Day trippers: Part 2

Lots of classical stonemasonry, including St Bernard's Well, with the goddess Hygieia, who looks healthy, even rather sturdy.

Day trippers: Part 1

Off on the train yesterday morning, to Edinburgh, where I used to live. Over the railway viaduct (the Royal Border Bridge) across the river Tweed at Berwick. I lived here too. Met up with sister Anne and brother in law John and set off to walk part of the Water of Leith, from Dean Village, along a tranquil path through the heart of the city.

Time flies

This is my grandmother Rachel (pron. the French way, Rah-shell) with my Tante Mimi, in 1913. And here she is again in 1955, looking very modern, in one of the simple patterned frocks that I remember so well. Every time she came to stay with us, and unpacked her holiday dresses, I noticed how wonderful they smelled, so particular to her. It was years later, in fabric shops, that I realised what the smell was - new fabric, especially satinised cotton - and from then on, I associate that lovely odour and small prints of new cloth with my beloved Bonma.

I am often struck by how much change my grandmother's generation experienced. She was born in the early 1890s and died in the 1980s, aged 96; she used the early models of telephones, and witnessed the moon landings. Her clothes alone tell so much: from full length dresses and buttoned boots, worn with long pinned-up hair, to the pastel matching coat and dress sets she favoured in her later years, hair neatly permed. She lived through two World Wars, enduring both enemy occupation and intense Allied bombing, coming through it all as strong and as energetic as ever, and always fiercely pro-British (two of her sisters came over to Selkirk in Scotland during the 1st World War, having heard that there was a need for land girls to help on the farms). She was a superb cook, and a ferociously clean housekeeper. She laughed and cried easily, was sentimental and sporadically religious, relishing a regular trip to Lourdes for some unspecified malady or other. She had fat little handbags that were always overstuffed - and we watched out for the inevitable bursting and spilling of astonishing contents. She loved a game of cribbage with my father, although neither learned to speak the other's language, and she spoiled and favoured me quite outrageously. Which I loved. My mother had very mixed feelings about her, and no doubt bore the month-long visits with occasional lapses of patience - I remember argumentative conversations - but I wanted her to stay for ever.

Grand Old Man!

After following Laurie's stories of her grandparents, I have been thinking a great deal about mine. I've already written about my father's scary stepmother (post of Jan. 28th) but I know a great deal more about my mother's parents, who lived in Ghent, Belgium. This is my grandfather, Arthur. A quiet, decent, easygoing man, with a great love for his family, he died when I was two, but was spoken of so often and adoringly by my mother that I felt I knew him better than I did. My grandmother Rachel married him in defiance of the wishes of her own mother, who refused to come to the wedding or to even speak to her for some time afterwards, although it was a good match to a man who was well-respected and frequently sought out for advice and help.

Arthur said little and thought much, and when he made up his mind about something that he felt should be done, he remained quietly determined, and generally got his way. During the early days of the war, after the Nazis overran Holland and Belgium, he met a man in the street who, in great distress, told him that his house had just been commandeered by the German Army and that he, his wife and their son had been summarily kicked out. And as a Jew, this man knew enough to recognise that things would rapidly get worse. My grandfather simply said "Come with me", and took him to my grandmother, and that was how a Jewish family lived secretly in a back room of my grandparents' home for months, until they were able to be smuggled out to Switzerland. (And the smuggling out part of the saga belongs to my mother, who could tell a story like no one else, full of drama and excitement, yet devoid of true horror or fear until we were old enough to understand. And even then, she edited out so much that was unpleasant that we could only guess at the privations and dangers they all faced during those dreadful years.)

This picture, found in Tante Mimi's things, was taken well after the war, and I would guess dates from around 1948/9. The note on the back, in my mother's hand, reads (very roughly translated) as "Papa wants me to say that the old lady next to him isn't with him!" Tante Mimi would have had a good chuckle at that, and especially at the old lady's hat.

The desire to help others ran very strongly in my mother too, and combined with the strong will and refusal to bow down to unreasonable rules, that she inherited from her mother, makes me feel that had she found herself in a situation like Arthur's, the decision to risk extreme personal danger in order to help another human being would have come as simply and naturally to her as it did to him. I look back on their respective lives with wonder and admiration, and also with a suspicion that under similar pressure, I would not be able to match their standards and their moral certainty.

Confidence growth! December to April

Lottie on her first, wary day here on Dec. 12th, and as she looks now, full of life and interest. She was rescued from a cold, unheated flat, where she, several other cats and two large dogs were left to fend for themselves, while their owner stayed at his girlfriend's house. Feeding seems to have been occasional, and possibly highly stressful due to competition, and there certainly wasn't enough of it. The rescue people described her as having hip bones that stuck out like coathangers. Not any more! She loves living here, and settled quickly. She's still nervous and jumpy at feeding time, and needs some coaxing to eat more than a mouthful, but she's less fearful of external noises or jostling from her bumptious adopted little sister Millie, and she is steadily gaining weight. I think she's just adorable.

