Picturesque

Look on yonder earth.....

According to Wikipedia: in England the word picturesque, meaning literally in the manner of a picture; fit to be made into a picture, was a word used as early as 1703 (Oxford English Dictionary), and derived from French pittoresque and the Italian pittoresco. William Gilpin's Essay on Prints (1768) defined picturesque as a term expressive of that peculiar kind of beauty, which is agreeable in a picture.....

We have been revelling in this year's glorious explosion of flowers.  Following on from a trip to imbibe the beauty of the bluebells in Ashridge Forest, we have slipped south, across the Thames, to sip the delights of Sussex....

Not before, however, a glimpse of the walled garden at Houghton Hall, which lies just a few miles from our Norfolk village.

I am not going to attempt to name everything, partly for fear of error, but also as many names have little to do with the soul of the plant.  This one, for example, might be called Gold Dust, but then it could be Chandelier, or Grand Perfection.....  To me it is the extraordinary unfolding of the mystery that attracts - not what someone chose to list it as in the catalogue.

And this pink beauty could be Gabriella, or Garden of Clusius, but then maybe not, and does it matter?

But I do know what this is, and I wish you could breathe the perfume as well..... Wisteria, a wonderful climbing vine with cascades of lilac racemes (though, sadly, the one over my front door has not yet reached maturity - seed-grown plants can take 15 or more years to flower, and you have to prune them correctly....)

And look how it frames these potted tulips - a display to melt anyone's heart.

Anyway, below the Thames we visit several gardens.  The archetypal picturesque of Scotney Castle (where that much-loved aesthete Mrs T used to holiday) is ablaze with rhododendrons, azaleas and kalmias:

I shall leave you to put your own names to these - it is quite literally mind-blowing, though the restrictions of two dimensions, the lack of a gentle breeze across the screen and the absence of scent all diminish the pleasure (a little):

Next stop is Charleston, long-time home of Duncan Grant and Vanessa Bell and several of their children and friends (Bloomsberries). This modest farmhouse is filled with works of art and craft, of which I may wax illiterate on another occasion, but the gardens are just pure joy:

Though some might find there are too many purple passages (the passion flower may be resting):

Not far away, we climb the 217 metres to the top of Firle Beacon, from where the views south to the English Channel and north across the Weald are stunning. While the domesticated flowers of managed gardens can be thrilling, the breeze-brushed carpet of mixed wild flowers and grasses here quite takes our breath away.....

Then to Farley Farm, the post-war home of Roland Penrose and Lee Miller. Again, I intend to tell more of the story here at a later date, but just look at this riotous border:

And imagine this rose:

Then, all too soon, we are back home, where the lilacs catch the morning sun:

Later, I walk through Lodge Hill woods, where the invasive rhododendron has it moments of glory:

And the rowan trees shake their delicate blossoms over my head:

It's all too quick.  Only the other day it was dark in the morning and the world was forty shades of grey.  Now I cannot but tread over the daisies, their sunny little faces smiling at me as I trample by:

And before you know it, Spring has Sprung, and the flowers have done their job and seed heads catch the light before being blown every which-way by the air:

Laying down the gossamer tissue in Itchycoo Park that will be woven into tomorrow's world......

 

It's all too beautiful

It's all too beautiful

It's all too beautiful

It's all too beautiful

The Picturesque at Scotney Castle

                            Look on yonder earth:

The golden harvests spring; the unfailing  sun

Sheds light and life; the fruits, the flowers, the trees,

Arise in due succession; all thing speak

Peace, harmony, and love. The universe,

In nature's silent eloquence, declares

That all fulfil the words of love and joy, - 

All but the outcast man.

Percy Bysshe Shelley

from Queen Mab

*****

Red Roses for You

*****

With very many thanks to all those who have made a donation to my Thames Path Walk (which starts next Wednesday) in memory of my wife Amanda, here is a link to my Just Giving page for anyone who might be tempted to support the National Brain Appeal:

https://www.justgiving.com/page/richard-gibbs-8?utm_medium=FR&utm_source=CL&utm_campaign=lc_frp_share_transaction_fundraiser_page_donation_received_-_nth_donation

An Autumn Statement

It's All Too Beautiful!

 

Go, sit upon the lofty hill,
And turn your eyes around,
Where waving woods and waters wild
Do hymn an autumn sound.

The Autumn

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Gideon Oliver Osborne, aka George Osborne, aka Chancellor of the Exchequer, may think he’s a clever bunny, burying poisonous nuts in his Autumn Statement, but he was five years old before the first such statement was made…. The duty of the Exchequer to report twice yearly was introduced by the Industry Act 1975.  In tandem with The Budget, this statement was indeed first called the Autumn Statement, but then from ’93 – ’96 it was the Summer Statement, then from ’97 – 2009 it was the Pre-Budget Report. In 2010, however, with the support of the Office of Budget Responsibility, Georgie renamed it The Autumn Statement. 

It’s not as if there’s always been such a chalice.  It’s not as if we have to drink from his benighted cup….

But, with baited (sic) breath we await November 25^th for his beneficence…..

And I cannot but connect this with the acrid tang of death that November brings:

The month of the drowned dog…..

The Keeper’s gibbet had owls and hawks

By the neck, weasels, a gang of cats, crows:

Some stiff, weightless, twirled like dry bark bits

In the drilling rain. some still had their shape,

Had their pride with it; hung, chins on chests,

Patient to outwait these worst days that beat

Their crowns bare and dripped from their feet.

Ted Hughes

November

 

Forgive me!  I love Autumn.  The sighs of plucked fungi; the chiselling teeth of squirrels; the clatter of magpies and football rattles of jays; the stinging rasp of bonfire fumes….  I love the crimson splash of spilt roadkill, the cyan bite of dying leaves, the fogs that cleave to the sleepy hollows….  

And the colours....

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?

Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find

Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind….

John Keats

Ode to Autumn

I love the change of seasons, the pepper and salt of days.  I don’t mind the coming of death: 

One watches for signals of wreck or war

From the hill afar,

On whom the rain comes down.

An Autumn Rain-Scene

Thomas Hardy

Nor the vague promise of rebirth:

For the night, with a great breath intaken,

Has taken my spirit outside

Me, till I reel with disseminated consciousness,

Like a man who has died.

At the same time I stand exposed

Here on the bush of the globe,

A newly-naked berry of flesh

For the stars to probe.

The Dolor of Autumn

D H Lawrence

It’s all too beautiful!

Over bridge of sighs

To rest my eyes in shades of green

Under dreamin' spires

To Itchycoo Park, that's where I've been

Itchycoo Park

The Small Faces

(Ronnie Lane & Steve Marriot)

Though, actually, for my particular Autumn Statement I went to Tring Park, where, courtesy of the Woodland Trust, the avenue of limes was bathed in floods of surreal colour, and children sparkled with leds and toasted marshmallows.  As the sky drained from blue to black, a vast moon dragged itself above the horizon…..

What did you do there?

I got high

What did you feel there?

Well I cried

But why the tears there?

I'll tell you why

It's all too beautiful….

Etcetera (etcetera etcetera)

So.  My Autumn Statement is this:

Don’t believe everything you see,

You can't tell how it may appear to others.

Don’t believe everything you hear,

There are those who live by the lie,

But love the world around you,

It’s all (too) beautiful. 

(Peace and love, man... Ed.)

So.  Whatever George has in store....

Come autumn's scathe -- come winter's cold --
Come change -- and human fate!
Whatever prospect Heaven doth bound,
Can ne'er be desolate.

The Autumn

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Drive on!