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

Calendars for Charity

Clearance Sale!

Dear Friends,

I have a few copies of my 2026 calendars in stock and would love them to find homes.  I produced them to support the National Brain Appeal which is the charity associated with Queen Square London and the London Hospital for Neurology which did its best to help Amanda after her dementia diagnosis (and to support me and my family). 

These full colour A4 calendars were originally priced at £10 each, but since the year has started (though there still are over 11 months left in 2026.....) I am offering them at half price (£5), though I will have to add postage and packing if I need to post them....

The pictures were all taken in Norfolk but cover nature as well as local scenery and buildings.  They will still make nice gifts, but are decorative at the least.  Any contributions to this charity (and also to support the Friends of St Mary's Snettisham) are greatly valued.  Just contact me by email at richardpgibbs@aol.com

With very best wishes,

Richard

And here are a sample of the pictures:

This was the Queen's Station at Wolferton, near Sandringham:

Here is an Avocet, symbolic of the RSPB:

Castle Rising, near King's Lynn:

A Barn Owl early in our graveyard:

Dawn over poppy fields at Courtyard Farm, near Ringstead:

There are only a few copies left, so first come first served!

XXX

Self Portrait

To everything there is a.....

Season of Misses....

Walking by the Wash, I can almost feel the tug of that harsh mistress (Artemis, or Selene, sometimes known by other names) the moon, as she slips toward the west in the early light.  Even though she was at her fullest last Tuesday, in combination with the sun she still has the power to flood the world until it is out of its depth:

The moon's a harsh mistress

She's hard to call your own

Jimmy Webb

The Moon is a Harsh Mistress

(As sung by Joe Cocker)

This exceptionally high tide has driven flocks of waders to feed on the few remaining slips of beach, and feisty sanderling skip and splash as the waves splutter and suck.

Dunlin skim the wave tops in tight formation,

 

while turnstones, 

 

curlew and oystercatchers strut up and down at the water’s edge, less keen to get their feet wet.

A kestrel skims low across the waterless marsh, a dark shrew clamped in its talons.

Then a family of swans beat past, their necks stretched toward the shore,

and I remember Yeats at Coole:

Unwearied still, lover by lover,

They paddle in the cold

Companionable streams or climb the air;

Their hearts have not grown old;

Passion or conquest, wander where they will,

Attend upon them still.

W B Yeats

Wild Swans at Coole

On the lagoon thousands of knot are resting until the tide ebbs again, having performed their synchronised whirling for the morning crowd.  

I walk past a field where over a hundred curlew seem also to be taking a breather. I wonder what they are thinking? Which turns my thoughts around..... It seems only the other day that we swam off, and walked along, these beaches; where did the summer go?

And now there is no one - just empty shells; not even a footprint to show the tracks of time....

 

Then, across the grassy marsh the last camomile and ragwort still attract bumblebees and add some welcome colour,

but the cracked earth yearns for some consistent rain. Young greylag geese burst from the reeds alongside a still-wet drain as I approach, upset at my intrusion.

In the woods the Ken Hill Tamworths are rooting and snuffling, and the path is prickly here and crunchy there according to the mix of trees – now shedding their fruits:

sweet chestnuts, beech mast and acorns in vast quantities this year as the drought has triggered survival procedures.

 

The bracken is fading, although, having dropped redundant leaves earlier, most trees are still green, despite being torn by the wind.

It is a strangely slow autumn, though the poplars and the birch are beginning to turn, catching the low streaming light:

 

I stuff my pockets with crab apples from the hedgerow, to make delicate jelly:

and taste the few remaining blackberries,

though I leave the sloes,

and the rose hips for others with more patience. On the way home, avoiding fungi I don't recognise:

I pick a couple of parasol mushrooms: 

for an omelette lunch, and collect some of the larger chestnuts to boil with fennel seeds for afters. The season has its plenty and we are lucky that nature provides; it certainly is, as Keats would have it, a

Season of misses, and fellow moodfulness

However you see it:

Only lovers

see the fall

a signal end to endings

a gruffish gesture alerting

those who will not be alarmed

that we begin to stop

in order to begin

again.

Maya Angelou

Late October

And so I walk on upon this glorious autumn day, stealing images that hold the time, though time inevitably trickles on. As soon as the shutter clicks, the moment is gone, and the world turns, the moon falls, the dew evaporates and the day draws to night. It is what it is, and that is all there is to be said just now.....

Nature's first green is gold,

Her hardest hue to hold.

Her early leaf's a flower;

But only so an hour.

Then leaf subsides to leaf,

So Eden sank to grief,

So dawn goes down to day

Nothing gold can stay.

Robert Frost

Nothing Gold Can Stay

Questo è dedicato.....