Spring growth! January to April

Look at how big this little girl is getting! Maybe one day she'll have grown into those enormous feet. And always washing - herself or somebody else; she likes us all to be glossy and smooth.

Till next time!

He's going away today. The dog has been moping since yesterday, when the gathering-up of scattered belongings started, and the kitten (just visible with her beloved Lottie) will lose another object of fascination. I shall be brave; after all, there's only a 3-hour train journey between us. But saying goodbye to one's child never becomes easy.

Small pleasures

An orderly shed, with a newly-built, handy, sturdy shelf across the back. The mice will like that to frolic on.

A decent amount of horse manure stored in a tidy heap.

The demolition of the bizarre giant cold frame (already there when I took the plot on) always referred to as Snow White's Coffin, slowly rotting and always full of grass and snails.

A number of transplanted things that look like they were thrilled to be moved out of the grass-infested border, and that grew an inch overnight to celebrate.

Enough sunshine today to make it easy to sit down for ten minutes and just listen to the birds (including a woodpecker). If only we could bear to drink thermos tea....

But, sadly, the pond has a slow leak. No frogspawn for us this year, but having made the first pond on site, it caught on, and there are now about 9 others, so hopefully there will be frogs for all. I love to be surprised by a tiny frog hopping out of the undergrowth.

The Lovely Son goes back to London tomorrow (sob, sob, sniffle....) but he has left his mark. Thanks to all his hard graft, I feel that this year the allotment won't get away from me as it did last year, and that I can actually enjoy being down there without being crushed by feelings of guilt and failure. Thank you, Mr Human Rotavator! If I could send you tuck parcels of the home made ice cream you have enjoyed so much, I would.

Bitten 2

The allergic response to those bites received last Wednesday continues; I have a swollen hand that looks like a small rubber cushion, no knuckles visible, with a feeling of intense pins and needles, although the waves of general malaise have stopped. I don't know what those little black and white flies were, but they certainly knew how to take advantage of a very small area of exposed skin. B***ards, as the Lovely Son would say (and does).

Down on the allotment yesterday, Eddie the Poisoner saw the bloated hand (as it handed him some newly baked and buttered cheese scones, incidentally) and responded by launching into a sorry tale of people afflicted by flesh-eating bacteria following a sand flea bite. Well, he would; he specialises in enjoying the dismal, the doom-laden and the deadly, and we know better than to allow ourselves to be too alarmed. The war on weeds continues, but this time with insect-repellent applied.

so much to do!

The Human Rotavator spent much of the day down on the allotment, slowly restoring order to the neglect and chaos, and doing all the heavy stuff that hurts my back. I waited in for a delivery, wishing guiltily that I could be down there with him instead. He had ample reason to suck his teeth in disapproval at my lack of Method, and kindly saved his somewhat robust views for when I could join him; he dug a bean trench, wheeled manure, and stored timber, and as a reward to himself, lit a fire, so that he could disapprove and stay warm at the same time.

When I joined him, rather later in the day, I could wholeheartedly marvel and praise, take photos and generally be bossed about. I was pressed into holding awkward things as he swapped compost bins around (with much bad language and a couple of kicks when it came to the supposedly easy-click-together one). I was made to promise that in future (did he mean for ever?) I would work in an organised and tidy way, including putting things back where I found them. I meekly promised, while pondering inwardly how soon roles are reversed with one's child. He has the bit between his teeth; I can't see him going back to London till he has my allotment licked into shape, and his mother resigned to smelling perpetually of bonfire smoke. I keep telling him how grateful I am, but actually, words just can't express what a relief it is to have such a helper, even if he is a bossyboots who doesn't weed very thoroughly.

The rhubarb is coming along nicely, as it always does, regardless of either care or neglect. Our allotments could be called Rhubarb World, there is so much of it around. I was gratified to see that in Sainsbury, 400 grams of rhubarb was selling at around £3.50. We allotmenteers are the nouveau rhubarb riche!

(Soon it will be time to try rhubarb and ginger ice cream - any recipes welcome, although Ben & Jerry maintain that disasters are few and far between with home made ice cream, and so far they seem to be right.)

The biting insects seemed to have cleared off once the pond was cleaned out; good thing too, as they inflicted the worst bites I have ever experienced. The birds fluttered nearby, despite the smoky fire, and sang their Spring songs beautifully; they also cleaned the fence of the first batch of cat fur in record time. The dog signalled that it was dinnertime by finding a cauliflower stalk destined for the compost, and chewed on that with her few random teeth in a martyred way, and so we relented to plod our muddy way uphill to home and large quantities of tea, ever the gardener's reward.

Bitten

The Lovely Son is here, looking fit and toned, and is ready to dig, bless him. Yesterday afternoon we went to the allotment bearing a huge and smelly bag of kitchen compost, saved up for a shamefully long time, and we did some work on the neglected pond and greenhouse. I seem to have allowed my little pond to turn into a malarial swamp. Something truly malevolent bit me on my wrists, five times, producing strange, oval, flat red marks, hot, itchy and misery-inducing. Nothing has helped; they are my punishment for being a Very Lazy Gardener. But I am allowing myself a very early night, and am going off now to lie in my cool bedroom, arms covered in tea tree and lavender cream, and try not to scratch my bites. Tomorrow I am gardening in long evening gloves, I think.

