,
Not circumscribed, no view
Caught in the camera-mind
To be developed later.
Words are music to find
In the places the colder, the better.
But I have needed South
And its unambiguous sun,
Its haze and fire on the breath.
Since childhood I’ve been one
Never at ease at home
Relishing loneliness
Creating out of shame
Measured happiness. Elizabeth Jennings Particular Music
celebration – 1066 and all that – a good thing?
October 16, 2016
950 year anniversary of a ‘Good Thing’ (1066 and all that: a memorable history of england. yeatman + sellar). The town celebrates this after voting for Brexit which many think, was an acknowledgement for the predicament that the fishing fleet had found itself in during years within the EU. So, to stop being conquered and thus able to become ‘top nation’ again, has a new meaning . . . mmmm . . .
. . . here sheltering from the rain by The First Inn Last Out pub, we await the procession. The rain stops and here it comes down the Old Town High Street . . .
. . . drumming, shouting, clapping, explosions. This event continues in a Sussex town every week until November 5th when Lewes holds the culmination bonfire event celebrating and commemorating the burning of protestant martyrs and of a papal effigy following Pope Pius’ decision to restore the Catholic hierarchy. Images and models – guys – of popular hate figures were placed at the pinnacle of the bonfire. Some discussed who might be honoured this year . . .
. . . costumes are important, as are masks. There is an order for who wears what in the procession, for example, those dressed in striped smugglers tops should process before anyone in black tail coat. This year, a few Normans, but mostly it’s a motley collection and with surprisingly a good few tiny sleeping tots in push chairs – the overall feel is of bonhomie.
The crowd follow the procession to the Stade where the bonfire is lit and then the explosions, in the sky, commence. Great evening.
The poem needs to be read with any sort of English country accent that you can muster.
As happened in days long gone by,
When Duke William became King of England,
And ‘Arold got shot in the eye.
The Duke, who were always a toff
Having no battles on at the moment,
Had given his lads a day off.
When some chap in t’ Conqueror’s ear
Said ‘Let’s go and put breeze up the Saxons;’
Said Bill – ‘By gum, that’s an idea’.
He lifted his big Norman voice,
Shouting – ‘Hands up who’s coming to England.’
That was swank ‘cos they hadn’t no choice.
The sea was so calm and so still,
And at quarter to ten the next morning
They arrived at a place called Bexhill.King ‘Arold came up as they landed –
His face full of venom and ‘ate –
He said ‘lf you’ve come for Regatta
You’ve got here just six weeks too late.’At this William rose, cool but ‘aughty,
And said ‘Give us none of your cheek;
You’d best have your throne re-upholstered,
I’ll be wanting to use it next week.’
When ‘Arold heard this ‘ere defiance,
With rage he turned purple and blue,
And shouted some rude words in Saxon,
To which William answered – ‘And you.’
‘Twere a beautiful day for a battle;
The Normans set off with a will,
And when both sides was duly assembled,
They tossed for the top of the hill.
King ‘Arold he won the advantage,
On the hill-top he took up his stand,
With his knaves and his cads all around him,
On his ‘orse with his ‘awk in his ‘and.
The Normans had nowt in their favour,
Their chance of a victory seemed small,
For the slope of the field were against them,
And the wind in their faces an’ all.
The kick-off were sharp at two-thirty,
And soon as the whistle had went
Both sides started banging each other
‘Til the swineherds could hear them in Kent.
The Saxons had best line of forwards,
Well armed both with buckler and sword –
But the Normans had best combination,
And when half-time came neither had scored.
So the Duke called his cohorts together
And said – ‘Let’s pretend that we’re beat,
Once we get Saxons down on the level
We’ll cut off their means of retreat.’
So they ran – and the Saxons ran after,
Just exactly as William had planned,
Leaving ‘Arold alone on the hill-top
On his ‘orse with his ‘awk in his ‘and.
When the Conqueror saw what had happened,
A bow and an arrow he drew;
He went right up to ‘Arold and shot him.
He were off-side, but what could they do?
The Normans turned round in a fury,
And gave back both parry and thrust,
Till the fight were all over bar shouting,
And you couldn’t see Saxons for dust.
And after the battle were over
They found ‘Arold so stately and grand,
Sitting there with an eye-full of arrow
On his ‘orse with his ‘awk in his ‘and. Marriot Edgar
on the beach – January
January 14, 2016
After seemingly interminable rain, hallelujah a bright day dawns – of course chilly and crisp and more than refreshing; but appetising nonetheless. The beach at Pett Level is hidden from the road by the sea wall so the view across the Military Canal to the rising land has no competition. Visually superb from a distance and also excellent at close quarters for those strolling through.
