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For a lot of today it has rained; there was a let up at about 2pm, then another dribble just after I’d had a walk, which was good timing. It’s now looking as though it may pour again, just as we get to going-home-time. I mustn’t grumble, as it’s much needed, which seems bizarre when one considers what a wet summer we have been having. But the wet weather ended two weeks ago and there has not been a drop of rain since, only stifling heat and high humidity. So this is doubly welcome. It waters the Gardens (and everyone else’s gardens too, of course, including mine!) and it brings down the ambient temperature slightly. I went out at lunch and walked with real pleasure in the wet grass.
Rain brings out the subtle scents of lavender and myrtle and escallonia, and the distinctive and delicious perfume called “very-dry-ground-now-wet”, as well as the rather less delicious first autumnal whiff of wet dead foliage. Sweet rain, blessing unlooked for, that washes and refreshes everything, and calms the frazzled mind, and cools the besandalled feet...
Showing posts with label gardens. Show all posts
Showing posts with label gardens. Show all posts
Thursday, 4 August 2011
Friday, 17 June 2011
Another day, another lunch break
I've just tried to go to Kew's new ice cream parlour, attached to the visitor café beside Climbers & Creepers, the children's play area. Sadly I found it was closed for cleaning. I had to content myself with looking in through the windows at a tempting display; twenty different flavours, dozens of choices of sprinkles, sauces, popcorn, doughnuts etc... It felt a bit like being six again - "No you can't have an ice cream, you had one yesterday" - oh well, it's a rainy day, not really ice cream weather. I was just curious.
At least I could still get a sandwich in the main part of the café, where I bumped into Quarantinewoman by the cake section. We had a short chat about cake, how good cake is, and the general necessity of cake, while she tried to squint at my name badge surreptitiously. I restrained the urge to say "You've forgotten who I am, haven't you, Quarantinewoman?" as it seemed a bit mean since she was trying to place me without embarrassing herself. I bought cake (gluten-free chocolate squidgey cake, yum!) and left her still in contemplation of the choices. It's a cake range worth contemplating, goodness knows.
I walked back to the office. In the rain, summer scents like pine and escallonia come out, and the lavenders are veiled with silver droplets. Partway back, near the Orangery, there's a bed that has been planted up with herbaceous plants, all now in bloom in a wonderful array of clashing colours - yellow, orange, purple, more yellow; pot marigolds and day lilies and salvias, all blazing away in the muted, rainy light. There was a wren singing in the tree above the bed, and a toddler in wellington boots was passing by carrying an umbrella larger than himself, jumping in puddles blissfully. Heaven in a garden.
What else? Ah, yes; heaven in music.
Last night's broadcast of heat three of Cardiff Singer produced not one but two of those spine-tingling moments when you feel the touch of angels. The order of play went - one good, one adequate but nervous, then one very good - an Aussie mezzo who bounded through a gorgeously tricky chunk of Handel coloratura, making it sound easy-peasy.
I was just thinking "That's tonight's heat winner, then" when the next singer came on and trumped her. Valentina Naforitsa from Moldova; sheer bliss to listen to, a classic lyric-dramatic soprano with beautiful tone, seamless legato, wonderful awareness of vocal colour, and true acting ability. Oh, and good-looking, too. The famous "complete package" that the jury members always say they're looking for. Okay, thought I, so that's tonight's winner, then.
And then Andrei Bondarenko from the Ukraine came on and trumped her, with a superb baritone voice that was like velvet, subtle and flavoursome as manzanilla, from bottom to delicious top. Beautiful tone - check. Seamless legato - check (and in spades, too). Perfect control, perfect colour, perfectly-balanced dramatic sense - check. Oh, and did I forget to mention? - good-looking, too. A singer who could step straight into Favourite Baritone's roles and do every one of them justice - yes, even Pelléas - he had a beautiful upper register and I can't believe he'd have any trouble with it... indeed, the mere thought makes me long to hear him sing it, and I wouldn't have expected ever to want another Pelléas after FB.
To get two such fabulous singers, one after the other, leaves the hairs on the back of one's neck standing up. This, of course, is why the finalists are the top scoring singers overall, rather than automatically the heat winners; because it would be cruelty itself if one of these two had been dropped, simply from the bad luck of being in the strongest round so far. As it was, I felt it was rough on the Aussie lass, who was delightful, because she paled in comparison with them. I think I've just seen two of the next generation of Great Singers - the people who in forty years will be judging competitions like this, and getting goosebumps themselves as they hear the next generation coming out and dazzling them.
