Jane Brocket's Blog, page 56

bearable lightness

  

RHS Wisley prairie meadow

I am in awe of writers who come up with the perfect title for a book. I find titles either appear in my brain from nowhere or have to be thrashed out, with idea after idea struck off a list (and when that's done, sometimes a title then appears from nowhere, as though it was just waiting all along to be found). Two of my very favourite book titles are Metaphysics as a Guide to Morals and The Unbearable Lightness of Being. The first I bought because I truly wanted to be able to say I'd read it - but couldn't. The second I have read, just not in a linear start-to-finish way. 

 

RHS prairie meadow

I often think about what 'the unbearable lightness of being' might really mean (I've decided it's quite dark). However, I am equally drawn to the idea of  the 'bearable lightness of being' which for me is when something - a place, a feeling, a mood - has a wonderfully ethereal, delicate quality, and is a moment of true lightness of being.

I encountered it this weekend, when Simon and I went to Wisley to look at the Tom Stuart-Smith landscape. We'd seen it lots of times but as we'd been to his own garden the week before, I'd been to the exhibition of his work at the Garden Museum the day before, and during the week I'd read his book, this time we were going a little better informed. So I was well prepared for the amazing sweep of curving beds, the beautiful and often towering perennial planting that moves so gracefully in the wind. But I hadn't seen the relatively new prairie meadow next to it (shame on the RHS for not trumpeting this on its pages).

 

T S-S's garden

This meadow has been planted by Prof James Hitchmough (who also works with Tom Stuart-Smith who is also in the process of planting a prairie meadow in his own garden). And it is one of the most sympathetically and intelligently planted, beautiful, ethereal, special pieces of landscaping I have ever seen. If I could open my back door every day onto such a meadow full of happily co-existing, ground-covering, colourful plants like this, I think I would have to be tethered to the ground like a hot-air balloon, in danger of feeling so light that I would lift off.

What makes it so special is that it feels so right. There are no contorted plants, no playing games with nature. It just is as it is, and as it should be. I could have stayed all day, in a little bubble of lightness of being.

 

Tom S-S's garden

The only downside of a prairie meadow is that it is very difficult to do justice to it in photographs. From a distance it looks like a jumble, and close up it is looks sparse (ironically). It takes a meandering walk along the paths to really appreciate it, to get the idea of place and planting. It's gardening with and not against nature, and it makes enormous sense. I have no doubt that we should all be considering a gardening style that has at its core a 'bearable lightness of being'.

we've come a long way, babies

 

It's very quiet. Only me here. The breakfast things have been cleared away, the washing is on the line, the neighbours are at work. But there is a huge, house-filling sense that we have reached a momentous point in our family life.

 

I find it hard to believe that our 6lb baby boy and 4lb 12oz baby girl have gone to school today to take their last A level exams. After this morning we shall have only one schoolchild in the house. Yet far from feeling nostalgic and tearful about this, we are immensely and enormously relieved that this year is over. Of all the school years we have had with our three, this has been by far the toughest, trickiest, hardest for everyone, but most of all for Tom and Alice. Who would want to be taking A levels this year, when the media is full of dire warnings and daily experience confirms that, for once, they are right? The whole process is designed to demoralise, and the pressure on pupils is ridiculous. From visiting prospective universities (time, money, days off work and school), to writing personal statements that do nothing more than make every student sound like Superman/woman, from the agony of waiting for offers to the horrors of the student loans website (it's a long, long time since I've seen Simon so apoplectic), it's been twelve months of anxiety, deadlines, and living with predictions you don't know whether to trust or reject. Having two going through the mill doesn't help, either.

We are proud of our thirteen stone boy and his (still much lighter) twin sister having come this far. I remember when they were born, we were so pleased to have them that our hopes were really no more than that they could cope with mainstream life. We didn't have any higher ambitions in mind than fulfilling their potential (potential not being just academic, either). I think that's quite enough to want, and when you see what can happen to some teenagers, we always count the positives and remind ourselves of what they are not doing. 

