Sunday 21st May 2023

I’ve been very busy lately - not really getting a minute, to be honest. Committee and board meetings, getting the garden ready, chivvying the boy along during his study leave and exams, and a wee building project happening, on top of the myriad of everyday things that need attention. It’s easy to get overwhelmed when you are on you own.

But then, a bout of covid brought a halt to all the busy-ness, as it does. Just me, fortunately. The boy, having finished his exams was able to fend for himself, and so we waved to each other at a distance. He has just started getting over long-covid, and neither of us want to go there again.

So, a week off - all commitments dropped, except to myself. Rest, fluids, more rest, more fluids, a few pages of reading, a few rows of knitting and more trash TV than I have watched for a long time. I stayed away from Church today, just in case, but I definitely feel as if I am on the mend.

This morning was warm and sunny. Everything here is still so very green, with just a few pops of colour here and there, but you can sense that summer is straining at the leash. I took my coffee out to the patio and read the May chapter in Ronald Blythe’s last collection of meditations on his life, faith and community. His writing is simply wonderful - I can’t say anymore about it than that. The entries for each day are short, but I was led down so many rabbit holes, as he invariably mentions a person or event sends me to the search engine on my phone to explore further.

He quoted a line from a poem which had me looking up the Amercian poet, Robert Lowell. The name seemed so familiar that I fancied there might be a book of his poems in the house. I popped back in to check and soon emerged, triumphantly with the slim volume - and another coffee. Interesting man and life, but not very happy, by the sounds of things. His poems feel quite bleak, as post war poetry can be.

Blythe describes watching a tv interview with writer Muriel Spark , aired not long after her death. I remember watching it too. I felt a connection with him - as I did when he remembered his grandmother being horrified when he brought a bunch of lilac blossoms into the house. My mother had the same superstition, and I feel consternation when I see all those jars full of lilac flowers on instagram kitchen tables and window sills

Further on, I downloaded an image of John Constable’s painting of The Ascension, currently hanging in St Mary’s Church, Dedham, Suffolk, and listened, on Spotify to the Choir of Kings College Cambridge sing Hubert Parry’s anthem, I Was Glad. The latter is having a bit of a moment, after featuring in King Charles’s Coronation, but it has always been a favourite Psalm of mine.

The lushness of Blythe’s prose stayed with me most of the day. It is so nourishing. Quite enabling too, as later on, inspired by his description of watching the cow parsley flowers wave in the breeze outside his kitchen window as he did his washing up, I ordered a jumbo packet of seeds from ebay.

So, anyway, that’s where I’ve been, and where I am. I never mean to stay away for so long, but - life, and all that. Priorities - priorities.

Daffodil Days

We are knee deep in daffodils here. As the rest of the Northern Hemisphere moves on to the pink and lilac hues of the later season, we are still firmly ensconced in the bright yellow mantle of early Spring.

Daffodils are a symbol of hope and renewal - one of the first splashes of colour to appear in the garden, reminding us that life is reawakening after the Winter rest.

They were my husband’s favourite flower. He always claimed that the most important times of his life seemed to happen when the daffodils were in bloom. Career changes, passing his driving test, falling in love, getting married, moving home - all these life events were played out against a golden backdrop

When he was diagnosed with cancer, we thought he would have maybe two or three years left with us. That first autumn, I planted bulbs all over the garden, in places he would see from the window, and he talked about how many more daffodil seasons he would see. It became almost a touchstone for him.

In the end, he only saw one more daffodill time. As the little clumps of yellow, planted in hope, just a few short months earlier, began to punctuate the flower beds, I supplemented them with supermarket bunches for the house.

I found a pretty crystal vase in the charity shop, and I remember his delight when I first placed it, filled with those shop blooms, on the table by his chair. Just a simple thing, but it brought a moment of joy and light into those dark times.

Six daffodil seasons have rolled around since then, and many more bulbs have been planted around the garden and on the verge outside the gate. I even have a cutting bed, specifically for the house, although there are many wind casualties that find their way inside too. I think it’s fair to say I am now self-sufficient in daffodils.

And as I go around, gathering extravagant armfuls to fill vases around the house, I feel privileged to enjoy such an abundance of beauty. If, as Wordsworth wrote:

One daffodil is worth a thousand pleasures…

then I am rich indeed.

The Romans apparently planted daffodils in remembrance of loved ones, and it’s easy to see why. Their cheerful resilience is the epitome of hope emerging from the dark. A signal that life continues and expands. But still, that first bouquet of the year is always placed in that crystal vase; I see the beauty and simplicity - and I remember John.

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Spring Stories

Spring always seems to be a slow process here. It begins with the return of the light, just after the New Year. Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, but within a couple of weeks, the days are undeniably longer. Soon, we are hurtling towards the Equinox and beyond, and the living room fire is unlit more often than not.

Yet the weather takes it’s time. Oh yes there are those beautiful days - days where I can smell the new growth, and feel the promise of the seasons to come in the sun on my face. But there are many more, at this time of year, when the Spring feels as far away as November. Gusting winds, gales, hail showers and seemingly endless rain.

