Valete Omnes!

My dear Friends, Followers and Favourites,

The time has, alas, come to say goodbye. Just over a year ago I knew nothing of weblogging. Indeed, I barely new how to open the computer. Encouraged by those close to me, I began to write my garden journal, always promising myself that I should do so for a year.

The year has quickly come and gone and I now feel that I can no longer give the time to write my postings, to respond to the many, many comments and, most importantly, to read and enjoy your wonderfully varied and interesting writings. I shall, I know, miss you all dreadfully and thank you from the bottom of my heart for all of your kindnesses and support. I wish you much happiness and success in the future. A very happy and peaceful Easter to you all.

Edith

If It's Tuesday,It Must Be Belgium

Yesterday I found myself taking coffee at Bruxelles-Nord. This station, one of three serving the capital, and built in a somewhat monolithic style during the 1950s was, I felt, looking decidedly scruffy. But not so the surrounding area which, over the past ten years or so, has been transformed into the City's vibrant business centre.

Here steel and tinted glass are the order of the day. Office block after office block pushes upwards to form an expansive skyline in what was, not so many years ago, a down at heel, tawdry, red light district. Today, on the ground, dingy streets have been replaced with broad thoroughfares intersected with parks where avenues of trees geometrically cross and recross shady gravel walks and open areas of grass. Shallow pools of water, often serving as a black base to a building, and striking sculptures complete a picture of modern, twenty-first century commerce.

Belgium, a country too often overlooked, displays great style. Its countryside may, indeed, be unremarkable but its towns and cities, its parks and gardens all confirm the creativity of is people.

Bruges with its ancient houses, churches and canals is an acknowledged gem. So too are Gent and Antwerp. But what strikes me everywhere is the emphasis on excellent design, originality and innovation. Look at so many of the gardens of the suburbs of the towns. Here so often are to be found carefully considered structures in the form of immaculately clipped hedges of yew, beech and box, an alignment between house and garden, hard landscaping where the quality and restrained use of materials shines out, and planting in which consideration for colour, form and texture remains uppermost.

I recall a year or so ago a garden in Liege [although it may well have been another town] where box edged borders lining a flagged path leading to the hall door were massed with the arum-like spathes of Zantedeschia aethiopica. Now, for me, that says it all!

P.S. Today's picture is of the railway station, Bruxelles-Nord, as seen from across the lines.

P.P.S. My title refers to the well used expression employed against, but not unkindly, the somewhat stretched tourist who plans to see the greater part of Europe inside of a week!!

Lament for the Daisy

I love daisies in the lawn. J, my gardener/handyman, does not. And on this point, as with so many others where matters horticultural are concerned, I rather weakly give in to him. Staff, as we all know only too well, are not easily come by these days, in fact not since the War, and so, perforce, he, along with every cook and housemaid, must be accommodated.

Now, with these milder February days, J is once more engaged in lawn maintenance. In my view this is an expensive and unnecessary procedure; in his an essential aspect of the well cared for garden resulting in, as he never tires of telling me, the finest of swards.

I can see him now as I write, up and down, up and down, with the Allen 'Walkover' sprayer evenly and accurately applying a fine film of Moss Kill over the grass. Within the week this will be followed with a Weed and Feed, a treatment repeated each month, and at no little cost, until the autumn when some further wicked concoction will see us through the winter. No matter my protestations of the need to be 'green', 'organic', of 'global warming' and even of 'saving the earth', J is not to be diverted and so my dream of daisies, and daisy chains [to buttercups I dare not go], remains just that.

When it comes to lawn edges, that is an entirely different matter. At this point J and I are in complete agreement - an abhorrence of ragged, unkempt grass spilling over into the border. But here, dear Reader, please do recall I am in the heart of Maida Vale! No, a half moon edger, used sparingly, and a pair of well sharpened, long handled shears ensure that edges remain crisp and trim throughout the growing season.