Over the sea wall, a different and equally pleasing landscape is laid out. The tide is coming in as the sun strikes short shadows and highlights the textures of the beach stones . . .
. . . sandstones of varying size contrast with finer shingle and the smooth islands of dark peat. An ancient forest lies below the water and can be seen occasionally below Cliff End revealing timber with a soft spongy texture as against the also exposed rigidly hard wood used in the old sea defences The rhythm of the tide has left an elegant and informal wandering edge as though Poseidon has run a finger along the coastline . . .
Small waders leave their mark – turnstones and oyster catchers perhaps – searching for delicacies and holding their own among the herring gulls.
Nothing has been ‘done’ to these pix . . . clouds arrive and the sky to the east wears a dark violet cloak now . . .
. . . but remains clearer to the west with a freezing wind which meant power walking back to the sheltered lower level and a favourite view across the marsh inhabited by coots and curlews and the odd cormorant – and the sheep of course. Edward Thomas, my father’s favourite poet assisting here on a special day. January 14th 1910
Out of us all
That make rhymes
Will you choose
Sometimes –
As the winds use
A crack in a wall
Or a drain,
Their joy or their pain
To whistle through –
Choose me,
You English words?
I know you:
You are light as dreams,
Tough as oak,
Precious as gold,
As poppies and corn,
Or an old cloak:
Sweet as our birds
To the ear,
As the burnet rose
In the heat
Of Midsummer:
Strange as the races
Of dead and unborn:
Strange and sweet
Equally,
And familiar,
To the eye,
As the dearest faces
That a man knows,
And as lost homes are:
But though older far
Than oldest yew, –
As our hills are, old, –
Worn new
Again and again:
Young as our streams
After rain:
And as dear
As the earth which you prove
That we love.
Make me content
With some sweetness
From Wales
Whose nightingales
Have no wings, –
From Wiltshire and Kent
And Herefordshire, –
And the villages there, –
From the names, and the things
No less.
Let me sometimes dance
With you,
Or climb
Or stand perchance
In ecstasy,
Fixed and free
In a rhyme,
As poets do. Edward Thomas Words
Jack-in-the-Green-Green-Green
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
view point
September 7, 2014
Wandering down the front to see a few Open Studios during the Coastal Currents Festival of events, exhibitions – sounds, sights + surprises – meeting passers-by, standing chatting and taking the opportunity to try to capture the limpid quality of the air.
In the Electro Studios compositions of architecture, form and light. The work displayed is thought provoking but my intention is to convey the prospect and refuge character of the engagement . . .
. . . another visitor.
To Seaside Road where the old bathing pool was sited. Cyclists and walkers use the path to access the beach huts at Bulverhythe and onwards to Bexhill.
Up East Ascent, a vision of perfect peppers and a rather pleasing door.
And from the Garage, Eamon is seen directing more painting of yet more pieces of modest furniture in tones of duck egg blue. All to sell. And he does quite easily.
Back at the beach, silhouettes flicker and drift.
Don’t go far off, not even for a day, because –
because – I don’t know how to say it: a day is long
and I will be waiting for you, as in an empty station
when the trains are parked off somewhere else, asleep.
Don’t leave me, even for an hour, because
then the little drops of anguish will all run together,
the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift
into me, choking my lost heart.
Oh, may your silhouette never dissolve on the beach;
may your eyelids never flutter into the empty distance.
Don’t leave me for a second, my dearest,
because in that moment you’ll have gone so far
I’ll wander mazily over all the earth, asking,
Will you come back? Will you leave me here, dying? Pablo Neruda Don’t Go Far Off
the pier – sad to see you leave
July 17, 2014
We are having a ‘new’ pier and word has it that the bent + distorted constructions at the far end of the burnt out structure are being dismantled this week. So maybe the last chance to appreciate the old lady? or chap? Do piers have genders attached? Whatever, this one has become an old friend. This is what happened to three years ago.
Low tide offers an opportunity to view a close quarters – not only the old supports but also the new steel work. The bones are revealed in all their honest geometric beauty like open rooms . . .
. . . and the the forms that shape the underskirts around the straight legs . . .
. . . are continuously washed and refreshed and wrapped with living things as well as dead detritus.
Moving away across the slippery mud to note the activities of a few . . .
. . . and vacant items awaiting use. Even out of use this broken pier affects many folks here.
If you will tell me why the fen
appears impassable, I then
will tell you why I think that I
can get across it if I try. Marianne Moore I may, I might, I must
terrain 