MUSINGS FROM THE BOWER 24

‘So this is Christmas
And what have you done
Another year over
And a new one just begun

And so this is Christmas

I hope you have fun
The near and the dear one
The old and the young’

I love Christmas. When I think back to all the Christmases I’ve known, there is quite a contrast between my childhood ones and those of today. For a start, we are so much more materialistic that we were sixty or so years ago.  People of my generation often say, ‘When I was a child, a tangerine wrapped in foil, a book and a handful of sweets were my Christmas gifts. And I was lucky to get those.’ It’s true there was little money about after the war, but maybe I was specially lucky, as I usually had a doll together with a tea set, doll’s cot or highchair, as well as assorted novelties, though I never had the heap of presents children get today.

I recall coming downstairs one Christmas morning – I must have been about eight – and had already unpacked the pillowcase of books, puzzles and a doll that had mysteriously appeared in my bedroom overnight. There, in the living room was a desk and chair, something I had wanted for so long. The desk was made from plywood with blue metal legs, and even had an inkwell. The chair was wood with blue metal legs. When I lifted the desk lid, there inside was a Bible, a gift from a favourite aunt. I recall being amazed that I had a desk as well as my pillowcase gifts and spent most of the day sitting at the desk and alternating reading the Bible with reading my new Beano annual!

Decorations were not as prolific in the shops as they are today, but we still made our rooms look festive, especially with paper chains which seem to be out of fashion nowadays.  Sometimes we would buy narrow strips of gummed paper which were threaded through each other to make a chain – they needed to be licked to form the links – but often we would buy packets of crepe paper which we would cut into 3” wide strips. We would take strips of two different colours, such as red and green, and machine them together straight down the middle. Then we would make small cuts along the edges to form a frill. One end of the strip was drawing-pinned to the ceiling and then twisted before being pinned to the opposite corner of the ceiling. Often, the colourful crepe paper strips were then enhanced with Lametta (long narrow strips of metallic silver paper) which was thrown over them to hang down like icicles.

 

Other decorations included honeycomb-paper balls and bells which folded flat when not in use, and tinsel which was invariably silver and much thinner than today’s tinsel. It was also prone to tarnish. Artificial trees were used by some people, but most of us bought a real Christmas tree from the greengrocer and dressed it with glass baubles, bells made from foil milk bottle tops and large electric ‘fairy’ lights – much bigger than today’s strings of tiny bulbs. The tree was topped with a plastic fairy doll, usually bought from Woolworths. Finally, we placed the crib in position. I still have the crib that I was given when I was about eight or nine – it’s a small, plastic affair with flat figures and is very special to me.

Nowadays, I collect both fairy dolls and Christmas cribs. Each year I choose a different fairy to go on top of the tree – this year there is a 1930s’ cloth and papier-mâché doll gracing the main tree, and a 1950s’ Rosebud fairy on top of the small tree in the dining room. Both trees are positively groaning with baubles and other decorations, and each year I buy a few more to add to the collection. Now, the cake is made and iced, the mince pies are baked, and the turkey and vegetables are awaiting their starring role.  It is almost Christmas eve – just another half hour to go, as I write this. I have a special tradition on Christmas Eve. I go out into the garden late at night and look up at the sky, remembering the Christmases past and thinking about loved ones no longer with us. Then I listen. For a moment I am a child again, looking amongst the stars for Father Christmas and listening out for sleigh bells. And do you know, sometimes I am positive that I hear them!

Happy Christmas to those of you who so kindly read my blog.

MUSINGS FROM THE BOWER 23

Do parents still sing lullabies to their babies? I read recently that a survey of young mums showed that most of them sang the latest chart-topper to get their little ones to sleep. This is fine in some ways, for instance if the song happens to have a melody and a gentle rhythm, though perhaps not so good if it’s a rap or something which requires a lot of shouting. Although tradition doesn’t seem to count for much these days, it would be sad if the old lullabies just died out, because they are a link with our mothers, grandmothers, great grandmothers and even further back in time.

The lullaby which most people probably know is Rock-a-bye Baby on the Tree Top (originally, it was ‘Hush-a-by). It first appeared in print in 1765, so was no doubt known well before then.

Rock-a-bye baby, on the tree top
When the wind blows, the cradle will rock
When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall
And down will come baby, cradle and all

In 1916, in The Real Mother Goose Nursery Rhyme book, a version is included which reads:

Rock-a-bye, baby, thy cradle is green;

Father's a nobleman, mother's a queen;

And Betty's a lady, and wears a gold ring;

And Johnny's a drummer, and drums for the king

The tune of Rock-a-bye baby is based on a very old marching song known as Lillibulero.