Andrei Bondarenko won, but if the Moldovan doesn't also get into the final I'll fry my hat and eat it with tartare sauce.
You can read all about Cardiff Singer of the World, from commentators a lot more expert than me, and also listen to the performances, on the BBC website:
http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b0120y62
It's worth it.
At least I could still get a sandwich in the main part of the café, where I bumped into Quarantinewoman by the cake section. We had a short chat about cake, how good cake is, and the general necessity of cake, while she tried to squint at my name badge surreptitiously. I restrained the urge to say "You've forgotten who I am, haven't you, Quarantinewoman?" as it seemed a bit mean since she was trying to place me without embarrassing herself. I bought cake (gluten-free chocolate squidgey cake, yum!) and left her still in contemplation of the choices. It's a cake range worth contemplating, goodness knows.
I walked back to the office. In the rain, summer scents like pine and escallonia come out, and the lavenders are veiled with silver droplets. Partway back, near the Orangery, there's a bed that has been planted up with herbaceous plants, all now in bloom in a wonderful array of clashing colours - yellow, orange, purple, more yellow; pot marigolds and day lilies and salvias, all blazing away in the muted, rainy light. There was a wren singing in the tree above the bed, and a toddler in wellington boots was passing by carrying an umbrella larger than himself, jumping in puddles blissfully. Heaven in a garden.
What else? Ah, yes; heaven in music.
Last night's broadcast of heat three of Cardiff Singer produced not one but two of those spine-tingling moments when you feel the touch of angels. The order of play went - one good, one adequate but nervous, then one very good - an Aussie mezzo who bounded through a gorgeously tricky chunk of Handel coloratura, making it sound easy-peasy.
I was just thinking "That's tonight's heat winner, then" when the next singer came on and trumped her. Valentina Naforitsa from Moldova; sheer bliss to listen to, a classic lyric-dramatic soprano with beautiful tone, seamless legato, wonderful awareness of vocal colour, and true acting ability. Oh, and good-looking, too. The famous "complete package" that the jury members always say they're looking for. Okay, thought I, so that's tonight's winner, then.
And then Andrei Bondarenko from the Ukraine came on and trumped her, with a superb baritone voice that was like velvet, subtle and flavoursome as manzanilla, from bottom to delicious top. Beautiful tone - check. Seamless legato - check (and in spades, too). Perfect control, perfect colour, perfectly-balanced dramatic sense - check. Oh, and did I forget to mention? - good-looking, too. A singer who could step straight into Favourite Baritone's roles and do every one of them justice - yes, even Pelléas - he had a beautiful upper register and I can't believe he'd have any trouble with it... indeed, the mere thought makes me long to hear him sing it, and I wouldn't have expected ever to want another Pelléas after FB.
To get two such fabulous singers, one after the other, leaves the hairs on the back of one's neck standing up. This, of course, is why the finalists are the top scoring singers overall, rather than automatically the heat winners; because it would be cruelty itself if one of these two had been dropped, simply from the bad luck of being in the strongest round so far. As it was, I felt it was rough on the Aussie lass, who was delightful, because she paled in comparison with them. I think I've just seen two of the next generation of Great Singers - the people who in forty years will be judging competitions like this, and getting goosebumps themselves as they hear the next generation coming out and dazzling them.
Andrei Bondarenko won, but if the Moldovan doesn't also get into the final I'll fry my hat and eat it with tartare sauce.
You can read all about Cardiff Singer of the World, from commentators a lot more expert than me, and also listen to the performances, on the BBC website:
http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b0120y62
It's worth it.
Monday, 9 August 2010
Peace and quiet and open air...
I had a wonderful weekend. I went to see my mother. She’s having some health problems and I was afraid she’d be depressed and hard to cheer up, but I found her quite buoyant, working hard on seeing her glass as half full and not letting herself worry about things she can’t control. We had a pleasant lunch out on Saturday, did a giant general knowledge quizz (nicely tough) in the afternoon, and spent most of Sunday sitting in her back garden in companionable quietness, reading and drinking cups of tea.
