Dear Readers, a few months ago I read that the National Theatre was planning to create a Dyers’ garden, so that they could use the plants to dye their costumes in a sustainable way, so of course I had to have a look. It’s a rather nice space, and on this glorious day there was a young men with his shirt off reading a very serious-looking book, giving the whole place a rather louche air.

The idea at the moment is to start to build up a book of samples of naturally dyed fabrics, and they are also running dyeing workshops, yoga classes and all kinds of other things in what is a rather lovely space – have a look at the video on the link here. It also gives you an idea of how splendid the space is when it’s in full flower.

At the moment it’s a bit more subdued, but there are still some interesting plants…

Dyer’s Woad

The plant above is Woad (Isatis tinctoria), which produces the blue dye beloved of ancient Britons. I can’t help thinking about the Howard Brenton play ‘The Romans in Britain’, shown in 1980 and immediately the target of Mary Whitehouse, for its brutal scene of male rape. 

Interestingly, this plant is described as ‘alkanet’, but it’s the ‘true’ Alkanet, Anchusa officinalis, rather than the Green Alkanet that’s popping up all over at the moment. I can’t find any mention of this plant as a dye plant, though Green Alkanet is supposed to give a red dye somewhat like henna from its roots.

There are some lovely Pot Marigolds, whose petals give a golden dye….

….huge quantities of fennel  (which as anyone will tell you has a bit of a mind of its own….)

…and plenty of rosemary too!

All in all this is a lovely, little-used spot for a sandwich or a break. The National Theatre is a bit of a maze, but if you keep walking upstairs you’ll find the doors to it just below where the Olivier circle starts.

And while we’re at it, I was at the National to see ‘Les Liasons Dangereuses’ with Lesley Manville and Aldan Turner. What a deliciously nasty piece of work this is: the cruelty is very much the point. Who can forget John Malkovich and Glenn Close in the film, along with Michelle Pfeiffer and Uma Thurman? But this play ran for three hours, and had rather a lot of dancing. Dancing is cool, but it’s the relationships between the protagonists that is the point here, and there is a tauter, more menacing two hour play in here bursting to get off. Manville and Turner are both excellent, but the supporting actors weren’t quite as convincing. Never mind. The ladies sitting next to me loved the dancing and costumes, so maybe I’m just being a curmudgeon, as usual.

Some of the aforementioned dancing

Photo by Mike Segal

Dear Readers, I managed to publish this by mistake yesterday, apologies to anyone  who is now even more confused about what day of the week it is than they were before 🙂

I wasn’t sure about this poem, but the more I sat with it, the more I liked it. Especially the last few lines. See what you think. The poem was commissioned for the 2022 Trafalgar Square Christmas tree celebrations. Wakeling is also a librettist, and I can imagine this set to music.

and a tree
by Kate Wakeling

and a tree is a promise
safe-kept by a seed,
and a tree is a dance
that is swung by the breeze,

and a tree is an engine
spinning only on air
and water and light;
nothing lost, nothing spare,

and a tree is a king
who is topped with a crown,
(and a tree never once
loses touch with the ground)

and a tree is a home
with numberless doors,
and a tree is a world
for an ant to explore,

and a tree is a gift
(for a tree is a lung)
and a tree is a song
that is whispered and sung
by the bees and the birds,
and in rustles and creaks,
yes, a tree is a song
that is sung without words,

and a tree is a lesson
in the meaning of roots,
and how out of the mud
swell the sweetest of fruits,

and a tree is a story
of hope and repair,
or perhaps more a question;
a wish or a prayer,
for a tree (plus a tree)
shows us how we might share,

and when we should grow
and when we should sleep
and what we could lose

and what we must keep.

Dear Readers,  if you look very carefully through the undergrowth to the left of the photo above, you’ll see the corner of our soon-to-be-defunct garden shed. It has served us faithfully for fifteen years, and was probably here for several years before that, but alas, wind  and a bunch of garden mammals have put paid to it as a safe building. In spite of having the roofing replaced twice, it still leaked, and when it managed to short out half of the house a few weeks ago we realised it was becoming the proverbial death trap.

In addition, all manner of woodland  creatures (squirrels/foxes/mice) had gained entrance via the side panels, as you can see. Bless.