My mother’s favourite lullaby, the one she used to sing when I was a child was:

Oh lulla lulla lulla lulla bye-bye

Do you want the moon to play with?
Or the stars to run away with?
They'll come if you don't cry
Oh lulla lulla lulla lulla bye-bye
Into mummy’s arms come creeping
And soon you’ll be a-sleeping

Lulla, lulla lulla lulla bye

She also used to sing Brahms Lullaby, though I believe her version might be slightly different to the more usual one:

Roses whisper goodnight

In the silvery light

They hide from the dew

The whole night through

They will bear you above

To a dreamland of love

They will bear you above

To a dreamland of love

And of course, Golden Slumbers was another favourite:

Golden slumbers

Kiss your eyes
Smiles await you

When you rise
Sleep pretty baby
Do not cry
And I will sing

A lullaby

I used to sing these to my children when they were tiny, until one evening my son said tearfully, ‘Don’t sing that sad song, mummy’ – referring to ‘Oh Lulla Lulla Lulla Lulla Bye-bye’. Did he perhaps pick up the wistfulness in my voice, the fact that I was no longer a child and so my mother could no longer sing that special tune to me? Nowadays, with my mother long gone, I find that particular song even more poignant

I’m interested in the traditional methods of baby care, and I’m especially taken by some of the earlier baby garments. I have a collection of Victorian and Edwardian baby gowns, and the exquisite hand-sewing is often breath-taking. The gowns frequently feature dozens of narrow pin tucks, or borders of feather stitches. Sometimes there are delicate lace inserts or embroidered panels. Many of the Victorian gowns are really small, almost doll-sized – babies were smaller in those days. These gowns tended to have a scoop neck and fairly short sleeves, as opposed to the Edwardian gowns which had wrist-length or elbow-length sleeves and round necks. The Edwardian gowns were shorter than the Victorian ones, too. Sometimes I get a magnifying glass to examine the stitching,  wondering how on earth those women, often working in poor light, managed to achieve such tiny, straight stitches. Next time you’re browsing a secondhand shop or collectors’ market, take a look at these beautiful creations and marvel.

MUSINGS FROM THE BOWER 22

I’ve been sorting through piles of old photo albums. Some are mine, with photos of the family taken in the 1980s and 1990s, whilst others belonged to my parents and date back before the Second World War. It’s intriguing to look at these photos – there is my Dad, smart in his army uniform. His regiment was the Royal Welch Fusiliers, and he was involved in both the evacuation of Dunkirk and the D-Day Landings. Luckily, unlike so many others, he came back more-or-less sound – he had an ear injury and an eye problem, but was thankfully still in one piece.

During the War Mum worked at Cable and Wireless, and in some notes of hers that I found recently she said, ‘One day that stands out in my memory was the liberation of our servicemen from Japanese prisoner of war camps. They were allowed to send free telegrams to let their families know they were alive. The families were also allowed to send a free telegram back. Everyone worked feverishly to get the telegrams out. No-one wanted to leave their seat. We were so happy to have the privilege to pass on the news to wives, mothers and sweethearts that their menfolk were safe and would soon be home.’    

Dad and Mum did their courting by letter, as he had little leave, and they married in September 1945 in a church which, according Mum’s notes, had been bombed, but there was a small corner which had escaped the damage. There was no music, and the Vicar ‘whispered the words so softly’ that Dad couldn’t hear properly and just guessed at the responses. Mum borrowed a wedding dress from her sister, but because she washed it the lacy fabric went rather limp and so she had to wear a white satin nightdress underneath. Her white satin shoes were bought on Walthamstow market, and she didn’t have many clothing coupons, so ended up buying a ‘going away’ suit with a velvet collar on the black market. They were able to have a wedding cake with ‘proper’ icing rather than the cardboard that many wartime brides had to make do with, because she had an egg. Apparently, she optimistically invited fifty guests, but goodness knows what the wedding breakfast was like, given the meagre rations at the time.