Whirling dervish

or why my nerves are in tatters.

and more

Oh, the joy of reading this Children's Press translation of HC Andersen, with its antiquated language, and the thrilling horror of the Snow Queen, a moving love story filled with unforgettable, vivid characters such as the terrifying little robber maiden with her cruel dagger, and the wise yet squalid women from Lapland and Finland! I have wanted to see the Northern Lights ever since (and could probably benefit from having my imaginary view of both countries seriously challenged and modernised).

And the other book, also much loved, seems to be one of those accidentally-filched ones, as I find that the inscription shows it to be a gift to my sister from me, in 1963. Sorry, Anne; you may have it back if you wish.

Dusty treasures

I'm not saying or showing another trivial thing about the staircase now. I've moved on to sorting bookshelves. And am rather perplexed at the state of my bookshelves, or at least their contents - there's an awful lot of rubbish in there! - but also some gems.

I have a few old books dating from my childhood, some of which still evoke the thrill of the day they arrived, brand new, stiff and shiny, and now peeling, stained and battered from many many readings. Arthur Mee's Children's Encyclopaedia! - so many hours of pleasure, wonder and accumulated general knowledge, plus a strong dose of British imperialist patriotism that would be unthinkable in today's books for children. It was read secretly when we had measles and had to lie in a darkened bedroom, forbidden to open curtains or risk straining our eyes in any way. It's amazing that the childhood books have lasted; as Army children, we frequently moved house or even country, our belongings always pared to the bone at the time of packing, and much that was treasured had to be left behind.

There are some books that I've started and not finished for a variety of reasons, although it took me a long time to allow myself not to finish a book I wasn't enjoying. Even now, I feel a pang of guilty failure when I stop trying with a novel.

And there are some that should be there, but aren't. They are the books that were loaned out and not returned, and the sad thing is that they were loaned out precisely because I loved them so much that I wanted to share them, but as someone who will re-read favourite books, didn't expect to part with them for ever. But there are also some books on my shelves that I fear I may have borrowed and not returned, for exactly the same reason that I haven't reclaimed my own missing favourites - I forgot who gave me them. Very occasionally, an owner's name is written inside, but therein lies a hidden danger for one who is trying to dust, order and rationalise one's bookshelves - the danger of opening a book, and three hours later, to be found still sitting on the floor beside the bookshelf, reading, reading, lost to the world.

doors!

unanimous decision

...overruled by me. I can hear you tutting from here.... but I couldn't bear to have only one door in the house left unpainted, and, ungrateful wilful wretch that I am, decided to go against all you lovely people who took the time to express an opinion (thank you!). The paint has brought out the prettiness of the etched glass, though, in a way that the plain wood didn't.

The Apprentice

It's finished! The staircase has lost its DIY-in-the-'80s look, having been stripped of its old embossed wallpaper, had its many holes and crumbling patches repaired, lined, and repainted, and now smells violently of gloss paint, but it looks SO much better. The mantra "It will be worth it in the end" has proved exactly right.

Tomorrow, when all has dried, the handles and finger plates will go back on the doors, and Margery and I will do our White Tornado double act: she, being the Vacuum Princess, will hoover that old stair carpet to within an inch of its life, and I will damp-dust yet again (all those bits behind the furniture!) and perhaps take a picture of that new lobby door..... plain pine or painted? Wait and see.

And who has paint on their fur or whiskers? Nobody. This is a first. Who left fingerprints on the still-tacky paint, that had then to be repainted? Yes, me.

The Little Helper is going to be bored and lonely now; she bonded enthusiastically with Wally, watching him work as though she was going to sit an exam in paintbrush technique. Today, however, she took some time out to get onto the shed roof and from there into my neighbour's back yard. There are newts and frogs in there; I have watched her killer response to the bit of navy blue fur with a bell on, that she drops into my lap so that I can throw it for her to catch, again and again, and dread to think what fun she thinks we will have with a living creature.

before & after: chair

This was a little old chair languishing in the attic, used only by cats, and generally in need of a bit of tender loving care. A £7 remnant of John Lewis fabric and a retired upholsterer worked miracles. Now I have to think where to put it. Wherever it goes, it is bound to be slept on by cats; they simply don't appreciate linen, or piping, or indeed tender loving care that isn't expended on them.

positive thinking

Joiner number 2 has been, had a good, knowledgeable look at the staircase, and has pronounced it all perfectly repairable, and affordably so. Visitors have been in droves, and all have agreed that my paint colours are lovely. The sun is shining, and it is warm enough to sit outside without a coat, watching excitable little cats darting in and out of the daffodils. Tomorrow my newly-upholstered chairs come back, and just for now, I can't think of anything to worry about. Phew, that's a relief.

first landing

Just to give you the idea. Dulux white truffle and grape ash.