The Rambling Rose pours down the lavender-bottomed border between the croquet lawn and the back lawn of the house, unromanticly named 'the Dog Lawn' as was a favoured spot of our much beloved, now departed hound to perform her necessary rituals.
It is now a favoured spot for tea and a lemon slice on a rug.
The Rose is clearly visible when passing through to the back of the house from the back gate and tempts you downwards toward the orchard and tennis lawn via a lovely grass path worn down through decades of feet.
Its bright cerise colour coupled with the hazy lilac of the lavendar is utterly irresistable and every time I see it I have a urge to sweep my hands over the petals and down to the purple stalks squeezing the buds between my fingers to release the gorgeous, heady fragrance.
I am aware the names of these lawns suggest some form of atheleticism, however croquet is played on average twice every 5 years when one of my friends brings a new boyfriend to a party and he happens to be quite posh and knows how to play.
When I was much younger I would play tennis with friends endlessly on the lawn at the bottom; endlessly- but not very well as, never really rolled, getting a ball to bounce would be seen as a distinct advantage during play. For a couple of years the ancient line marker came out and I carefullyrolled it up and down the fading chalky lines applying the sloppy solution to the grass.
I have very happy memories of playing out there until 10 or 11 at night in midsummer.
There is also a brick wall that I used to knock a ball against for hours mostly during periods of exam revision whilst reciting the verbs that take 'etre' and the symbols of the periodic table.
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