Me as a baby with my grandmother who lived opposite us

Me as a toddler outside our house

Mum and Dad moved to a flat in an old house in Brixton, and I was born a couple of years after. It felt a safe, comforting place for me. My grandparents lived opposite, an aunt, uncle and cousins were in the same street, and another aunt, uncle and my other grandfather lived near, so I always had someone to visit and to care for me. Many of the photos in the albums depict London in the 1950s – my Dad was an enthusiastic amateur photographer, and each weekend we would visit the zoo, or walk along the embankment or go to one of the parks or museums. We lived there until the mid-1950s when we moved to a brand new house in Hertfordshire. I’ve set myself the task of scanning in some of these photos but it will be a long job. Luckily, because I looked at the pictures over and over as a young child, in most cases I have remembered the identity of the people shown in them – it’s useful, especially, that I can differentiate between baby photos of me, several cousins and children of family friends, so I will be able to label them up correctly.

Changing the subject – it won’t be long before Christmas is upon us, and a few days ago I had my first Christmas dinner of the year! I publish my own doll magazine, called Doll Showcase, and Warners, of Bourne, Lincolnshire, print it for me. After we collected the Christmas issue, we went to Waterside Garden Centre nearby, as we had decided to have lunch out. When we arrived they were serving their Christmas meals, and so we had turkey and all the trimmings followed by a delicious cherry-topped meringue. That was an unexpected treat – we thought we would be getting something more mundane, such as ham, egg and chips. So, I suppose I should think about Christmas shopping. As usual, I leave it all to the last minute, then panic!

MUSINGS FROM THE BOWER 21

I was in such a daze the other day that I didn’t know where to look first. I was feasting my eyes on a dazzling array of paintings filling several rooms.  My daughter and I had tickets for the Pre-Raphaelite exhibition at the Tate Gallery, by the Thames in London. I have to admit that I am not a great fan of the underground, because the trains are noisy, grubby, crowded and, well, under the ground, but if I was to see those wonderful paintings, then I had to endure it. Endure it I did, though when we finally embarked at Pimlico it was a relief to be on ground level again!

Ophelia by John Everett Millais

It was wonderful to see all those paintings together in one a glorious display. Paintings such as 'Ophelia', 'Beata Beatrix', 'The Light of the World', 'Hireling Shepherd', 'The Blind Girl' and my favourite, 'The Scapegoat', filled five rooms. I was so excited and was pointing out details to my daughter, telling her about some of the models who posed for the paintings, and showing her what to look for in the paintings when I suddenly realised that I had attracted a small group, all listening in! I have loved the works of the Pre-Raphaelites ever since discovering them as a teen in the 1960s, and have read so many books about William Holman Hunt, John Everett Millais, Gabriel Rossetti and the others, that to come face to face with the paintings was just like meeting up with friends, and quite an emotional experience.

It was the richness of the colours and the incredible detail that really fascinated me – the painstaking attention to a single leaf, flower or butterfly. Surely those artists were amongst the first of the true wildlife artists, even though the nature details just were the background to the main subjects. One of my favourites has always been ‘Ophelia’ by Millais; his painting of a young girl floating on her back in the river and singing before she drowns, though a sombre subject, is incredibly beautiful. The model for the painting was Elizabeth Siddall who posed for the work in a bathtub heated by lamps. When the lamps went out she didn’t like to complain and so later developed a bad cold and her father wrote to Millais demanding medical expenses. Ophelia is covered in a rainbow of flowers, and both they and the stunning riverbank behind her are a triumph of botanical beauty.  I was also thrilled to see my special favourite, Hunt’s ‘The Scapegoat’, which he painted by the Dead Sea. Later, Ford Maddox Brown wrote, ‘Hunt’s ‘Scapegoat’ requires to be seen to be believed in. Only then can it be understood how, by the might of genius, out of an old goat, and some saline encrustations, can be made one of the most tragic and impressive works in the annals of art.’ I loved it!

The Scapegoat by William Holman Hunt

However, what did let the Tate down was the inadequacy of its facilities. Considering the sheer volume of visitors the gallery attracts, both from Britain and abroad, I expected the catering facilities to be, at the very least, able to provide a decent snack and a comfortable place to eat it. There were just a few tiny, tatty chairs and tables, and it was difficult to see what sandwiches and cakes were for sale as they were at the back of the counter. Also, the toilets were not clean – in fact, those in the adjoining Turner gallery were disgusting. The staff at the information desks didn’t seem well-informed, either – we asked at two separate desks in different parts where the iconic statue of The Little Dancer by Degas could be seen. At one desk we were told it had never been in the Tate, even though my daughter said that she had seen it there a few years before. On another desk, they seemed not to have heard of ‘Degas’ and certainly couldn’t spell it. As the shop was selling postcards of the statue, this was rather a let-down. Later, looking at the website, it implied that the statue wasn’t on show at present –I’d have thought that the information staff would have been able to tell me that.