But to return to flowers in the grass. At Highgrove, where HRH The Prince of Wales has, or certainly had, the most splendid of wild flower meadows, I am told, most reliably, that this is, or was, ploughed up and replanted each year. So much for that!

P.S. Today's image is of two parlour maids [doing precious little in my view] taken in London in 1939 at the outbreak of the Second World War.

Out of Town

Which of us does not enjoy a jolly? A day out, usually in the company of a good friend or friends, to some new, hitherto unexplored or, indeed, familiar place is, in my book, an excellent and uplifting way of countering these dark days of winter.

So it was that a week or so back, whilst staying with the ever engaging and delightful T and G in their Regency house in Brighton, that we motored along the coast and headed inland to that quintessentially English of villages, Alfriston.

Nestling within a fold of the Sussex Downs, the jewel of Alfriston must surely be the church of St. Andrew which, dating from around 1360, must qualify as one of the finest examples of the period, completed at one time and, unusually, without any major later additions.

Perched on a raised mound and overlooking the village green, attractively name the Tye, St. Andrew's is of flint construction and built in the form of a Greek Cross at the centre of which is a tower and spire, supported from within by a series of lofty arches. Of interest in an interior surprisingly plain on account, or so the guidebook informs, of the absence of a grand house with attendant family memorials, are fine examples of sedilia [stone seats for the clergy] and piscina [a wash bowl for the priest].

Outside once more we inspected the nearby Clergy House, acquired by the National Trust in 1895 as their first property but closed to visitors for the winter, and then, at the boys' welcome suggestion, repaired to Dean's Place where we enjoyed an excellent luncheon.

The High Street, if such it is, contains a fascinating collection of mediaeval buildings,not least of which is the heavily beamed Star Hotel, now sadly disfigured with bills proclaiming room reductions and half price meals. Signs of the times!

Beyond the Star and tucked away in West Street is to be found the brainchild of two very enterprising Americans, Cate Olson and Nash Robbins, who, far from their native home, have established 'Much Ado Books'. This is a must for all bibliophiles for it represents two floors of new, old and antique books arranged amongst lamp lit tables, comfortable armchairs and objets d'art. A treasure trove indeed.

With the light fading, and rain setting in, we made haste for the motor car, passing en route the lighted windows of Rose Cottage, the home of Dennis Healey, former Chancellor of the Exchequer and lifetime politician.

P.S. The picture is of St. Andrew's Church, Alfriston, Sussex taken from the Tye.

A Woman of Substance

Strong women do not necessarily approach stridently. Some slip in silently, yet conquer utterly!

JG, a dear friend, died in the summer of 2007. Her funeral service, attended by so many friends and well wishers, was a celebration of the life of a remarkable woman. Held in the parish church of St. Peter in the village of Peterchurch, Herefordshire on a hot July afternoon, it was a fitting tribute to a person of immense generosity and great individual style. Included in the order of service were readings from Psalm 90 and Wordsworth's 'Lines Composed Above Tintern Abbey', the latter beautifully read by the actor CG. Sir RS in 'A Remembrance' recalled for us some of the many of JG's eccentricities whilst three anthems, including Mozart's 'Ave Verum Corpus', were sung by the celebrated diva, MM.

But I knew JG best as a plantswoman, gardener and breeder of rare sheep and bantams. She was also, by profession, a picture restorer whose work was almost entirely with the National Gallery and the Royal Collection. She was the only person I have ever known who could accurately boast of a Titian in the tool shed.

At her home, Wellbrook Manor, described by Pevsner in 'The Buildings of England' as "one of the best surviving examples of a C14 hall house" she, together with her late husband, G, made an exceptional garden redolent with a sense of history and place. Always a joy to her, her yew hedges and topiary specimens leant to the garden the air of the antique. Her climbing and shrub roses, lovingly and carefully cultivated, were of the oldest varieties. Her box edged potager became home to all manner of unusual and interesting vegetables whilst from the orchard trees lines of washing floated over swathes of lavender. Forever one to delight in the absurd, she named a large border sited directly beneath the dining room windows and principally filled with Salvia officinalis 'Purpurascens' and Allium aflatuense as her sage and onion bed.

