Tread softly

A wobbly jet stream meant that winter storms queued up in disorderly fashion and rushed across the Atlantic to roar across this country and our neighbours to the east ... tearing down trees, bringing down power lines, flooding many many homes and fields, and generally causing a lot of misery. Nestled in the 'burbs, on a slope at the edge of the Leinster granite, we got away very lightly: lots of water but no flooding, a couple of trees down in the local park, but no damage any nearer than that. We were very fortunate. Today the wind picked up again, but we *did* get some spring-like sunshine over the last week or so and never was it more welcome. 

In between the storms, the sun came out

With spring sunshine come the spring flowers. Squills in the local park, and irises and snowdrops at home - the ones in the pics are those that I planted last autumn, when I cleared a lot of ivy and geraniums from underneath the birches at the front of the house. 

Squills are coming up in the local park

Up close and personal with Scilla verna

Iris reticulata (and a snowdrop!), planted under the birches in the front garden last autumn

Iris reticulata, such intricacy!

Squills in the local park and irises in my own garden, along with the wrens, blackbirds and thrushes in fine voice in the mornings -- all are such welcome signs of spring! But we decided to go a little farther afield to see spring on a slightly larger scale - the aconites and snowdrops in Burtown House were looking lovely, bringing to mind Yeats' cloths of heaven,

"...Enwrought with golden and silver light..." 

and doing what these small spring flowers do so well: appearing delicate and fragile while actually being as tough as old boots. Winter storms? No problem. Driving rain and sleet? So what. They shake it all off and keep on keeping on. My kind of flowers.

Aconites and snowdrops under a yew tree in Burtown House
(I got some berries from this tree last year for my Alphabet Yew)

Aconites, insouciant in the wintry weather

Aconites looking well settled 

As well as spring flowers in woodlands, my thoughts at this time of the year turn to alpines. Nervous trips to the greenhouse were rewarded at last when at least one (and perhaps only one) of the Drabas came back to life. It is really astonishing - one day they're all grey and dead looking, the very next day, small glaucous green buds butt their heads out of the middle of some tiny rosettes. Phew. The AGS 'season' starts soon and there'll be all sorts of amazing plants to see; I only hope I'll have something to put up on a bench that will pass muster. 

Thoughts are turning to alpines and the like too, some Sempervivums I planted in an old pot last autumn

Twenty-one

And so to the ongoing Twenty-one. On 21 February, B and I were in the hospital at the time I normally walk in the mornings, so these pics were taken later in the day. But they're all the better for it: at least there's some light there, even if not much else has changed since 21 January. Things move slowly in late winter, but March and April should ring the changes! 

Iz in the sunny field

Morning shadows in the park

You wouldn't think a storm had raged through here just over a week ago

Which path to take? 

Finally, some sunshine makes its way into the back garden

Not much to see here ... move along please

Things have been busy of late, so there hasn't been too much drawing or sketching going on. Just a rough and ready sketch of some Burtown snowdrops under a mossy beech tree and a rather pitiful sketch of a single snowdrop from my own garden, with a lovely line from another Paula Meehan poem:

"They are less a white than a bleaching out of green.
If you go down on your knees
and tilt their petals towards you
you'll look up under their petticoats
into a hoard of gold
like secret sunlight and their
three tiny striped green awnings that lend a
kind of frantic small-scale festive air."

from 'Snowdrops' by Paula Meehan

A rough, seasonal sketch 

a lone snowdrop

Tread softly.

Always look

On a January Sunday, across the tiled rooftops of my neighbours' houses, the sky to the north is filled with bruised purple, dove grey, mushroom pale, latté creamy clouds. They crowd together, jostling and shouldering each other nonchalantly with hardly a breath of wind to liven them up. A wintry sun in the southern sky to the front of the house has just enough height to reach the end of the back garden, warming slightly the winter tangle of Clematis montana, brown and beige, that has wrestled its way into and through the ivy (mine) and Cotoneaster and Griselinia (my neighbour's) that form the back boundary of the garden. Every year I look at the boundary in winter and think I really ought to do something about it, but this year, once again, I reckon I won't. Anyway, once the Golden Hop gets going in May, I forget all about the winter boundary blues and enjoy the mad yellow-green brightness (and yes, even the clash and clang with the blooming C. montana!) of early summer. And a bit of tangle that includes some deep ivy, complete with berries, is good news for the wrens and other small birds.