Lambeth Bridge

Afterwards, we had a walk along part of the embankment, which was nostalgic for me because when I was a child, I was taken there for a walk most weekends. In fact, I loved the place so much that I insisted there was always a teddy bear called ‘Embankment’ in the stories my mother told me each night! (Odd child!) Of course, when I was small the Thames was really busy with barges chugging up and down and all manner of craft, but now, there weren’t so many boats, so I contented myself by watching the gulls. It was a bit murky and misty, but good to see that old river again. We couldn’t spend much time there as we wanted to catch the train before the rush hour. Even so, we almost made it to Westminster Bridge which gave me the chance to quote from the special poem by William Wordsworth, ‘Upon Westminster Bridge’ :

Earth has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth like a garment wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky,
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did the sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!

Westminster Bridge

 For those of you who have kindly enquired, the second volume of my book of short stories – mainly humorous – is now on kindle. Twisty Ends and Tangly Tales 2 can be found on Amazon at http://tiny.cc/lzqqmw  

 MUSINGS FROM THE BOWER 20

When I was younger, so much younger than today (hmm, now where have I heard that sung?!) I spent many happy holidays in the New Forest area. My aunt and uncle lived there, first at Hordle, near Lymington, then later at New Milton, Christchurch, not far from the famous Cat and Fiddle inn.  I spent many happy hours wandering in the forest and picnicking by a stream. I loved to see the ponies on the heathland, and saw my very first stag near Burley. Whenever I visited, it was beautiful, from the purple heather and yellow gorse of spring to the golden autumn bracken. 

Last week I returned to the area with my daughter. It seemed strange not to be visiting my relatives (they have long since passed away) but we stayed in a very pleasant Travelodge,  and I was pleased to find that the forest and the heathland is still as beautiful as ever. Ponies and cattle still roam free, and the sun shining on the bracken was a glorious sight.  We went to Bolderwood, in the New Forest, where a viewing platform has been built that overlooks a wood where fallow deer roam, though normally at this time of year they are deep in the woods for the rut. However we were very lucky because we saw a fallow stag come from the wood, then, later, another stag, and they began to fight. The noise of clashing antlers was amazing, echoing round the forest. Meanwhile, the hinds just totally ignored them and sat round gossiping. I think they were rather superciliously leaving the boys to get on with it!

We walked through the woods, and then found a stream which had several fallen trees nearby. These trees were overgrown with thick green moss, pale great lichen and many different types of fungi. They looked like something from fairyland. It was so pretty there that I didn’t want to leave – the reflections in the water, the vista of the sun-speckled wood between the broken trunks, the delicate toadstools and the wren singing in a holly bush. It was very peaceful. I wished that I had such calm places near where I live, but unfortunately my home is in a busy town and there always seems to be a hum of traffic.

This is known as the ‘Portuguese Fireplace’ and is situated not far from Bolderwood. The plaque by it reads: ‘This is the site of a hutted camp occupied by a Portuguese army unit during the First World War. This unit assisted the depleted local labour force in producing timber for the war effort. The Forestry Commission has retained this fireplace from the cookhouse as a memorial to the men who lived and worked here and acknowledge the financial assistance of the Portuguese Government in its renovation.’ Apparently the Portuguese Army unit worked for the Canada Timber Corps helping the local population while the regular foresters were away fighting. Nearby is a simple memorial to Canadian troops in the Second World War, recalling Canadian forces present in the New Forest before the D Day invasion of June 6th, 1944.  A plaque reads: ‘On this site a cross was erected to the glory of God on 14th April 1944, by men of the 3rd Canadian Division RCASC’.

Me and Mike Berry

 In complete contrast to the peace and tranquillity of the New Forest, I also went to a rock concert, where my eardrums were blasted with songs from the past. It was wonderful! The concert took place at the Bournemouth Pavilion Theatre and I really enjoyed it. You have to be over a certain age to remember its stars - Marty Wilde, Eden Kane and Mike Berry. Mike stood in for John Leyton who isn't well at the moment (Mike used to be a singer long before he joined the cast of 'Are You Being Served' as a shop assistant). I was amazed at how good Marty, Eden's and Mike's voices still were – after all, they are even older than me! And though their backing group, the Wildcats, might be getting on a bit, and maybe are not quite so ‘wild’ as they once were and perhaps not have as much hair as they once did, my goodness, they can still play. When the drummer performed a really long solo as a tribute to Jet Harris, the whole audience was spellbound.

