Meet Kerry and other flowers

About ten years ago Kerry sought sanctuary with us at Christmas time. Never hampered by convention Kerry was full of surprises, including my present: a muddy bag of soil and bulbs. Many years later and this autumn they brighten my life again. Kerry has long since succumbed to cancer; she is gone but never forgotten.

One memory segues into another, and this time it is my Grandmother. I would be escorted around her garden; 'meet Vera' she would say, or 'this one is Alice'. Granny would have put Miss Marple to shame, the contrast between the amiably batty exterior and the scalpel sharp brain. Her garden was receptacle for memories, each plant given to her by a friend was a lasting memorial to happier times and ideas. So, in her honour, having introduced you to Kerry meet a few more friends.











Don't you love a friend who turns up weeks after you have moved into a new home with gifts? In Nikki's case it was a sack of horse dung, a Handel rose and a chicken house complete with chooks. The chicken house has long ago been rebuilt, but the rose goes from strength to strength.











finally, for today, here is Sarah. One morning she turned up at the gallery where we worked with a gift: a tip of a sedum plant, liberated from a random garden somewhere in North London. That cutting has been the Daddy (or Mummy) of many more.

These photos are some of the first steps with my new, old camera. I hope to explain why soon. first I must complete my first collection of beautiful things...

Inspired by the amazing Annie at Manneskjur - I recommend you take a peek
http://www.manneskjur.com/gardens/73-how-does-your-garden-grow
Xx

Creative

We found this potters wheel in a charity shop for £1. The Hubster rewired it, i reconstituted the dried out clay so the Pickle could get really creative. She did not finish a pot, but she had loads of fun and had some practice.





Now as this is part of a photography linky, I was decided to compare my new camera (above) with my old (below). Notice a difference?


I can't think creativity without mentioning my own. I am having the time of my life, but burning at both ends as I have my first show/sale next Monday and o am racing to get a collection together.


Click on the icon to the right to see all the other lovely posts. Thanks Tara for kicking my butt, I love a linky to force me to revisit my blog.
Xx

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A crooked pot kiln

(Photo: the post lunch waddle)

We have been meaning to go to the Crooked Billet in in Stoke Row since before I had grey hair. This anniversary a trip was planned, and we were finally set to go. Five minutes to blast off and I hear 'It was the Pot Kiln wasn't it?' So the Crooked Billet will have to wait.

From the moment that you see the veg patch as you walk to the pub you know you are onto a winner. We have been here a few times, normally with dog for a pub lunch then a walk. It is set in beautiful countryside and there are some rewarding walks, whether you want to go for a stroll or a two hour march.

This time we were went for the full dining experience. An anniversary lunch for five! Forget linen tablecloths or matching chairs, this is a place with no pretence - it does not need to be feign airs and graced. A simple seasonal menu with a few specials, and a children's menu too. The chief is renowned for his game cookery, so that does feature large on the menu, but there seems to be something for everyone.

I went for the full game experience. I had wood pigeon with celeriac and black pudding to start, a rather ballsy intro but a gamble that paid off. It was earthy yet refined and manageable. Home cured gravaldax and the ubiquitous goats' cheese may not have scored on the originality stakes, but the Pot Kiln has that Jessica Alba vibe - you know the gentle deceit of pretending to be the approachable girl next door while in reality being way out of your league. So, the basic eighties menu staples can cushion you from the challenge 'roe liver and foie gras parfait with muntjac lollipops'.

I was tempted to see if anyone could render the bullets also known as grouse edible, but good sense - or prejudice - prevailled and I went for partridge, a local speciality with chard and farcement potatoes (the humble spud with bacon and plums with calories injected in under pressure). Partridge is a favourite subtle flavour (or game for wimps) but whichever way it was cooked to perfection. The family had a roast rump joint, which they happily suggested would feed not just the recommended two adults but two children too. No fillet steak here, but a meaty cut with all the flavour and the flavour packed a punch.

It would have been sensible to have stopped there but greed tempted us on. The Valrhona chocolate and raspberry pudding looked like a door stop but miraculous it disappeared. Okay, I regret it now as a write like a beached whale, but at the time it seemed entirely logical to trough the lot: lightness offset the rich, and the sour balanced the sweet.

Reading the wine list there was little remarkable, many options that see interesting at around £34, but i bowed to my Dad's rationale that if a good restaurant can't do a decent house wine then they miss the point. Starters were around £7.50 and mains high teens. A special treat, but I am happy to save up for a repeat trip. I am so pleased the Hubster cocked up and we ended up here again, and I still have the Crocked Billet to look forward to, one of these years....maybe.

I waddled out like a beached whale. We did not for our regular stomp across the fields, but a crawl up to St.Frideswide Well. I took a deep slurp hoping that it's medicinal qualities will help my memories survive longer than my enhance spare tyre.


Ps should I have taken some pics of the food? Do you live in the moment and saveur, or snap for posterity.

Pps as you may have guessed - this is in no way sponsored :)

Silent Sunday

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Silent Sunday

Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Animals: Molly

Molly was the coolest cat - and my first. We found her dedraggled at an RSPCA centre. She was tiny with short, but scruffy, hair. As she shared a name my best friends Mum I went into her cell for a chat and she claimed me. She sat on my shoulder and drenched me with her tail that had been dangling in her drinking water and our mutual fate was sealed.

Small, shy, scruffy short haired cat became a solid long haired cat in no time. That was thirteen years ago. She was much like her owner, part cool part total disaster (aren't cats meant to be agile? She would often fall off a wall or miss the perch she aimed for, quickly glancing over her shoulder to see if she had been observed).

A month ago we found her; she had keeled over mid prowl. She was stretched out, as if about to dispatch yet another rodent. If she had to go she would have liked it that way. I was so relieved that she did not suffer, it was weeks of her absence that I appreciated how much she was missed.

Molly, rest in peace, you deserve it and you will very missed.

Does my garden still grow?

The pangs of my conscience boomed almost orchestral, as my garden became a wildlife haven good for supporting bees but remiss in the dinner time offerings. Will power out distracted and procrastination triumphant.

Then came the great purge and alongside nine trailer to the tip it slowly dissected wood from trees. If every fairy needs a tree and magician their cloak I found mine.








The great grotty garden gillet, home made yes but grim I admit. I put it on and time sped, a second became hours and I looked down and smiled to see grit ground into my nails and gardening entrails dangling from my hair. I was a mess but my garden was showing promise.

I refuse to turn it into a show garden, I love it's randomness. But the late salad crop will have to coexist with the important mini beast log pile house. You can see it here in the space that used to be a shantytown.






I will allow the flowers a little privacy this week while they settle down, but hope to link up soon, but in the meantime here is our fly eating pitcher plant that we have been decorating with bees and the sun.





Butt firmly kicked into gardening by the amazing Mammeskjur: