Hold fast

Like tiny seed pearls scattered on moss-green velvet, sheep on the scree slope of a distant Ben Bulben grazed scant croppings harsh with salt of the sea. On a bright cold day, we were travelling home (from a wet Donegal new year) via Sligo. For a change, Ben Bulben and the other nunataks in the range were clear: more often than not each carries its own toupee of cloud and rain. Not this day though! The weather was so fine we strayed off course and walked at Streedagh Point, heads down, finding lots of coral fossils amongst the cobbles on the beach. All coming from the same series of limestones that give Ben Bulben and its neighbours such a distinctive appearance. The only others on the beach were a squawk of gulls all busy on the mounds of Laminaria holdfasts piled up by an earlier storm.

Piles of Laminaria holdfasts at Streedagh Point, Co. Sligo

I love that word 'holdfast', not only is it concise and accurate, it also sounds lovely and slightly archaic all at the same time. I think maybe it's also due to the word's old English--as opposed to Latinate--roots. I know little about such matters but I do remember some years ago a writer describing her wish that we would use more Anglo-Saxon rather than Latin phrases in our speech and writing. One of her examples that stuck in my mind was 'bird lore' vs ornithology. She had a point! And of course Heaney would have agreed; have a listen to this (apologies to those on devices that aren't showing the link to the youtube video; a bug somewhere along the way):

Donegal was, as ever, a wonderful break, but there was work to be done in my garden - taking advantage of winter quietness and dieback to clear out some Inula that has gotten out of hand. I also finally cut back the Molinia, and got rid of the debris from the cutting back I did earlier in the autumn: holly, honeysuckle and the old Echiums that provided so much delight in the summer.

Winter morning in Marley Park, 04 January. Thanks to B (at catchlight) for the photograph.

I'm a bit unhappy with my garden at the moment, but I'm not sure what to do to make it better. Those who know say that winter is the ideal time to take stock and do any of the hard lifting that would be even harder in the summer. But I seem to be a bit hemmed in by what's there already, by a lack of space and by a lack of imagination. I'll just have to keep plugging away and hope that inspiration comes. This spring and summer I'll also have the chance to flex the gardening muscle in our friends' garden in Donegal. Already the Olearia hedge we planted in October (as a shelter for the terrace behind) is looking very well settled in... Roll on the new growing season.

Speaking of new growing seasons, the narcissi and snowdrops are coming through, and I'm thinking alpine thoughts again. I wander into the glasshouse, staring at the alpines I have with the usual wintry mixture of hope and despair. More happily, some of the tiny narcissi and tulips that I planted in pots last autumn are starting to come through and I'm hoping to put some of them into one of the AGS shows in the spring. Oh but I've been bitten by the alpine bug and so I've ordered some more seeds from the AGS Seed Exchange - we'll see what happens with those... I'm still not sure that I have the patience and skill, but perhaps I'll surprise myself.

In other news, I decided that I need to learn more about the skills of drawing if I want to draw well the things that catch my interest (trees, you'll be surprised to hear; shells, rocks ...), so my wonderful Solstice present from B was a drawing course that brings me right back to basics: one of the first three-hour classes was spent learning to draw just lines.

Just. Lines.

The course I'm doing is really a road less travelled these days, it's very formal and at odds with the way much art teaching seems to have gone over the last few decades. I've an awfully long way to go, but I'm already enjoying the trek.

Iz takes the road more travelled. Christmas morning. 

Go well all.