Family – Gardens. Travel. Life.

Posted on February 28, 2017February 28, 2017 by happyretiredblog · 2 Comments

Roses and a day with Sara Venn

I’ve said it before. I got into gardening through my parents. They loved their garden and it was something they were proud of. Loved the attention when in full bloom. For years had borders full of roses. Gorgeous scented beautiful roses. Mum picked some. But not a lot if my memory serves me right. I recall her deadheading them. Every time she walked up and down the front path. She was obsessed with deadheading. No bad thing really. Dad did the planting. The pruning. Mum admired. And bought more.

I spent a day with Sara Venn last week in our garden in Somerset. The person who looked after our garden had sacked us the year before – yes we were sacked. Long story . A very long story and since I had retired ( early – keep repeating it Andrew) I had been doing the work myself. With some success. What I didn’t know I asked. But I was worried about pruning. The roses. The fruit trees. Some of the shrubs. But the Roses. I could hear my mother tutting. A lot. Her saying. ‘Your not like your father’ He would have pruned them all. On time. And properly. She said that a lot. ‘ your not like your father’.

Last year we were due to start an extension so I didn’t prune the roses. When the schedule was moved it was too late. Sara said. Leave them this year. We had roses. But not as good as in previous years. We were supposed to start the extension in the Autumn. And then the Winter. I could put it off no longer. If I had to dig them up later so be it.

Sara agreed to come and spend a day with me in the garden to give me advice on how and what and when. But it was more than that. It was the push I needed to get going again. I’d been in limbo with the garden. Would I have another year of the flower beds?. Should I move things. Should I wait. Should I extend the beds? Was this space the right one for my new greenhouse? Don’t mention the greenhouse to Sara. Please. Don’t mention my greenhouse.

So Sara arrived and we set to work. Talk of a practical. It was practical. Practically exhausted by the end of the day. Talk of a hard task master who encouraged me up a wobbly ladder – no elf and safety in this garden. But it was fun. Practical. Encouraging. And confidence boosting. I hadn’t made a total hash of the garden this last year.

I always say I garden. I’m not a gardener. The garden is well established. We’ve been here 22 years. But I am rubbish at staking. I don’t plant deep enough. But I’m getting there. Slowly. Like my train journey this week accompanied by Doris.

It hadn’t mattered I’d not pruned. The fruit trees were ok. Ish. The roses leggy but not dead. So We pruned. Cut back. Laughed. I fought with the rose prunings. They won and it didn’t matter I wore gloves. They just went for the jugular. We tidied up. Had tea and cake. She gave encouragement. Orders. Ate my cake. Took one home for Mr Venn. As promised.

To be fair if we were being filmed it would have been more ‘Carry on Gardening’! Than big dreams – It was gardening made fun. ‘What do you think you are doing!’ was said a lot. And do you think you can wobble less’ what said I? As in walking or up the ladder? Both!

The roses don’t look like this now obviously but now have had a severe short back and sides. A proper job. Like my Dad would do!

Thinkimg of my parents garden got me thinking of their roses again All were bought in Woolworths when Woolworths had a gardening department. All grew well. Flowered strongly. From the department at the rear of the store. Memory is a wonderful thing. Before mum lost hers she could tell you the names of the roses. Each one. Not from the label. So I want some new roses. I looked up to see if I could get the named roses from their 1970’s and 80’s garden as I’d like to have a few. Josephine and Ernest were therir names so I may start there. Along with Superstar. That was my favourite.

Who knew Woolworths won not one but five RHS Chelsea golds! I didn’t.

Woolworths history
Superstar; Iceberg; Ena Harkness; Blue Moon ! ; Peace; queen Elizabeth ;Just Joey; Josephine Bruce; Ernest Morse. fragrant Cloud; the Fairy. Compassion

Those are ones I remember. None of that David Austin stuff for them. It was the wonder of Woolies !

Posted on November 22, 2016November 23, 2016 by happyretiredblog

Have friends will travel

I blame my parents. I always do. They have a lot to answer for. I’ve mentioned how my parents got me interested in gardening in an earlier blog. They also got me going out for a run. Not a run as in run. But a Sunday afternoon ‘ run ‘ in the car. To the coast. Barry island – long before Gavin and Stacey made it popular. Porthcawl. . Llantwit Major. Ogmore. Macross Beach – Penarth. To Cefn Onn to see glorious Azaleas and Rhododendron – to Dyffryn Gardens a National Trust property and garden. To see Concorde land at Rhoose airport now Cardiff Airport. It did land there a few times in the 70s but because the runway was short couldn’t take off with passengers!!! So we went places on a Sunday – Anywhere really – a Sunday afternoon run.

So when we have friends staying at the weekend what do we do? Go for a run. It’s in the blood. To the coast. To a garden. A bit more adventurous than my parents. But it has stuck.last week we had a friend staying. Not at the weekend but mid week. – so It was a midweek run. Better really as it was quieter. We are lucky living where we do as there is plenty of choice. Plenty of local National Trust properties. Gardens. Coastline. So what to do. Well.Day one had to be the coast.

