when the ground is full of water

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 . . .

. . . 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 . . .

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

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.

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

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 . . .

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.

Friendly faces surround this site!

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

port of stranded pride

In Winchelsea, in a garden looking towards Rye, both ‘ports of stranded pride’ in the Romney Marsh landscape  as tagged by Rudyard Kipling. Years ago, in Roman and Norman times, both towns were ports where the sea washed this land.

I like the effect that the iphone pix have when fiddled with in instagram software  – just playing around, of course. Looking within and beyond the site, wondering what to do with it . . . noting the structure of the trees, hedging, spatial areas in the winter landscape. My knowledge of Winchelsea is just about OK but I thought to roam around the outlaying landscape to breathe in a little more  . . . .

. . .  down Monks Walk towards Wickham Manor Farm, the road passes under the New Gate. A flock huddled around the structure – looked interested and then quickly looked bored – picturesque nevertheless.  These pastures were owned by William Penn.  . . .and below is a wall of an almshouse. Stunning as a landmark now but humble as a piece of construction.

The views framed by the streetscape (horrible planners terminology) must have been fairly breathtaking before the arrival of the car and  vehicle parking  lining each street. I had to crop out the cars to get a feel of how things were – not much left but  . . .

. . .  attached to the gable of the Old Court Hall is an elaborate piece of metalwork that may have been a hoist or  . . . .

. . .  and the other major building standing slap bang in the middle of the town is the church – the new church as the previous  late 12C building was battered by high tides and, in the mid 13C, and finally destroyed by floods that changed the course of the river Rother. Edward 1 was instrumental in the siting of the ‘new town’. It remains unclear whether the arches that stand like wings were left incomplete or left to fall as ruins on this 2 acre site . . .  lovely stone from Normandy.

Spike Milligan lies here . . . somewhere  . . . in a graveyard surrounded by exquisite houses. I hope, and am completely sure, that the towns folk  follow his advise:

People who live in glass houses

Should pull the blinds

When removing their trousers. Spike Milligan

Humble head gently overseeing all who pass through the grounds. Some thoughts and experiences to ruminate on – useful and  thanks to the small town with a modest but well heeled character.

God gave all men all earth to love,

But since are hearts are small,

Ordained for each one spot should prove

Belovèd over all;

That, as He watched Creation’s birth,

So we, in godlike mood,

May of our love create our earth

And see that it is good.

So one shall Baltic pines content,

As one some Surrey glade,

Or one the palm-grove’s droned lament

Before Levuka’s Trade.

Each to his choice, and I rejoice

The lot has fallen to me

In a fair ground — in a fair ground —

Yea, Sussex by the sea!

No tender-hearted garden crowns,

No bosomed woods adorn

Our blunt, bow-headed, whale-backed Downs,

But gnarled and writhen thorn —

Bare slopes where chasing shadows skim,

And, through the gaps revealed,

Belt upon belt, the wooded, dim,

Blue goodness of the Weald.

Clean of officious fence or hedge,

Half-wild and wholly tame,

The wise turf cloaks the white cliff-edge

As when the Romans came.

What sign of those that fought and died

At shift of sword and sword?

The barrow and the camp abide,

The sunlight and the sward.

Here leaps ashore the full Sou’West

All heavy-winged with brine,

Here lies above the folded crest

The Channel’s leaden line;

And here the sea-fogs lap and cling,

And here, each warning each,

The sheep-bells and the ship-bells ring

Along the hidden beach.

We have no waters to delight

Our broad and brookless vales —-

Only the dewpond on the height

Unfed, that never fails —

Whereby no tattered herbage tells

Which way the season flies —

Only our close-bit thyme that smells

Like dawn in Paradise.

Here through the strong unhampered days

The tinkling silence thrills;

Or little, lost, Down churches praise

The Lord who made the hills:

But here the Old Gods guard their ground,

And, in her secret heart,

The heathen kingdom Wilfred found

Dreams, as she dwells, apart.

Though all the rest were all my share,

With equal soul I’d see

Her nine-and-thirty sisters fair,

Yet none more fair than she.

Choose ye your need from Thames to Tweed,

And I will choose instead

Such lands as lie ‘twixt Rake and Rye,

Black Down and Beachy Head.

I will go out against the sun

Where the rolled scarp retires,

And the Long Man of Wilmington

Looks naked towards the shires;

And east till doubling Rother crawls

To find the fickle tide,

By dry and sea-forgotten walls,

Our ports of stranded pride.

I will go north about the shaws

And the deep ghylls that breed

Huge oaks and old, the which we hold

No more than Sussex “weed”;

Or south where windy Piddinghoe’s

Begilded dolphin veers,

And black beside the wide-bankèd Ouse

Lie down our Sussex steers.

So to the land our hearts we give

Till the sure magic strike,

And Memory, Use and Love make live

Us and our fields alike —

That deeper than our speech and thought,

Beyond our reason’s sway;

Clay of the pit whence we were wrought

Yearns to its fellow clay.

God gave all men all earth to love,

But since are hearts are small,

Ordained for each one spot should prove

Belovèd over all;

Each to his choice, and I rejoice

The lot has fallen to me

In a fair ground — in a fair ground —

Yea, Sussex by the sea!   Rudyard Kipling  Sussex

les vignes et Caussiniojouls

Many vineyards stretch between this  hameau and Caussiniojouls. Many paths meander through this landscape offering varied experiences. All paths, verges and areas of vegetation are now filled with flowering Bupleurm – small umbels of lime green attracting butterflies and other insects with wings. Clematis flammula  –  frothy and white – is still flowering after a month – lovely to see it spread across the ground like a white lacy cloth  . . .  

 . . .  just after taking this photo, a hare appeared on the path and stopped, stricken with shock at seeing a human, before bounding away.

Beautiful, strong and now, sound stone work on the Château walls. It’s in the process of restoration . . . .

 . .  12C buildings with a 18-metre high castle keep that dominates the area.

Le chat du Château?

Some areas of the village have received the seed sown wild flower mix – decorative but nothing like the natural verges . .

 . .   the odd althea (hollyhock) seeded as village merges with the vines. Just after taking this photo another hare leapt across the path. Two hares – surely that is lucky?

At the eleventh hour he came,
But his wages were the same
As ours who all day long had trod
The wine-press of the Wrath of God.

When he shouldered through the lines
Of our cropped and mangled vines,
His unjaded eye could scan
How each hour had marked its man.

(Children of the morning-tide
With the hosts of noon died,
And our noon contingents lay
Dead with twilight’s spent array.)

Since his back had felt no load ,
Virtue still in him abode;
So he swiftly made his own
Those last spoils we had not won.

We went home delivered thence,
Grudging him no recompense
Till he portioned praise of blame
To our works before he came.

Till he showed us for our good–
Deaf to mirth, and blind to scorn–
How we might have best withstood
Burdens that he had not born!  Rudyard Kipling The Vineyard