Garden notes: On a June evening, after work

It took me a while to drop off last night (longer than a minute) and so I passed the time quite pleasantly compiling an A-Z of plants in our garden. I think I got as far as P, and then John was bringing me my cup of tea and it was time to get up.

Later, while I was watering the pots and enjoying a little post-work deadheading, I remembered my list, and wondered whether it could actually be done.  I started looking around in the beds, consciously naming as well as seeing. So much of my restorative time in the garden is spent in a purely sensual world – all those smells, the unexpected nettle stings, that green. I don’t often see a lily and think, lily. I’m not entirely sure what I do think, but it isn’t that. Probably, pesky lily beetles.

A short while later, while eating our tea, I laid the challenge at the children’s door. Some letters were easy, and had everyone promoting their own top choice – all those Cs, for instance. Others were a little more challenging, but this is what we came up with:

apple and ash trees (it’s going to be a good year for the Cox’s Orange Pippins) :: borage (for the bees, and tomato salads) :: courgettes (or cucumbers, or cosmos, or…) :: daffodils (no, damsons, said Seb) :: e… e…? (Japanese anemones! cried Ilse. No, I told her, that begins with an a. Oh, she said, just spell it with an e. If you do it confidently, no-one will notice) enemones* :: freesias (my current love) :: garlic (geraniums, too – lots of geraniums) :: hellebores, and hostas, and a rather lovely climbing hydrangea that hides a corner of the garage :: irises (Ilse’s, in her little garden under the lilac, and a rogue one that recently popped up where I’m sure I planted tulips) :: jasmine! cried Seb. No, we don’t have any jasmine, I said. Japanese enemones, then, said Ilse. Or Jerusalem fartichokes but, thinking about it, we do have some winter jasmine on one fence :: kale (hard to grow it without the slugs getting there first, though. Remarkably frustrating for such an easy plant) :: lilac, and lilies, and leeks. Loads of lovely lettuces, too :: marigolds (the English sort, good for adding to nasturtium pesto amongst other things) :: nasturtiums (which have self-seeded everywhere, and which I keep pulling up in an attempt avoid being the birthplace of every single cabbage white in Yorkshire. Things got out of hand last year), and nettles, which I allow to grow in a patch at the very back, behind the tower, for the butterflies and other little beasts to feast upon. It repays me by trying to grow everywhere else, too) :: onions (red and white, and of the spring variety) :: parsnips, and peas (mange tout and sweet) :: queen anne’s lace (or something very similar. It’s appeared next to my rambling rose, appropriately enough, because next up is…) :: rambling roses (and rhubarb, which will be united with said roses in a jam jar next weekend) :: spinach (with home laid eggs for breakfast, anyone? a current favourite) :: tulips (which were magnificent this year, lasting for ages in a pot on the patio) :: umbellifers (thank goodness for weeds) :: violas (I’ve just realised that I’ve planted pots and pots of violas in suffragette purple, green and white, which is a happy coincidence on this centenary) :: wisteria (oh my goodness, the wisteria. On a pergola, no less. If you squint it’s a bit like Enchanted April, only in May :: x… (look up a latin name, suggested Ben. So I did.) xanthoceras. And no, we don’t have any of that in the garden :: yorkist roses (an historical contribution from Fliss) :: zinnias. Oh, okay, they’re dahlias, really. But let’s pretend.

And even then, driving the middle two to scouts, we were still coming  up with more. Like nigella, and aquilegia, snowdrops and hawthorn and beans. We could probably do it all over again, if it wasn’t for the xyz.

Madeleine

* Elderflowers! shouted Ilse, from bed, quite a while after her light was turned out. Oh good, now we can all stop puzzling, and she can go to sleep.

PS How does your garden grow? Could you do an A-Z? Any suggestions for a better xyz for us? We thought about yew, but we don’t have one. (Nobody will know, said Ilse. Except Bapan. And he’s hardly going to leave a comment correcting you.)

PPS Should I be worried about Ilse?

Desert Island Discs: All Things Bright and Beautiful

Perhaps I’d better begin with an explanation; after all, not everyone lives their life with Radio 4 murmuring companionably in the background. Desert Island Discs is one of those programmes which has become an institution, a jewel in the crown of British broadcasting, a regular feature of Sunday mornings across the UK. Aired for the first time in 1942, the format is simple: a guest is invited onto the programme to talk about their life. The interview centres around a conceit – if you were going to be abandoned on a desert island, what music would you take with you? The guest has eight choices, and they usually dictate the structure of the interview, taking the audience through their early years, significant highs and lows, and important relationships. Finally, the guest is asked to select their favourite disc, choose a single book to take with them, and given the luxury item of their choice.

Now, call me a fantasist (though I prefer ‘imaginative’…) but I can’t be the only one who’s wiled away a sunny afternoon working out her own playlist. Sadly, I doubt that I’ll ever get to do the show for real, but it did occur to me that it would be the ideal way to tell you all a little bit more about myself, now that I am appearing on the blog alongside Cecily. So without further ado, can I ask you to make yourselves a cup of tea and get comfy, as I present my first disc to you.

I don’t remember very much about my early years. We lived in West Sussex, on the south coast of England, until I was five, at which point we moved to Dar es Salaam. I started school at around the time my younger sister was born, and remember little of it except two things.

One was the local nature walks, which I adored. Once a week we would put on our coats and form a crocodile, holding hands with our nature walk partner. I remember the hand holding very clearly (it must have been impressed upon us), and the leaves crunching underfoot in the autumn. I remember stopping to pick up flowers or insects, or admire the patterns on the bark of a tree. I could have sworn we walked through great woods every time, although it might only have been a spinney, grown large through childish eyes.

The other memory is of assemblies. As for countless schoolchildren before us, the day started cross-legged on a scuffed wooden floor, with some teacher or other banging out hymns on the piano. I liked this habit of starting the day with a song, but only one sticks in my mind. Once we moved, and went to a different sort of school, we didn’t sing hymns any more. We sang other songs instead: We are the World, and Mungu Ibariki Afrika. It was years before I heard All Things Bright and Beautiful again, but when I did, having been dragged to a teenage church service by a missionary friend, I was four years old again, and sitting on that primary school floor.

Now, let me be clear: All Things Bright and Beautiful is not one of my favourite songs. It isn’t even my favourite hymn. But it is so evocative of childish peace and wonder, so filled with anticipation about what I might bring back for the nature table, that I can’t think of anything I’d rather listen to as I make my first lonely forays around the desert island. So there you have it: the first of my eight discs. Not the finest music in the world, but the gateway to some of my earliest, most fleeting memories.

Madeleine

What about you? What piece of music would you choose to evoke your early years? Let me know in the comments – I’d love to hear!