Any minute now, Tom and Alice will be putting down their pens, leaving the exam room, and walking off into a new phase in their lives. They have to wait until mid-August to find out what happens next, but one thing's for sure, we've come a long way, babies [sic].

cosy knitting

 

In much the same vein as 'how much wood could a wood-cutter cut' etc, I do wonder 'how much tea can a tea-drinker drink when a tea-drinker works from home?'

These days it's Twinings Everyday Tea which I buy in boxes of 240 tea bags. It's a wonderful tea for a home-worker: full of colour and flavour, and something to look forward to on a very regular basis. I don't know how the Bloomsbury group (and that whole segment of society) managed to wait until set times to have a cup of tea  - I couldn't bear to depend on someone else for my tea. It's the same with Mrs Miniver; I was quite amazed that on Christmas Day the family wakes up early and has to wait for the tea in bed to be brought to them. Make it yourself, I found myself saying. (But I also know that a lady's kitchen was often not her own.) This is why I like Dorothy Whipple's books so much - they have characters who go downstairs and put the kettle on themselves, like Jane in High Wages.

No wonder I included tea cosies in my knitting book. I got so fed up with patterns that said a cosy would fit 'an average tea pot' without giving the dimensions of an 'average tea pot', that I knitted five cosies for five different sizes of tea pot (XL, L, M, S, XS) and gave the dimensions. The smallest pot would make a very teeny tiny cup of tea more suited to a teddy bears' picnic, but the larger sizes cater for thirsty tea drinkers.  

I 
 

I took photos of my family of tea cosies on the photoshoot. The top one shows a little more of how it looked behind the scenes with all the flowers we used and a cat curled up on the settee. If I worked from this home,  I think I would have all my pots and cosies out everyday so I could see them on my regular route to the kettle.

And the answer to 'how much tea can a tea-drinker drink'? I daren't say, in case either Simon or my dentist is reading.

feet on the ground

Looking at the photos I have taken in the last week's, it occurred to me that we haven't had a Birkies/toes picture for a while, and I would hate to let down those who tell me they could recognise me from my feet rather than my face. This was taken yesterday, amidst clouds of pink and white Erigeron karvinskianus (common name: fleabane) in someone else's garden.

However, this is a very inaccurate end-of-the-week photo-summary of the past week, as I have hardly stood still. Instead of my usual routine of working at home with a couple of distractions, last week was nearly all distractions and a smattering of working at home. (Of course, it can all be justified in terms of work/research/inspiration/ideas...)

So I have been to La Fromagerie to meet a friend and talk about vintage and French linens, stitching and architecture. (Great place, lovely smell of cheese everywhere, fab cakes.)

I have been to Luca's to talk to my agent about books, projects, and what I would really, really like to do. (Excellent bread to take home.)

I have been to Le Chandelier for tea and cake, and a look at the beautiful, photogenic interior. (It can be hired out for photoshoots).

I have been to Charleston for the private view of Kaffe Fassett's new installation. My friend and I turned up just as everyone was going into the house (we'd spent too long talking in The Needlemakers and then in Bill's) so joined the back of a group and enjoyed a wonderful tour of the house, had a wander round the garden, and a chat with Kaffe. (Garden looking lovelier than ever - the view from Vanessa Bell's bed was the one we wanted.)

I have been to the NPG, then to meet two friends from school (there were six of us in a group: Jane, Jane, Jane, Alison, Alison, and Fanny. My middle name is Alison, so I never really had to remember names. This time I met a Jane and an Alison.) Terroirs turned out to be a great choice of meeting place (chosen for its Frenchness - we all did languages incl French at university).

I have been to gardens, too. I meant to go to lots of places open for the Open Squares Weekend but the weather was too cold and wet. Nevertheless, we got to a dripping but very interesting walled garden at Chiswick House.

And then yesterday was the apogee of a busy week. Simon and I went to Tom Stuart-Smith's own garden in Hertfordshire (open with the second family garden for the NGS ). Utterly amazing, and my feet have hardly touched the ground since. Even though they are to be found firmly tucked under my desk every day this week.

summer knitting

 

[Lydia Sokolova and Leon Woizikovsky, 1924, by Bassano]

The National Portrait Gallery is my favourite time-killing place in London. It's central, free, and quite wonderful even if you only have a short time; the various rooms are so beautifully self-contained and full of interesting portraits, that you can visit just one for ten minutes and feel you've had a true cultural experience.