Me and Marty Wilde

We were asked to sing along, and nearly all the songs were late 1950s/early 1960s, so everyone knew the words. Practically all the audience had grey hair (women) or were bald (men), and when Marty did a few birthday requests, they were all for 70th birthdays, when in his heyday it would have been 21sts! But we sang along, danced in the aisles, waved our arms about... great fun. Afterwards, Mike Berry came into the foyer and I asked him if he would mind if my daughter took a photo of me with him. He looked at her and said, 'Blimey. You must be the youngest person here tonight!' Later, we went round to the stage door to get Marty's autograph and I had my photo taken with him too. Think I’m turning into a rock chick!

MUSINGS FROM THE BOWER 19

This week I visited Paradise! Paradise Wildlife Park is situated near Broxbourne, Herts, and is home to lots of animals, birds and reptiles, including many rarities. Unfortunately, the weather wasn’t very paradisical – it poured with rain for much of the day, but even so, I still managed to see most of the creatures.

The zoo was purchased in 1984 by the Sampson Family, who could see potential in the then rundown ‘Broxbourne Zoo’ as it was once called. They renamed it ‘Paradise Wildlife Park’ and today, through their hard work and commitment, have produced a first class wildlife attraction, which contains many endangered and rare animals. Amongst the creatures I saw were snow leopards, white lions, tapirs, lemurs, red pandas, otters, camels, parrots, snakes, reindeer, penguins and gibbons. Some of the creatures had young. There was a tiny baby gibbon holding tight to its mother while a young tapir was demonstrating how strong it was by repeatedly lifting a large branch!

Additionally there was a farmyard section, with goats, sheep, pigs and Shetland ponies, while the bunny town consisted of ‘streets’ of house-shaped hutches each sponsored by a local organisation. There was a hutch containing some super guinea pigs too, and there were chickens scuffling around. Have you ever noticed how much beauty there is in the feathers of a chicken?

Everyone has certain things they have always wanted to do – and one of my wishes came true when I was given a tarantula to hold. I’m fond of spiders, and the large Chilean rose tarantula crawled all over my hands. It was a magnificent beast. And then I was allowed to stroke a skunk! The keeper assured me that ‘it only rarely sprays’ (!) so I risked it and stroked its white fur – it was an albino. Interestingly, although the fur looked soft, it felt quite coarse to the touch.

In the evening, I went to a talk by Chris Packham, presenter of many wildlife shows including Springwatch. I have been to several of his talks, and have always found them very entertaining; he shows stunning pictures of animals that he has photographed worldwide, recounting humorous anecdotes as he does so. He is one of those rare people able to hold an audience’s attention even when he changes tack to dwell on the more serious conservation problems. If you ever get the chance to attend a Chris Packham talk, please go! I’m sure that you’ll enjoy it.

This week I also visited Hatfield Forest, a place I visit frequently. The trees were just beginning to turn to their autumn shades – another couple of weeks and the leaves will be red, russet and gold. There were plenty of squirrels gathering beech mast, and on the lake were mallards, grebes, moorhens and geese. I took the path to the decoy pond and was surprised at how many dragonflies were still around enjoying the autumn sunshine. One kept returning to sit on the bench next to me.

The sunlight filtering through the leaves was beautiful, and as usual I took plenty of photographs. As I walked along the narrow path by the pond I heard the cry of a special bird and excitedly looked towards the water – a streak of electric blue sped by. A kingfisher. Luckily I recognised the cry so knew where to look. Although I have seen these beautiful birds before, that was the first kingfisher that I had seen at Hatfield Forest. Sadly, it was too quick for me to get a photo.

I find walking in the forest, amongst those beautiful trees – many of which are ancient – is very therapeutic and full of surprises. This time it was a kingfisher, but at other times I have glimpsed deer, watched baby coots, observed grebes diving for fish and seen a huge cormorant perched high on a bare tree against a blue winter sky. It looked rather like a pterodactyl, there was definitely something prehistoric about that long, strong beak with the hooked end, and the bird’s general poise. Squirrels are commonplace and magpies and jackdaws fly overhead. Sometimes there are nuthatches in a tree beside the path, and often jays and green woodpeckers are around. Yes, I find that a walk through the woods is relaxing and a perfect way to blow away the cobwebs from my mind.

