Tuesday, 15 December 2009
Tuesday, 17 November 2009
In other places the garden persists in colour - the rose still going strong amid gales and downpours, now redundant terracotta pots resting until next Spring and the Holly, bright and green, and looking forward to it's time entwined with ivy above the big mirror in the Dining Room looking down on turkey and sprouts and mahogany shining in the candlelight. For now it hangs in glossy green bunches and little gatherings of bold, crimson berries.
Tuesday, 27 October 2009
Monday, 19 October 2009
Wednesday, 30 September 2009
Mornings like that are my ‘lacrosse mornings’ evoking ‘Back to School’ memories and early risings on Saturdays to stand, stick in hand, in red woollen socks, pleated kilt and an insubstantial t-shirt dashing around a newly hardened, bumpy ground in recently bought football boots warming up through dashes and sprints after the little yellow ball; orange squash, doughnuts and shopping.
The garden is tinged with Autumn; the tree tops dipped in umber, the lawns and furniture glazed with a slight dusting of frost; everything sparkling slightly against a blue sky and bright sun refusing to be moved.
Monday, 21 September 2009
Thursday, 27 August 2009
Monday, 24 August 2009
Tuesday, 18 August 2009
Did you not hear My Lady Go down the garden singing Blackbird and thrush were silent To hear the alleys ringing...
Oh saw you not My Lady Out in the garden there Shaming the rose and lily For she is twice as fair.
Though I am nothing to her Though she must rarely look at me And though I could never woo her I love her till I die.
Surely you heard My Lady Go down the garden singing Silencing all the songbirds And setting the alleys ringing...
But surely you see My Lady Out in the garden there Rivaling the glittering sunshine With a glory of golden hair.
I have visions of one of the early residents of this house doing just that, her white, empire line gown dragging behind her slightly on the grass.
Now, I'm not really one for reality but I should probably mention that they would be wearing something different in 1881 but perhaps there was another garden here on this site before. This has put me in mind to find out what was here before. Apparently the Bodleian Library in Oxford has some old maps of the neighbourhood dating from 1850 so they might give me a clue; from now on, I'm on the hunt...
Monday, 17 August 2009
Friday, 14 August 2009
Here he is again; this time lit by lovely Autumn sun last year and surrounded by vine leaves turning golden. A vine runs around the top of the patio and sometimes bears quite a good crop. One year we collected them and attempted wine making. I will try and dig out the pictures.
In this context it might be more appropriate that Neptune becomes Bacchus.
Here he is again in a sketch I did of this very interesting little corner of the patio where petunias tumble out of this ancient bird bath.
I used to spend hours here in the summer hitting a tennis ball relentlessly against the wall, talking to myself, making up stories and characters.
It was good practice for ball control especially as the bricks here are old and uneven and some even have beautiful carvings on them I presume done by previous inhabitants who I am dying to find out more about.
Ball play not so good when the ball bounced with an ominous, loud, hollow thud against the drawing room window and my Mother, reading inside, would screech and shake her fist at me.
Thanks to his hirsuite appearance we joke, of course, that this is my Father.
We can only assume the real subject is Neptune, his hair and beard tossed wildly by the tumult of the seas of which he is God.
He's taking some down time here though and looks like he's just off to Henley instead of some far flung ocean chasm.
He is made of bronze which has weathered beautifully and he stands sentry on the patio just by the living room door.
Thursday, 13 August 2009
These have also inspired some sketches I have done for a work project on tablelinen.