I had some time to kill yesterday. On a day when all the women I saw at Waterloo Station on their way to the Ascot races looked utterly chilled to the bone in their skimpy frocks, bare legs, and mud-sinking high heels, and could have done with wellies and a warm jumper, I sheltered from the cold and wet in Room 31 where I found all the summer knitting inspiration I could ask for.

 

[Lydia Sokolova, 1924, by Bassano]

Room 31 is filled with early/mid C20 portraits in a variety of styles (Patrick Heron, Vanessa Bell, Augustus John) and there is currently a display of ballet related photographs, including several by Bassano.

I was fascinated by these photos of the dancers in 'Le Train Bleu' wearing costumes designed by Coco Chanel. If you look closely, you see that this is a celebration of summer knitting; not only are the golfing sweater and socks fabulous examples, the two-piece swimming costumes are also knitted in wool.  

 

[Sir Anton Dolin, 1924, by Bassano]

They are machine-knitted but nevertheless they are just what we need for the beach this June. I'd love to see the colours of the original knitting, but feel stripes in candyfloss-pink and shades of seaside rock would be highly appropriate for a Chanel-inspired, hand-knitted bathing suit for Blackpool or Brighton this summer.

IAQs

 

[cabled blanket with blanket stitch in The Gentle Art of Knitting] 

My Infrequently Asked Questions. Asked by various people. Sometimes I also question myself:

Q: Will you be doing any book signings in the US?

A: If someone invites me, makes the arrangements and pays, of course I will. Otherwise, sadly, no.

Q: Was the marry-me love-note on the train in the previous post for real?

A: I think I also said in that post that I can't make up short stories. So yes, it is very true. I can still picture exactly where I was sitting, facing the direction of travel, in the compartment, and can still feel the creeping sense of unease and embarrassment.

Q: Which book did you last throw in the bin?

A: The Second Half of Your Life. I do not need a book at any time of life to tell me everything will be fine as long as I exercise, gym bunny style, six times a week (four 'strength'/two 'aerobic', whatever that means) and drink vinegar to suppress my appetite. (I naively thought vinegar-drinking was the sort of thing characters in Victorian novels did.)

Q: So which book is safe from the bin?

A: Four Hedges by Clare Leighton who was too busy gardening and producing exquisite wood engravings to workout and drink vinegar.

Q: Which book are you most looking forward to reading?

A: How To Be a Woman Caitlin Moran because she would never, ever tell me to be a gym-bunny and drink vinegar. Plus she is very funny.

Q: Any interesting discoveries recently?

A: Finding out here that I am not the only person in the world who cannot bear the phrase 'going forward'.

Q: Anything else?

A: I stumbled across this Pinterest page last week and did a double-take. It's interesting to see a 'pinboard' of my own photos chosen by other people.

Q: What are you listening to on the radio?

A: Now that they have opened up the archive, hours and hours of Desert Island Discs. So far I've just listened to Kirsty Young interviews because she asks brilliant questions and laughs richly with her guests.

 

Finally,

Q: Are these the best cream buns in London? (Here, where they also do excellent breakfasts at the weekend as well as huge, iced, cream-filled, choux buns.)

A: Possibly. But as I am not Billy Bunter, I haven't yet tried all the cream buns in London. Although the Billy Bunter part of me would like to. 

brief encounters

 
 

[English Walk, Regent's Park]

Brief encounters are the stuff of short stories. They are one of the things that make life so intriguing, so vastly interesting, so full of possibilities. They can and do happen to anyone. They may offer a glimpse into someone else's life, or turn out to be life-changing or simply highly memorable.

I've had quite a few brief encounters and have often wished I could write short stories, so that I could turn them into beautifully crafted narratives or take them to interesting conclusions, in the way that  Mollie Panter-Downes or Elizabeth Taylor or Helen Simpson (my favourite C20 short story writers) might.