MUSINGS FROM THE BOWER 18
　
Cornwall is a mystical land. I can’t be the only one to sense the uniqueness of the county, and once I’ve passed the sign saying ‘Kernow’ and seen the black and white Cornish flags flying, I know I’m in a special place. From harbours teeming with life and packed with brightly coloured boats to tiny sandy inlets with a gull or two for company, and from bleak heather-clad moors to bustling towns, I’ve explored most of the land over the many years I’ve visited.

This time though, my husband and I were there just for a short three-night break, staying at a Premier inn at Fadden, not far from Newquay. (An excellent place to stay, incidentally, with really friendly staff.) We had almost reached our destination when I saw a sign reading ‘Screech Owl Sanctuary’, so we turned off and were soon amongst owls of all shapes and sizes. If you’re ever that way, do go and visit – we were introduced to a number of owls and allowed to stroke their heads or tummies. They seemed to enjoy it! The owls were brought over by a handler one at a time, and she worked up from a tiny burrowing owl to an enormous eagle owl, via tawnys, barn owls and other delights. She explained about each type of owl, telling of their habitat, peculiarities and how they lived in the wild. One young owl was hopping up and down as if to say, ‘My turn now. Pick me!’

The following day we visited the Bodmin and Wenford railway, which was running steam engines, as my husband is a great steam enthusiast. We did the full ride, both ways, from Bodmin General to Boscarne Junction and back, and then from Bodmin General to Bodmin Parkway and back. I find travelling steam trains very therapeutic – the clattering rhythm whisks me straight back to my childhood, and also brings to mind the poem by Robert Louis Stevenson that so cleverly encapsulates the rhythm:

Faster than fairies, faster than witches,
Bridges and houses, hedges and ditches;
And charging along like troops in a battle
All through the meadows the horses and cattle:
All of the sights of the hill and the plain
Fly as thick as driving rain;
And ever again, in the wink of an eye,
Painted stations whistle by.
Here is a child who clambers and scrambles,
All by himself and gathering brambles;
Here is a tramp who stands and gazes;
And here is the green for stringing the daisies!
Here is a cart runaway in the road
Lumping along with man and load;
And here is a mill, and there is a river:
Each a glimpse and gone forever!

Later, we went along to Padstow, one of my favourite places in Cornwall – there are plenty of seats around the harbour, and sometimes there is a band playing. There was no band on Monday when we went, but the cries of the gulls provided their own special type of music! I watched a turnstone pottering around the quay, moving so quickly he looked like a clockwork bird rather than a real, feathery one, and I also saw a delightful dog being given his very own ice cream cone, which he was licking with relish.

We returned to the motel, stopping for a while en route at Mawgan Porth, a special place for us, as it is where we spent our holiday the first time that we visited Cornwall, back in the early 1970s. We continued to holiday there right through to the late 1980s, introducing our children to the delights of the area, especially the beautiful beach of Mawgan Porth. This time we spent an hour or so walking the wonderful, beautiful sandy beach, watching the waves breaking on the rocks at each side of the bay.

Tuesday morning found us at another pretty harbour, Mevagissey, and the sky was a glorious shade of blue while the sun was reflecting off the reds, blues and greens of the boats, making them dazzle. Fishermen were sorting their nets by the quayside and gulls were fighting over starfish and crabs in the harbour mud. There were a few swans around, too, and a cluster of turnstones were bathing in some shallow water. People were enjoying the unexpected warm sun, eating ice creams or Cornish pasties as they watched the boats.

Just after lunch, though, the weather changed and the sky was a mass of grey. It wasn’t long before the rain came, which it did in absolute torrents. We made our way to the Eden Project, knowing that we would be warm and dry in the biomes there. Luckily, we had season tickets, so were soon inside, ignoring the noise of the rain as we feasted our eyes on tropical and subtropical plants. As usual, I made a beeline for the huge bull and other statues in the ‘Rites of Dioysus’ exhibit by Tom Shaw in the olive grove in the Mediterranean dome; the statues are so vivacious that they give the impression they will suddenly come to life and dance.

The next day it was time to come home – I was pleased to see that though the garden bore signs of heavy rain, with the lawn sodden and water dripping from the crab apple trees, the bower was still dry. It was still sporting passionflowers and purple clematis, and the green and orange cushions on its benches were as welcoming as ever!