Sunday was a bright day, sunny but not too hot, and the garden was full of the hum of bees and the flutter of birds’ wings in the trees. Dozens of butterflies, gatekeepers and small whites, tortoiseshells and red admirals, were looping about between the fennel plants and lavenders and the last, spicy-scented Frau Dagmar roses. Goldfinches flitted about in the cypresses, chirruping constantly to one another, and the thrushes came down to the terrace steps to bash their snails, and paused to give us the leery eye, and went on bashing. A lawn mower buzzed a few gardens away. Flying ants were climbing up grass stalks and launching themselves, and a handful of gulls soared high overhead, picking them off. At about four pm a blackbird began to sing in the top of a neighbour’s apple tree. Then at about five thirty the man in the house at the far end came into his garden and began to do his accordion practice, adding a layer of soft, sweet folk music in the distance.
It was one of those days of simple magic, a day that just is; when one steps aside from the bustle of busy life and mental chaff, and the strong and gentle stuff of a deeper reality comes in at every pore and through every sense. Whatever one conceives the divine to be, he, she or it is intensely present on such days and in such places.
The air was warm, perfumed with the old roses and the resinous pungency of herbs and conifer needles. The birds chattered and sang and the breeze murmured, but there was no traffic, there were no aircraft going over, no trains passing. It could not have been more different from my dear, but very noisy, little bit of London garden, hard up against the embankment of the District Line, and half a mile from the Heathrow flight path.
I do love my bit of Chiswick garden, though, despite the fact it isn’t a patch on mum’s huge and peaceful haven of towering green and crowding life. I love my local birds, though I can’t afford to keep four different birdfeeders all topped up (she has fat balls, sunflower seed, peanuts and niger seed; a veritable birds’ deli counter). I love my lavenders, though they are a fraction the size of hers, and my very ordinary lobelias and pansies and petunias, and the urban fox cubs scuttling among the buddleias along the railway line and yipping at one another in the dusk… It isn’t the home of my heart, I know, but it is home, and I have dearly loved having the caring of it for this time.
Sunday was a bright day, sunny but not too hot, and the garden was full of the hum of bees and the flutter of birds’ wings in the trees. Dozens of butterflies, gatekeepers and small whites, tortoiseshells and red admirals, were looping about between the fennel plants and lavenders and the last, spicy-scented Frau Dagmar roses. Goldfinches flitted about in the cypresses, chirruping constantly to one another, and the thrushes came down to the terrace steps to bash their snails, and paused to give us the leery eye, and went on bashing. A lawn mower buzzed a few gardens away. Flying ants were climbing up grass stalks and launching themselves, and a handful of gulls soared high overhead, picking them off. At about four pm a blackbird began to sing in the top of a neighbour’s apple tree. Then at about five thirty the man in the house at the far end came into his garden and began to do his accordion practice, adding a layer of soft, sweet folk music in the distance.
It was one of those days of simple magic, a day that just is; when one steps aside from the bustle of busy life and mental chaff, and the strong and gentle stuff of a deeper reality comes in at every pore and through every sense. Whatever one conceives the divine to be, he, she or it is intensely present on such days and in such places.
The air was warm, perfumed with the old roses and the resinous pungency of herbs and conifer needles. The birds chattered and sang and the breeze murmured, but there was no traffic, there were no aircraft going over, no trains passing. It could not have been more different from my dear, but very noisy, little bit of London garden, hard up against the embankment of the District Line, and half a mile from the Heathrow flight path.
I do love my bit of Chiswick garden, though, despite the fact it isn’t a patch on mum’s huge and peaceful haven of towering green and crowding life. I love my local birds, though I can’t afford to keep four different birdfeeders all topped up (she has fat balls, sunflower seed, peanuts and niger seed; a veritable birds’ deli counter). I love my lavenders, though they are a fraction the size of hers, and my very ordinary lobelias and pansies and petunias, and the urban fox cubs scuttling among the buddleias along the railway line and yipping at one another in the dusk… It isn’t the home of my heart, I know, but it is home, and I have dearly loved having the caring of it for this time.
Thursday, 18 June 2009
No moaning today...
...nor grumbles, nor gripes. I have realised with a nasty jolt that lately I have done nothing but complain about *s*t*u*f*f* in this blog, and truly I have bugger all to complain about compared to many people, not to mention other life-forms.
So here instead are some of the good things. Brace yourselves; this is Imogen celebrating instead of Imogen whinging.