 

Trains and cafés are perfect places for brief encounters (as Noel Coward and David Lean well knew). On Friday, en route to Primrose Hill I took a detour through Regent's Park to look at the roses in Queen Mary's Gardens. On my way, I discovered the amazing English Walk which is a funny mix of old-fashioned, costly and labour-intensive carpet bedding schemes, and borders filled with very contemporary-style, modish perennials dotted with colourful annuals - all marvellous and absolutely free.

 

The park was cold and empty, and the famous deckchairs looked very forlorn. No brief encounters happening here.

 

[gate to QM Gardens]

Then the heavens opened. Admittedly, the roses looked beautiful in the dramatic light,

 

and the park was filled with the fragrance of thousands and thousands of roses, intensified by the rain.

 

So I took cover in the café and met a very interesting woman from Vancouver and we talked until the rain abated and I could go home (all plans of going further were abandoned). She told me about a very different way of life and shared so much in a short time, and it was a pleasure to have met her.

It reminded me of the time I went into the original Patisserie Valerie in Soho (long before it became part of a chain) and I shared a table with a delightful woman who turned out to be Sarah Garland, whose books I was then reading to Tom, Alice and Phoebe.

And of the time when I was student travelling home by train in one of those separate compartments with just one fellow passenger, a young man, who kept smiling at me. After a couple of hours of smiling, he wrote a note and handed it to me. 'I love you. Will you marry me?' Nerves, not the promise of an adventure, got the better of me and I changed compartments.

But I still like cafés, trains, and brief encounters. And short stories. 

 

sunny side of the moon

Checklist of requirements for the book event at Mrs Moon  on Saturday:

Clean clothes 

Clean hair

Clean teeth

Two dozen mini chocolate cakes

Two dozen mini lemon cakes

Bag of knitted projects

Lovely yarn shop

Lovely yarn shop owners

Roses from garden of one of the lovely yarn shop owners

Flowery mini cakes baked by lovely yarn shop owner  

Piles of knitting books

Pen

Plenty of knitters, book- and blog-readers

Lots of chat and tea and book-signing

Camera 

So it is just as well that Clare brought hers and took some great photos (although I did have my phone camera which didn't do justice to the flowers and Susan's floral cakes).

Thank you to Susan and Karen for arranging and hosting a wonderful, sunny afternoon (sunny weather and sunny atmosphere), and thank you to everyone who came. It was a huge pleasure to meet you, and to have time for a chat.

discovery

 

A few years ago, purely by accident (leaving bulbs in pots outside after they had flowered), I discovered that it's very easy to grow amaryllis (hippeastrum) bulbs outdoors in this country. Due to my forgetfulness/bulb-planting fatigue last December, I had a number of unplanted amaryllis bulbs left 0ver, and thought I'd missed the moment. But they seemed quite healthy and firm, so in April (or maybe May) I bunged each one in a small terracotta pot and stood the pots in a sunny spot near the house. And now we have some fabulously huge, colourful flowers and half a dozen stunningly dark and dramatic ones to come. A very serendipitous discovery.

my love is like a topaz rose

 

It was our twenty-third wedding anniversary at the weekend. We were both relieved we remembered the date. Later I had a look to see which gift material we should have been buying for each other, and was further relieved to find out that this business of having something for every year is a relatively modern one, and that until the 1930s it was only the milestone anniversaries had certain materials associated with them. Mind you, looking the list, I am even more relieved that we tend to gloss over our anniversary - I dread to think what could be given for a 10th. And I can't believe that 'appliances' are the modern alternative to 'flowers and fruit' for the 4th; all those happily married people hoping for a dishwasher/posh coffee-maker but receiving an apple or a hastily picked daffodil...

  

But a little further post-anniversary delving revealed that the 23rd anniversary gift (as decreed, unsurprisingly or perhaps enterprisingly, by an American gemstone company) is topaz. And this, quite by coincidence, is what I got, in the form of beautiful roses grown by Simon which I picked from the garden (only a day late).

In the future, if we do ever happen to remember in time, I think it should be a flower and a poem* for every anniversary.

[* Anglicised version, I know, but I don't have the Scottish accent]