By way of an intermission

Walking to Sunny Hunny....

Only a couple of weeks ago there was a sea of camomile on the Marsh.....

Now look at it:

Parched.

I walk through a landscape of drought; a savannah of sorts....

Already deeply into autumn:

And dry..... so very dry.....

Even the sea holly - designed to resist arid extremes  - is struggling.....

I blame that busy old fool, the unruly sun......  

Whose coy attempt to hide behind the moon the other day left me blinded by his aura.....

(Though I did catch him out in March 2015, on the shores of Sutherland.....)

Anyway. Onward, toward Sunny Hunny, as Hunstanton likes to be known, though yesterday a blanket of cloud wrapped the esplanade in uncharacteristic gloom:

There's little demand for ice cream today:

And it's not too hot to run:

Or cycle:

Or stand and stare [What is this life?  Ed]:

Or walk the dogs:

Or just to walk:

Or may be not .....

The British seaside, at its finest.  Sunny Hunny. 

 

Everyone (including the bikers)'s favourite.....

Ah yes.  The seaside [Where we do like to be beside?  Ed].....

Yes..... But....

I must go down to the sea again, to the lonely sea and the sky;

I left my shoes and socks there — I wonder if they're dry?

Spike Milligan

Water Water

Every Grain of Sand

There is irony in the fact that I live within walking distance of the sea, where the tides wash up and down twice every day, and water is plentiful, but my garden, and my allotment, are parched.  

It is beautiful here, in north-west Norfolk, at any time of year, with miles of sandy beaches, naturally occurring dunes and an abundance of wildlife.

And even in the heat of summer, during the peak holiday period, there is space, even, sometimes, no one else to be seen.....

Or if there is someone, they may just be a dot on the horizon....

Water, water, every where, 

And all the boards did shrink; 

Water, water, every where, 

Nor any drop to drink.

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

A de-salination plant would be an eye-sore.  But, perhaps, it could help with these hot dry summers.  It could help with irrigation of the fields that are now burned and dead.....

Oh, the flowers of indulgence and the weeds of yesteryear

Like criminals, they have choked the breath of conscience and good cheer

The sun beams down upon the steps of time to light the way

To ease the pain of idleness and the memory of decay

Every Grain of Sand

Bob Dylan

It is great to swim here.  The water is clean and fresh, the zing of salt a zesty seasoning to life.....

And these days even the clouds are warm, and dry.  Water vapour that tantalisingly will not condense and precipitate.....

I gaze into the doorway of temptation's angry flame

And every time I pass that way I'll always hear my name

Then onward in my journey I come to understand

That every hair is numbered like every grain of sand

Every Grain of Sand

Bob Dylan

The shores are littered with the remains of life. Here a variety of shells, deposited at the high-water mark, await the grinding process that will turn them into sand.....

And here a harmless Moon Jelly lies stranded on the shingle, to slowly evaporate to nothing before the next tide flows back.....

Sometimes the weather looks to change, the clouds angrily torn by the sun.....

But it doesn't deter the lovers on the beach, and nothing comes of the falsity of hope.....

The Sun came up upon the left, 

Out of the sea came he! 

And he shone bright, and on the right 

Went down into the sea.

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

And then, as the day draws to a close, the colours intensify, and the heat abates.....

Sometimes the sun just gleams across The Wash....

On other evenings there is bruising and blood stain....

And sometimes the water is pewter and the sky a furnace.....

I feel insignificant before all this grandeur.....

I hear the ancient footsteps like the motion of the sea

Sometimes I turn, there's someone there, other times it's only me

I am hanging in the balance of the reality of man

Like every sparrow falling, like every grain of sand

Every Grain of Sand

Bob Dylan

These pictures were not all taken this month (though they were taken this year), but all of them are from the Norfolk coast between Snettisham and Cley.....

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