It feels as if nothing will ever grow again, but of course it does. Even as I peer out of the salt sprayed windows and the wintry croft, I know that the bulbs are pushing up, and the frogspawn is appearing in the ponds.

And when I dash outside, between the showers, I can find the drumstick primroses in their familiar spot and check on the tadpoles’ development. I can harvest the wild garlic and young nettle tops to make a Spring pesto, and rescue the daffodils flattened by the wind.

The pesto is simple enough to make. I gathered colander full of wild garlic leaves, spring nettle tops, parsley and chives. Or whatever you can find. (If you don't have much, or any wild garlic, add a couple of cloves of garlic.)
2- 3 good tablespoons of toasted pine nuts.
3 tablespoons pecorino or parmesan type cheese.
Olive oil - 2-4 tablespoons, depending on the consistency you want.
Salt
Blanch the nettles quickly and rinse the other greens. I give them a good couple of whirls in the salad spinner.
Toast the pine nuts
Grind them coarsely with in a mortar and pestle.
Add the grated cheese and greens.
(I usually blast the green stuff in the food processor, then add the pulp to the mortar but you can do this all in the blender if you prefer)
Add salt to taste.
Mix in the olive oil.

I used some of it to make this Spring pesto sourdough (recipe here). It is very delicious and this is the second year I’ve made it- I think that counts as a seasonal tradition, don’t you?

Incidentally, I’ve managed to keep my original lockdown starter going for over a year now. It’s been touch and go a couple of times, but it’s still hanging on in there. Much like the rest of us in these strangest of days.

Croft Notes

The township stands on a high headland, bordered on three sides by the long curving fingers of the sea loch. The croft itself is just under four and a half acres. It comprises of two narrow fields running West/East - the top field being fairly level, and the second sloping down towards the big communal drain that runs along the bottom fence.The ground is decent, although there is a boggy area near the bottom. There are the remains of the original blackhouse in the second field, and evidence of runrigs can be seen running down the slope from the dwelling.The top field is quite exposed, with the prevailing wind coming over from the South West, - almost directly from the Atlantic, while the bottom field has slightly more protection due to it’s sloping nature.

The land has not been cultivated for many years, but has been used for grazing livestock. Readers of my old blog may remember our sheep and cattle adventures, and the previous crofter ran sheep here for decades.

Since I took over the land, I planted a shelter belt of about 400 native trees down the south boundary fence of the top field. Eighteen months on, they have taken well, with very few losses, More recently I planted a much larger area of woodland at the bottom of the croft, in the marshy area - mostly alder, birch and willow. I also had a large pond dug, to help with the drainage issues there. It’s still early days, but most of the trees are looking good. I’ve lost maybe about a dozen to what I think is wind damage, exacerbated by the hard plastic of the vole guards that were placed over the saplings. Some of them seem to be growing back from the bottom, but others have not. I’t’s definitely a work in progress.

In the top field, up near the road, I’ve had a large 12 x 4 metre polycrub built. This is an amazing space and will make a huge impact on what I can grow here.My plan is to grow mainly fruit and tomatoes here, with room for a few extras. I already have a 6 mtr one at the side of the house, so I know how invaluable such a structure is in this climate. This smaller crub will be mainly for year round greens, salads and herbs, and sweetcorn in the summer. I’m also planning to have some raised beds put in at the side of the new crub, and take advantage of the shelter by planting fruit trees in the lee side. A potting shed is also in the works, so all in all that should give me a really good productive area. I’m not discounting a wee croft gate stand for the excess.

The grass has not been grazed for a couple of seasons, but will be cut, hopefully at the end of August. I was reluctant to have it done earlier, because I know there are nesting birds, as well as at least one corncrake. Once this is done, I am hoping to manage part of the land as a wildflower meadow, and another part as habitat for ground nesting birds. And more trees - oh and maybe another pond - and… well who knows what else? it seems every time I go out there the ideas flow.

Its taken me five years to work out what I want to do with this land - or maybe (and more likely) for this land to work out what it wants to do with me. I hope I’m worthy. Watch this space.

Dectectorists

One of the TV programmes that was streamed on BBC during lockdown was Dectectorists. A gentle comedy about the lives of two men whose hobby is metal detecting. It’s very low key, subtle stuff. Not laugh out loud, in your face type of funny, but understated and beautifully observed. It’s about looking for gold, and finding it in unexpected places. I watched all three series over the course of a couple of weeks. I loved it. The theme tune haunts me still.

And now a lovely book has been published - Landscapes of Detectorists. This is a real academic book, but it’s very readable. It contains four short geographical interpretations of the programme, with additional essays by the writer/lead actor, and the producer. It’s a genuinely informative book and exactly the kind of non- fiction writing that I like. (I might have more to say on that in a future post.)

Apart from making me want to rush off and buy a metal detector and get out there, both the book and the series have made me look at my own landscape in a different way. The idea, in one of the essays about the land being a palimpsest is just so wonderful. I know it’s an obvious one, but we don’t always notice what’s on our own doorstep. I live in this amazing ancient landscape - the layers of story written by the successive generations of people that have lived here for at least 5,000 years is there to be seen - if I take the time to look for it.