But at least, at last, I have taken on the right-hand wall, shamed into it by a collapsing rotting trellis, weighed down by inherited honeysuckle that never really bloomed. So on a cold dry January day--a respite between winter storms--out I went and wielded a secateurs and a lovely Japanese saw to cut back a fairly hopeless mess of Cotoneaster horizontalis and honeysuckle. An intricate passion flower used to run through it but one of our bad winters recently put paid to it. There's also a jumble of Japanese Quince, which I may (no, will) trim back, but it'll remain where it is: it was the first gift for my garden when I moved into it almost twenty years ago, a present from my father; very precious. Also uncovered in the cull were self-seeded trees of holly (male) and I think ash? I've cut them back a good deal, but the rest will have to go too and so I think a fork, a spade, a crowbar and some hard graft may feature in my son's future...

After all that's done, I'll face the dilemma of what to put on that wall (all suggestions gratefully received). I'd love to grow some espaliered apples or pears but don't know if I'd have the skill or the patience. But I love fruit in the garden and find it much more appealing to grow than vegetables, especially when I'm stuck for both time and space... How lucky then that some good friends gave me a fruit-growing book for Christmas (thanks CE!). Watch this space.

It hasn't all been destruction in the garden though (and I always feel bad when I pull out something like that tangle, which is so hospitable for the small beasts I share the garden with...). In the front garden the area I cleared under the birch trees is now showing lots of green spears of snowdrops, irises and daffodils. Can't wait! I uncovered some pots down behind the greenhouse that I planted up with bulbs a couple of seasons ago and they're still bravely putting forth shoots so I've moved them out into the winter sunshine near the bench and have my fingers crossed.

The year really feels like it's on the turn now. Finally on the 13th of January, we moved into the significant eight hours between sunrise and sunset , phew! (Interestingly, if we were still using the Julian calendar, the 13/14th would actually be the start of the new year). In the mornings, there have been thrushes singing high in the trees in the park, and wrens and robins giving it their all. There's light in the sky in the evenings at five pm. Everything's moving in the right direction. Gardeners get impatient at this time of the year and already some are planting seeds indoors and/or in propagators... I'm not that organised, but this year I hope to flex some of the gardening muscle by helping out with an AGS project to create a postcard garden for Bloom in June. I'm a bit excited ...

Down it came - clearing part of the side wall of the back garden

Spring's on the way

Much of the last month has been spent indoors, but Izzy and I did get out for the daily walks ... And as B recovered he joined in, much to the delight of all of us. Woodland, park and shoreline were delightful in the winter sunshine - a tonic to help with healing. Here's B's take on one of his own walks locally. The same trees show up from a different angle and in a very different dull morning light in the 21 January bit below.

B took this photo in our local park ... great to have a real photographer in the house

Winter sky and branches in the same park at midday ...

... and in the early morning ...

... the park's grey squirrels have been busy stripping the cones of their seeds ...

... and in some places, the winter storms have left damage in their wake

Bray Head in wintry sunshine

Time indoors allowed for a little messing about with pencils. I'd been invited to take part in a travelling sketchbook project - a lovely idea where a set number of people all buy the same sketchbook, each person does one double-page sketch each month and then passes on that month's book to the next person on the list. At the end of the project, you get your own sketchbook back, filled with the work of different artists. Having bought the sketchbook, I decided--regretfully--to pull out as I'm not certain how well I'd be able to concentrate on the work over the next few months. But I'll try to keep to the discipline of doing at least one piece in my own book per month, and the artists (they're a lovely bunch) have been very kind about the whole thing... You can read about their progress here. Some of the artists have chosen themes for their sketchbooks, others are happy with whatever turns up. I thought I'd like to combine words and drawings in mine and so January is based on a quote from a favourite poet, Paula Meehan. The line is "Her song is the wind in the branches" and here's the sketch--based on winter branches in my local park--that I popped into my book:

Her song is the wind in the branches a sketch based on a line from  'Her Void: A Cemetery Poem' by the wonderful poet Paula Meehan

21 January

Okay, so I can't forget the Twenty-one project. This month they're not great photos: a dull and breezy morning combined with a bit of a rush on the walk ... There's not much change from last month, of course, just the addition of the witch hazel blossoms in the back garden, as well as a kayak that came down off the back wall in one of the winter storms.

And to end this month's post, a reminder to myself and you dear readers, to always look ... even when we can't get out and about too much, there's beauty to be found in the glow of witch hazel in the back garden, in the grace of ferns whether ourdoors or in.

Witch hazel ('Pallida') in our garden, photo by B. 

Ferns outdoors grace a winter woodland

Shadows cast by low winter sunshine multiply one of my indoor ferns

And speaking of always look...

Go well all.

Darkness gives way

In a gap between winter storms, the waning moon topped the trees in a sky that was clear for a precious hour or so this morning. It's winter solstice and at last the year will turn!

A waning moon suspended over the trees in the park on solstice morning

Not a moment too soon.

Winter-dark moon, earlier in the month

I've never found the winter-dark easy, and now each year my late brother's anniversary on the 19th adds to the sadness. He's always in our thoughts but never more so than on that day. And these last two weeks B has been through the wars ... but he is resting and recovering now... Iz lies beside him on the couch and provides dog therapy, and with the stove burning brightly, the christmas tree lights on, being plied with food, and with such amazing friends and family visiting and dog-sitting and shopping and cooking, not to mention B's own wonderful spirit and steadiness... well, healing and recovery are well underway.

21 December

So, the twenty-one theme. Here's how the field, park and garden looked this morning (you can see them in November here). I suppose the trouble with starting this in November is that there won't be a whole lot of changes from month to month for the first few months. But who knows!?
Anyway, here are the 21 December images.

The field

Not a fox in sight, but some mornings recently I've seen one drift silently across this field and into the copse of trees on the right

The park

The sun was just about to rise on the shortest day of the year

The light of the rising sun worked its luminary magic on the tops of the oaks and ash

We've had a really mild winter so far, but a couple of incredibly windy, stormy days have released the last of the leaves from the sycamores

The garden

The still of the year in the garden

Winter pool and the therapy-dog

Solstice is the real turn of the year for me. I've celebrated it 'officially' now for 10 years or more. A few stalwart friends have been there all along the way (you know who you are!) and a few 'traditions' have grown over the years. Spiced beef is one, simmered with vegetables, cloves, allspice, water and ale for a few hours and then compressed (with a few handy--and heavy!--reference books; something the internet just couldn't do) to squeeze excess moisture out. Yummm.

There's spiced beef in this picture...

A more recent and personal one is to check if the witch hazel in the back garden is coming into bloom. And this year, YES, the small brown buds are opening to reveal tiny tendrils of lemon yellow to quiver in the winter winds.

Witch Hazel blooms just in time for solstice celebrations

Walks have been a bit curtailed, but Izzy and I have found time once or twice for the winter woods.

Winter beech

Elf caps pinpoint a palimpsest of a fallen tree on the forest floor

Winter is time for texture

Iz surveys the swirling river

Over the last couple of weeks, I've found the beautiful clarity of Ingrid Kertesi singing Bach to be a solace and sometimes I've worked on random colour charts at the same time. I can't find Kertesi online, but you can find here on Naxos 8.554508 with the Hungarian Radio Choir and the Failoni Chamber Orchestra. Here's a taster, Flosst mein Heiland, sung by another soprano:

Ochres and russets, Caran D'Ache and Faber Castell Polychromos

Happy Solstice all.