That she should conceive the idea, research and then execute a grass labyrinth within the garden was typical of JG's untiring interest in the past. I treasure the memory of the two of us, barefoot, traversing the circles of this most unusual of garden features one cheerless February day, in a steady drizzle! No Candlemas [February 2nd.] passes without my recalling the occasion.

It is a mark of her unselfish approach to life that she willed her estate upon her death to the Vivat Trust. She is sadly missed by all who knew her, myself included.

P.S. My picture is of Wellbrook Manor, Herefordshire, formerly the home of JG and now the headquarters of the Vivat Trust. 

Is Everything Quite What It Seems?

Flights of fancy are second nature to me. Ordinary life can, rather too often in my view, be just that so I love nothing better than to daydream of yet to be visited foreign lands, to surf the virtual reality of the Blogosphere, or to lose myself in the latest book of a favourite author.

It is, perhaps, no surprise, therefore, that trompe-l'oeil has always held a fascination for me. I never cease to be amazed that, with paint alone, the eye can be deceived so completely. A technical tour-de-force, which can render flat surfaces three-dimensional, can produce space where none exists and can even bring alive whole scenes of people and places when they are but figments of the imagination.

Invented in antiquity, established by the Romans, named by the French, developed during the Renaissance and progressively perfected ever since, trompe-l'oeil has a deliberate intention to trick the eye, to fool to the point of confusion and to blur the boundaries of fantasy and reality. Such visual trickery can be remarkable, even breathtaking, when carried out well.

Occasionally, and most particularly on a Sunday, I like to lunch in the restaurant of the Tate Gallery. Not only does one eat well, but one may also escape into the imaginary world of 'Epicurania', an extensive and impressive trompe-l'oeil mural by Rex Whistler which, dating from 1927, covers the walls of the dining room. Collaborating with the novelist Edith Olivier, Whistler depicts the story of seven people on an 'Expedition in Search of Rare Meats'. On bicycles, carts and horses, the travellers pass through strange and wonderful lands, encountering unicorns, truffle dogs and giant gluttons en route. The story ends with a joyful homecoming, the diet of dry biscuits having been replaced with all manner of exotic foods gathered along the way.

At Plas Newydd, on the Island of Anglesey, Whistler was commissioned by the Marquess of Anglesey in the period between the wars to paint a mural for the dining room. This magnificent optical illusion must count as his greatest work. Highly realistic, meticulous with its attention to detail, witty yet serious, this is a glorious tribute to the art of trompe-l'oeil and to a great British artist killed tragically young whilst on active service in Normandy in 1944.

And so I ponder, should my Budapest entrance hall be transformed in the manner of Francesco Borromini's C17 arcaded gallery in the Palazzo Spada in Rome? Or, should my somewhat dull wardrobe doors be restyled as Jackie Kennedy's dressing room in the 1970s? Or, indeed, should my garden pavilions be painted with the most prized collection of potted orchids, alive and in bloom for all time? Such is the stuff of which dreams are made!

P.S. Today's picture, depicting a self portrait of the artist Rex Whistler, shows a small corner of the mural in the dining room of Plas Newydd.

P.P.S. Thank you to so many readers who left such kind and generous comments for me during my extended Christmas break.

Christmas 2010

As the year draws to an end I should like to thank you all, dear friends and followers, for your support during my first year of weblogging.

May I take this opportunity of wishing you all a joyful Christmas  and a peaceful New Year.

I shall look forward to resuming commenting and posting early in 2011.

P.S. The 'Madonna and Child' is by Barbara Hepworth  and is to be found in the Church of St. la, the Parish Church of St. Ives, Cornwall. It is a memorial to her son, Paul Skeaping, who was killed in an air crash in 1953.