Red October

 

Echinacea

"October is a bonus, as the days can be warm and the sun hazy.  It is important to have late flowers to sustain the bees for as long as possible, so keep the garden going.

The preponderance of golden-yellows gives any rich, dark-red flowers an ornate presence, like garnets in an old gold Victorian ring."

Val Bourne writes about October in 'The Ten-Minute Gardener's Flower Growing Diary.'

A couple of poems from my favourite rural writers -

In thy dull days of clouds a pleasure comes,

Wild music softens in thy hollow winds,

And in thy fading woods a beauty blooms

That's more than dear to melancholy minds.

from 'To Autumn' by John Clare

Digging

Today I think

Only with scents, - scents dead leaves yield,

And bracken, and wild carrot's seed,

And the square mustard field;

Odours that rise

When the spade wounds the root of tree,

Rose, currant, raspberry, or goutweed,

Rhubarb or celery;

The smoke's smell too,

Flowing from where a bonfire burns

The dead, the waste, the dangerous,

And all to sweetness turns.

It is enough

To smell, to crumble the dark earth.

While the robin sings over again

Sad songs of Autumn mirth.

Edward Thomas

While the sun shone this weekend I have been doing plenty of digging.  And dividing, moving, weeding, mulching and admiring. Taking short coffee and radio breaks, then back to it.  This is me being occupied, useful, happy.

I was struck by how much red there was in the garden ,sadly a distinct lack of berries which I hope to put right for next year. 

Here's what's 'red hot' right now...

'Spartan' blueberry

the strawberry leaves

Acer

fallen Acer leaves

Dogwood

'Littleton Red' chrysanthemum

cut chrysanths and viburnum indoors

I'll end with some words from Wassily Kandinsky on the language of colour... in this instance, red.

"The unbounded warmth of red rings inwardly with a determined and powerful intensity.  It glows in itself, maturely, and does not distribute its vigour aimlessly.

In music, it is a sound of trumpets,strong, harsh and ringing.

Vermillion is a red with a feeling of sharpness, like glowing steel which can be cooled by water."

More from the garden soon :)

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Bees in my Bonnet

I get a lot of these.  Not the gentle furry type but the aggressive and persistent ones. 

 This is a new aspect of my post-2010 self (2010 being the year I found myself in a dark steep-sided valley without a torch or compass and realised I was lost).

These bees take many forms, the one constant is how noisy and distracting they are.  They are always about a thing I think I might need, something positive and beneficial that I am convinced is going to help - maybe even bring about a change for the better.

Most recently it was to get a good quality warm and waterproof coat, so I wouldn't be thwarted by autumn weather when I need to garden or go for a walk.  This in turn triggered a bee about wellies to replace my split ones so I can get in amongst the plants and not wreck my flip flops.

One bee always seems to cause another.

I find it hard to sit down and do nothing 'cos of the hive of pressing things I 'have' to do.  The most annoying bee is the one that won't let me make a coffee or pick up my knitting or go outside until I've tidied the kitchen, put everything out of sight and wiped the surfaces down so it's clear of mess.  It will sting unbearably if I don't.

a fetching bonnet...

 

 

 

a proper bonnet!

a "mum, how could you?!" bonnet

Gardening in the Head

I dislike myself a lot less whan I'm gardening, I shed the self-criticism and constant nagging.  It's the one activity I feel confident about doing and can become absorbed to the point of disappearing (like Moominmamma did in the garden mural she painted on the kitchen wall).

the lovely Moominmamma

It's so easy to garden in your head, anytime, anyplace, anywhere. Endless possibilities and planning keep the mind busy in a good way.

The garden in my head is on a scale that gets bigger and bigger - unlike my real one.  I have a virtual allotment that tend to regularly; I have bonfires there, no end of tools, a wheelbarrow and water butt, bays of compost and leafmould.

In my head there is space for every plant and tree I would like to grow.  A woodland area with fruit trees and shade, under- planted with wild cyclamen, winter aconite and ferns. It smells fantastic.    

Winter Aconite

cyclamen

A meadow of different grasses and native flowers for the bees, walls full of plants that have self-seeded in the nooks and crannies, with a growth of beardy and velvety mosses.

Tunnels of scented climbers and wild roses rambling through hawthorn hedges so there are berries for the birds.  Plenty of hazel for thumbsticks and plant supports.

Chinese Witch Hazel

Kermesina - a deep crimson clematis

autumn light

I have a wish list that grows whenever I skim the pages of a seed catalogue or visit a garden...

Bishop's Weed - I have just sown some seeds!

Hydrangea Paniculata Grandiflora - a colour changing beauty

 

I am making room in a sheltered spot for this

This witch hazel has a scent that is truly addictive

 Gardening in your head does mean you can take it with you and always have access to it.  You can go there and have a wander.

While the real-world garden is once again being battered by rain, the one in your head can be quiet and lit with low autumn light.