And so, as we speak, no less than four burly chaps are dismantling the shed, before it’s replaced by a new one, hopefully with a sounder roof and less easy access for the critters, love them though I do. It’s all a bit disruptive and noisy and there’s lots of coffee to be made, but it will be worth it in the end. Watch this space!

Sunrise in Coldfall Wood, spring 2020

Dear Readers, my lovely friend L is recovering from a hip replacement, but found time on Monday to pop out to Coldfall Wood to listen to the dawn chorus. As she so rightly points out, although the chorus may get a bit louder over the next few weeks, sunrise will also get earlier, meaning you’ll need to spring out of bed not long after 4 a.m. by mid June. So, if you want to catch this annual symphony, now is a good time – the recordings below were taken between 6 a.m. and 6.20 a.m. L was trying to avoid recording planes as well, but alas, we’re on the Heathrow flight path. Still, listen and enjoy!

Dear Readers, we had pretty much perfect weather for our photography walk in Coldfall Wood on Sunday – what a pleasure it was to just wander along and get our eyes in. Here’s a selection of my photos, to whet your appetite for a spring walk…

Norway Maple flowers

Green alkanet…

Windflowers (Wood anemones)

Forget-me-nots

Hybrid bluebells…

Parakeet and catkins

Photo By Zephyris at English Wikipedia, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=6453552

A series following the 72 British mini-seasons of Nature’s Calendar by Kiera Chapman, Lulah Ellender, Rowan Jaines and Rebecca Warren. 

Dear Readers, a week or so ago we had a massive hailstorm here in East Finchley – I was amazed at the sound of the hail on the windows, and just as it was finishing, our post man knocked on the door with a parcel. He was wearing shorts, as he does every day regardless of the weather, and he is also bald, so I asked him how he’d gotten on.

“The hailstones were bouncing off my head!” he said, “And I couldn’t resist it – I had to taste one”.

“What did it taste like?” I asked, impressed with his spirit of scientific inquiry.

“Very clean water!” he said.

But what are hailstones? I realised that I wasn’t sure, and so I turned to Nature’s Calendar to see what Lulah Ellender had to say about the phenomenon. Hailstones are not frozen rain, but are frozen water droplets formed in the updrafts of thunderstorms. They are bounced about, gathering more and more ice, until they become too heavy to stay airborne and come crashing to the earth. A swathe of up to a hundred miles wide can be battered by them.

They are also very variable in size – the ones that I saw recently were about the size of a petit pois, but the largest recorded hailstone was about the size of a football. They usually fall to earth at between twenty and fifty miles per hour, but the largest can attain a velocity of over a hundred miles per hour.

And while the postman was unhurt by being caught in the middle of a hailstone, sadly this isn’t always the case: cricketball-sized hailstones killed 246 people in a storm in Moradabad, India in 1888, while a storm in Bangladesh in 1986 killed 40 people and injured 400.

Even at UK levels, hailstones can sting and bite, and who knows what changes are coming  as our climate warms? But for now, our postman can go about his business without needing a tin hat.

And see what you think of this poem by Kay Ryan. I think it captures the surprise and violence of a hailstorm very nicely.

Hailstorm
by Kay Ryan

Like a storm
of hornets, the
little white planets
layer and relayer
as they whip around
in their high orbits,
getting more and
more dense before
they crash against
our crust. A maelstrom
of ferocious little
fists and punches,
so hard to believe
once it’s past.

And then, usually, sunshine, and if you’re lucky, a rainbow…

Dear Readers, foster cat Jolene has had a bit of a mixed week. First up, when I was out on Thursday she managed to break into the container with her dry food in it, and ate about three days’ worth. She also took the lid off of the butter dish, and seems to have found that not so much to her liking as there were blobs all over the floor.

We also had some folk over to decide if they wanted to adopt her, but the lady announced that she didn’t want a cat that might bring in mice (Jolene doesn’t have the strongest prey drive of any cat I’ve ever met, but she is still, well, a cat), plus the gentleman said he was allergic to cats, which does somewhat beg the question. So that was a strong no.

On the other hand, today a lovely couple popped round with their little boy – Jolene decided that this tiny human was absolutely fascinating, and the parents are extremely responsible people who will ensure there’s no cat/tiny human conflict, so Jolene will soon be off to her new home. I’m always a little sad when a kittie moves on, but I also have that lovely feeling of ‘job done’ which is so pleasing.

