Last night we spent an evening imbibing at the house of Love (Juliet and Tony) which included less dancing than usual but concluded with the consumption on my part of an interesting blend of vintage port and non-vintage sloe gin. So this morning the knees were in a better condition than expected, but the head was in need of some clearing.
So Mrs B decided on a plan to get out for a walk in the village. We went along paths that she herself had only discovered recently, which considering she spent much of her teen years walking dogs or exercising horses around the byeways of Galhampton, was quite a find. It certainly did the trick for me and along the way we saw the usual squirrels and other vermin as well as a deer, which our trained attack dogs failed to spot.
Lunch was taken at the Orchard Inn (formerly the Old Pub and even further back, The Harvester). So a properly restful lazy Sunday. When was the last time we had one of those?
The sky was opalescent yesterday morning as I took the dogs out for their daily ramble. The clouds were grey and wind-blown, but a small aperture had been rubbed away by the elements to reveal a patch of blue with some pink-tinged wisps of cumulus. Even the most dull walk can be enlivened by the smallest sight or the greatest view. Even in the depths of winter there’s always something to brighten your day such as a patch of blue sky, a flock of fieldfares taking flight or a sparrowhawk hunting along the hedgerows.
December mow – the mole hill reappeared within minutes
But it does not feel like the depths of winter. Since the frost of a few weeks ago it has remained steadfastly mild – warm even – and the garden continues to grow as if summer had not ended. It is mid-December and we have alstroemerias blooming as well as other blossom in the borders. The penstemons still bloom and the grass has simply kept on growing. But combined with the amount of rain we have had, cutting it has been nigh on impossible. Yesterday, though, as it did not rain in the night, I took a punt and jumped on the mower and had a go. The mower was not happy, and I could only imagine the stirrings from next door as the Old Man would be turning down his TV to listen to the grinding of the blades against the damp grass. Even now I still do stuff around the house and garden with a vestigial sense of doom wondering if I am doing it correctly in the eyes of my parents. I guess most of us do this to some extent but when the eyes and ears of one parent are only the other side of the kitchen window the lingering nature of the affliction devolves to a more clear and present danger. On the up side, though, The Old Man is not walking too far these days, so even if my concerns about his thoughts on mowing in such conditions are real (and not imaginary) then at least he’s not likely to run out in to the garden to voice his disapproval.
So I clattered on with the mower thinking that I could get away with whatever lack of foresight or good workmanship I might be displaying. And yet, when I saw TOM this morning he announced that it was an all-time record to be mowing in December. “But it did need it” he affirmed – thus giving approval to my bleak mid-winter mow.
In amongst the usual TV series that appear this time of year to lead us into winter, like Strictly and I’m a Celebrity, some proper wintry drama returned with the third series of The Bridge. The theme tune was in my head the other morning – partly as a result of the gloomy nature of the programme, but also because we had our first (and so far only) frost of the winter and that reminded me of how this whole gardening thing really started with me. A frost, in the eyes of The Old Man, was critical before we would be allowed to start picking the Brussels Sprouts. It was the lack of a frost back in 2010 that meant that the stampeding heifers who trampled through the garden one November night destroyed the whole crop in one fell swoop.
So I went out and picked the Brussels which are looking pretty good for the first time in years. It was a proper Sunday roast with veg from the garden all done to perfection by Mrs B. And delivered to the table at exactly one o’clock. Sunday roasts are in our British DNA – though each family has its own take on how it should be done. Mrs B combines all the best ingredients from both sides our families. We use the veg from the garden (my family’s habit) but it will – almost without fail – be served at one o’clock. I have fond memories of going to the pub with my father-in-law when we came down to visit in our young newly wed days. He and I would have a half of IPA in the Catash while Bren cooked the lunch. I was his partner-in-crime as we would “roll” back at ten past one, just a little merry but subject to a cool steely gaze from the disgruntled chef.
It seemed a jolly jape at the time, but these days it is I who gets the hard stare from Mrs B if I do not get myself together in time to be sitting down for the roast at 1 o’clock. It seems we are doomed to become our parents in so many ways. As The Bridge theme song wails…”goes back to the beginning”