You lift the collar of your waxed coat (which is like a second skin) and put your hands deep into the pockets. The mulchy, leafy ground feels soft and springy under your new wellies.

 

NOT these kind of wellies...

...a real welly

Some imaginary gardens

Big thanks to the good fairy who left gardening magazines by my bed when I stayed at her house x x

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Setting sun

Ah Turner...his name has been mentioned a fair few times in these posts already but go with me.

At the weekend I had what felt like a rare experience.  Driving over the Yorkshire moors towards a vast sunset it struck me that I hadn't seen one for ages and September sunsets are something else.

It had been a warm clear day with plenty of blue in the sky, which was now so many golds and yellows and rich red - not scarlet but crimson.  It was like looking into a furnace, the light of which made the moor a hot pink colour.

Sunsets can and do invoke all manner of flowery language and purple prose yet I wasn't thinking poetry but painting.  The whole 'The Sun is God' thing, Turner's last words, as I watched the sun sink and the colours deepen then change.

The sky became even more unreal as the palest yellow was tinged with the faintest green.  All this taking place above the dark recognisable shape of Pendle Hill in the distance and all you can do is look, with a strange feeling that the heat in the sky is also inside you.  An affirmation that old JMW knew what he was talking about - and he was probably right.

 

So, dear readers, I am compelled to tell you that your last chance to see Turner's paintings for real in all their oil and linseed scented glory is imminent.

Go see them if you can.  I for one can look into his skies for a good long while in the same way I can be still and look at a plant and as I am doing this, everything stops.  In a world where everything constantly moves this is like a state of grace.

You will see so many skies and seas and sunsets.  Light and weather, smoke and storms, mood and melancholy.

As the sun was setting, one man kept raging against the dying of the light.

JMW Turner

'Turner Monet Twombly later paintings' is at Tate Liverpool at the Albert Dock until 28th October

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Away days

Well, my holiday feels a million miles away now and my plan was to post some pics sooner, but hey, that's life in the slow lane.

the ubiquitous red valerian

 "What I did on my holidays..."

Walking and knitting mostly, and incredibly, maybe 'cos of all the walking I managed to sleep.

Not every night and not always in bed, but some sleep is better than no sleep.  It was odd to be up in the morning without a buzz of tiredness in my head and taking ages to be able to think or speak.

Sadly the spell of salty sea-air and quiet peace was broken on arriving home.  This left me in a bit of a trough.

the beach at Bamburgh

view from the dune

 Horizontalis

I used to spend a lot of my childhood freedom going out then finding a good place to lie in long grass and cloud watch.  This taught me how being horizontal makes you part of the landscape in a different way than being vertical.  It was always a good way to leave yourself, it seemed, by looking into the sky.

I re-visited the feeling while lying on the edge of a dune with the sea breeze skimming over me.  I had to put a blanket over the spiky grass and was surrounded by soft sand but the sky was the same light blue with white clouds.

It didn't take long to achieve  a meditative calm filled only with awareness of what I could hear and feel, accompanied by the constant reassuring rhythm of the sea.

 

Then on the blue above me was a movement, but without sound, a kite.  While I watched it my awareness changed.  I had the feeling I was watching a film, a fiction, rather than something real.  I even began to imagine the music that would go with it.

Are we there yet?

A lot of years ago I was on the Isle of Skye trudging towards the Black Cuillins.  I say trudge because the ground was rough with the kind of sedges that slow your progress.

It's a tricky place for sure, with dimensions that don't seem to correspond to anything else you know.

After a while of being assaulted by clouds of midges issuing from the heather, and with legs already tightening, I realised I was being deceived by the distance.  The ground stretching before me seemed fairly level, until I got nearer.  There were so many dips and troughs I hadn't seen that it took a lot longer to cross and time began to get strange. After hours, the Cuillins looked as remote as they had when I set out.

A similar thing happened while walking along the coast towards Dunstanburgh Castle, with the sea on my right and sheep on my left, wind whipping right off the sea into me, finding every failing in my inadequate clothes.

It was pretty flat with a path worn by hundreds of previous feet, leading towards the ruined castle that was the only feature.  An impressive one at that, on the edge of the land facing out to sea.  Soon my right ear was like a shell with the sea roaring through it and weirdly, Dunstanburgh Castle appeared to be receding rather than getting any nearer.

A top tip...

'Something Understood' is a programme on Radio 4 based on readings and music relating to a particular subject.  Last week, poet Sean Street was considering what can be found in both silence and stillness.  I have listened to it twice, such are my radio listening habits! but if you missed it, or have not heard the programme before, I'd give this one a listen.

You'll hear some great music - 'In a Silent Way' by Miles Davis, Nielsen's 'Helios Overture', which the composer described as "Sunlight breaking the silence of darkness" and a temple bell in the mountains of Japan, resonating into silence.  Like the final notes in the last movement of Mahler's 9th, you follow them until you can't hear them anymore, but have no way of knowing when they ended and silence began.

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