I suspect Jolene might also be getting a new name, to prevent her being an ear worm every time her owner calls her in for dinner. But in case you’ve never heard the song in question, here it is….

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ixrje2rXLMA

Dear Readers, I first visited Myddelton House Gardens last year with my friend L, so I jumped at the chance for a return visit with my friend S on Wednesday. We were nearly six weeks later than on my last visit, and it was wonderful to see all the spring flowers. And the birds were in full song – have a listen to this song thrush (plus lots of other birds) below…

Incidentally, when I just played this recording while putting the blog together, Jolene my foster cat was very intrigued…

Anyhow, back to Myddelton House! I wrote a lot about the history of the place in my last post, so this visit was really about just enjoying the flowers. First up, the Bird of Paradise flowers in the conservatory are extraordinary this year. They really do look like crested cranes….

And look at this twisty cactus? I think it’s a Spiral Cactus (Cereus forbesii), originally from Bolivia to Argentina.

There was a lot of white comfrey about, which was very popular with the hairy-footed flower bees, and also this unusual pale yellow variety. I am seriously thinking about getting some comfrey for the garden – I know I’ll never be rid of it, but it’s such a pollinator-friendly plant. This yellow one is Tuberous Comfrey (Symphytum tuberosum). It’s native to mainland Europe through to Turkey.

I was very taken by this periwinkle – I liked the dark purple colour. It’s Vinca herbacea, and comes originally from eastern Europe.

And just look at the newly renovated rockery – absolutely full of daffodils, hybrid bluebells, and scillla (and three-cornered leek).

Plus, the garden has some of the biggest Lesser Celandine that I’ve ever seen. I’m wondering if it’s a cultivar?

Plus it’s always nice to see some new plants – this is Annual Toadflax (Linaria maroccana) which, as the name suggests, comes originally from Morocco.

And this little guy is Yellow Monks-wort (Nonea lutea), originally from Russia and Ukraine, but found in the wild in the UK since 1956, and reputed to be spreading north.

So, what a lovely visit! And free too, apart from the cost of parking and a couple of cups of tea. Highly recommended.

https://www.visitleevalley.org.uk/myddelton-house-gardens

Dear Readers, I have a dear friend who has spent the last few years becoming completely immersed in ballet, and she has inspired me too – I haven’t seen Sleeping Beauty yet, but have Giselle, the Nutcracker and, most recently, Mary Queen of Scots by the Scottish National Ballet under my belt. I see the people on stage as the most superb athletes and artists – they make ballet look so easy that I sometimes forget how difficult it is. And what goes through the heads of the dancers? I love this poem by K.Iver, a non-binary trans poet from Mississippi. See what you think…

Sleeping Beauty

By K. Iver

You’ve never seen a lilac in Mississippi.
Backstage you wear lotion laced with
its chemical imitation. A ballet mistress
says relevé always as command: lift
onto the toe using only the heel.
Your ankle’s bewilderment
old as the horned owl gaze from
your mother hunched in the audience.
You enter the stage as Lilac Fairy
& fairies make critical things happen,
though underneath your tulle brushing
sleep over a kingdom, you’re a mouse
who gets eaten every night.
No audience wants to see that. Not
the barbed feathers tucked in your
mother’s cardigan. If you pretend
rescue is coming, it might.
Relevé meaning rise & also relief.
Lift your head along with the heel.
A boy your mother says is not a boy
follows your pirouettes from the balcony.
Already a wondering, rise to what.
The ballet can’t perform without
fairy tale. The stage is safe for magic,
or at least pretend. Almost everyone gets
a solo in Sleeping Beauty, so no surgeon’s
daughter has hidden your pointe shoes
in the dressing room couch. The boy
was careful not to bring flowers
but you can feel his eyes bending around
the shoulders, clavicle, and neck you forgot
existed. When these minutes end,
these minutes of spinning his eyes
in their own pirouette, the world
won’t allow you to leave in his red Bronco,
not anymore. Already, hope sounds like
the adult word for magic. Relevé
meaning how much choreographed
relief a kingdom tolerates. Already
you are learning the off-stage rules
about who gets rescued. Who throws
flowers, who catches them.