1. It hasn't rained yet today.
2. A nice-looking bloke in an open-topped car grinned at me this morning as I was cycling to work (realistically, I know this was probably because I was showing a hell of a lot of leg owing to my skirt blowing back, but I am only human and a grin is still a grin).
3. The linden trees are in full blossom everywhere and the scent is indescribable; sweet yet herbal, hauntingly evocative of open spaces and clear light, and other such things that are lacking in west London but delightful still when called up in the memory.
4. I have found out how to work the Dvd player at home, and was able to sit down and watch a good movie, that night a couple of evenings ago when I felt so terrible.
5. Ever since watching said good movie ("Master and Commander") I have been humming the lovely, dancing melody of the piece by Boccherini that is played as the film ends; unlike most tunes that get into one's head and won't leave, this one continues to delight me even after several days. As does the memory of the film; I had forgotten how brilliantly it conjures up a totally believable shipboard life, how damned exciting it is, and how marvellous the cinematography is. I had forgotten that Russell Crowe gives one of his best performances in it (he sleepwalks through "Gladiator", yet is capable of immense subtlety - see this, or "LA Confidential", or "A Brilliant Mind" in which he underplays stringently, in a rôle where a lot of actors would have chewed the scenery until they collapsed choking on it). I had forgotten that Paul Bettany is also terrific (usually I find him slightly creepy) and the rest of the cast bats right down the order.
6. The Gardens here at Kew are looking lovey - the Mediterranean Garden is a mass of cistus and phlomis and my beloved Spartium juncium, and awash in sweet and resinous incense-y scents. The garden at home is also looking good, though on a laughably small scale in comparison; my first marigold came out yesterday, a tiny buttonhole of egg-yolk yellow, clashing wonderfully with the pink wild geranium growing next to it.
7. I saw "Ondine" at the Royal Ballet a couple of weeks ago and was blown away by it; what a ballet, what a score, and oh how divinely wonderful is Miyako Yoshida...
8. I had a great writing fit last night and cracked a couple of knotty revisions in "GY".
9. It's the end of the day and I can go home now and have a drink.
So here instead are some of the good things. Brace yourselves; this is Imogen celebrating instead of Imogen whinging.
1. It hasn't rained yet today.
2. A nice-looking bloke in an open-topped car grinned at me this morning as I was cycling to work (realistically, I know this was probably because I was showing a hell of a lot of leg owing to my skirt blowing back, but I am only human and a grin is still a grin).
3. The linden trees are in full blossom everywhere and the scent is indescribable; sweet yet herbal, hauntingly evocative of open spaces and clear light, and other such things that are lacking in west London but delightful still when called up in the memory.
4. I have found out how to work the Dvd player at home, and was able to sit down and watch a good movie, that night a couple of evenings ago when I felt so terrible.
5. Ever since watching said good movie ("Master and Commander") I have been humming the lovely, dancing melody of the piece by Boccherini that is played as the film ends; unlike most tunes that get into one's head and won't leave, this one continues to delight me even after several days. As does the memory of the film; I had forgotten how brilliantly it conjures up a totally believable shipboard life, how damned exciting it is, and how marvellous the cinematography is. I had forgotten that Russell Crowe gives one of his best performances in it (he sleepwalks through "Gladiator", yet is capable of immense subtlety - see this, or "LA Confidential", or "A Brilliant Mind" in which he underplays stringently, in a rôle where a lot of actors would have chewed the scenery until they collapsed choking on it). I had forgotten that Paul Bettany is also terrific (usually I find him slightly creepy) and the rest of the cast bats right down the order.
6. The Gardens here at Kew are looking lovey - the Mediterranean Garden is a mass of cistus and phlomis and my beloved Spartium juncium, and awash in sweet and resinous incense-y scents. The garden at home is also looking good, though on a laughably small scale in comparison; my first marigold came out yesterday, a tiny buttonhole of egg-yolk yellow, clashing wonderfully with the pink wild geranium growing next to it.
7. I saw "Ondine" at the Royal Ballet a couple of weeks ago and was blown away by it; what a ballet, what a score, and oh how divinely wonderful is Miyako Yoshida...
8. I had a great writing fit last night and cracked a couple of knotty revisions in "GY".
9. It's the end of the day and I can go home now and have a drink.
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