First of all Food. Breakfast. An hours ‘run’ would take us to Hive Beach Cafe my favourite coastal cafe. Phew. Boy was it a windy one. The weather. Not the breakfast. Food was awesome as usual. Good full English breakfast followed with a walk on the beach. Well more of a stand up while catching your breath whilst the wind tried to blow you into next week. Waves crashing. Wind whistling – so unlike our visit a month earlier where we could sit outside. The crumbling Jurassic coastline cliffs are spectacular. A great place for old fossils. Like us. A great place for kids – why because there nothing there!! Except the Cafe and ice cream. Though nestled just above is the smart new Seaside boarding House.

I decided we’d drive around the Coast as we couldn’t walk along the beach. The tide was in an we were in danger of being blown away. Plus I’d combed my hair.

Being fans of Boadchurch West Bay was next. If you thought Burton Bradstock was windy we nearly lost the car door. we certainly were not wearing harmony either – Hair all over the place. West bay has changed a fair bit over the years. New flats. Caravan park. It’s not my favourite place. The cliffs and beach are spectacular but it doesn’t have the charm of some of the others.

Walking on the Beach the wind was taking the small pebbles off the ground and hitting you as you walked along! Bracing. You bet. I say walking but it was more of – well a bit like when I bought MBT trainers. When I wore them I didn’t look like I was walking more like I was rolling from side to side. Like I was chewing toffees. They are still in the cupboard somewhere.

There was no sign of anyone from Broadchurch – not much sign of life at all really. The harbour was almost empty. The town very quiet. In fact perfect! Except for the wind. I recall that Harbour Lights was filmed here too.

Next was a short skip and a jump to Lyme Regis through torrential rain. I love Lyme. The coloured beach huts all standing to attention on the beach edge. I love the Cobb sweeping out into the harbour. The little sandy beach area in summer so packed you can’t move. People getting changed into and from swimsuits with towels strategically wrapped. A struggle to get the budgie smugglers off. Hopping on one leg then the other. Scared the towel would drop and the seagulls would come swooping.

It reminds me of days on the beach with the family in Wales. Bucket. Spade. Sun. Memories of getting lost on Barry island beach and ending up in the lost children’s area. My dad said he did it on purpose. You know what. I believe him. And no. I wasn’t 14.

The sun came out long enough for a walk along the cobb. Re enacting the scene from the French Lieutenants woman. Well. I wasn’t brave enough to walk on the top bit. It was just like the scene in the film. Wind lashing the waves across the top. I don’t walk there even when it’s still. I’m always scared I will slip off! Decades ago we went mackrell fishing out of Lyme. We caught some. Friends gutted and cooked them. I didn’t eat. I think I was still feeling queasy after Ian nearly lost his finger to fishing wire on the trip. Funny. We haven’t been fishing since.

There was only one further place to go. My favourite place. Beer. Not as in Beer. But Beer. A place we’ve spent many bracing New Year’s Day walks with friends. And god kids. Lunching at the Anchor pub at the top of the hill. Buying glass in the fabulous little galleries. Small. Perfectly formed. Fish. Boats. Wind. A great place to buy fresh fish. Which we didn’t.

Time to drive home ready for A cuppa tea and more food – a fab supper at Matts Kitchen to end a great day. Tomorrow’s another day. A walk around Stourhead.

But I will be back. There’s a silver surfer deal at Hive Beach Cafe for the over 55’s. there are some benefits to getting older after all!

Posted on October 12, 2016 by happyretiredblog · 3 Comments

Ever met a poor vet?

So I’m back in London as there’s loads to do here as well as in Somerset. The tiny garden needs a bit of TLC. I need to get some fleece for the tree ferns and the bananas although last year I didn’t fleece. Well I did. But I didn’t fleece the plants.

But so far I’ve been on a roll. A veterinary roll. Have you ever met a poor vet? Me neither. So last week Bob the cat was limping. I was away so Ian had to ask our friend Cate for a lift and took him to the vet where they couldn’t find anything. Which didn’t please him. He said he knew that there was something wrong. He came away with some liquid painkiller. And a nagging feeling we would be back.

Come Saturday we find a lump on Fat Harry’s back. Monday it’s worse. So off I Trot with him to the vet . Not great as I have been awake half the night. Listening to the US presidential debate. So off we go – . That in itself is no easy task. Fat Harry is a big cat. One that hates his carrier. Even worse he hates the car. We rarely get to the end of the road without a disaster. Think smells. Bad smells. And it’s not me. Honest.

But surprise. He behaves and Yep. He has either a bite or a scratch on his back. So they drain it. My spending money depleted for October. One good thing though. Fat Harry has lost weight. Like my wallet.

I leave joking with the vet I hope I don’t see her in a while. She understands and laughs. Hmmm. Laugh is on me. I’m back again on Tuesday. The next day.

Bob this time. Again. He’s limping badly and in pain. That’s my day done. I’m having a hair cut at 9. A doctors at 1. Life of a retired man. Off I go to the vet. Turns out he has an abcess on his paw. So an anaesthetic later he’s ready to come home. I have now provided the vet with sufficient funds to purchase a designer handbag.

Back home Bobs next to the radiator on the landing. Fat Harry has a better way of keeping warm. Isn’t that what a chimenea is for?

Now it’s my turn. Not the Vets as I can’t afford their fees. The good old NHS. I have a bit of arthritis in my hands. It’s a family thing. Runs in the family. Dad had it. Mum had it. Brother has it. My mother always blamed my fathers side so I don’t know how she thought she got it. But she always blamed the Jones line. Never the Robins.

The surgery has a new clinic. A trained Physio. Checking on my dodgy hands. My thumb on my left. My middle finger on my right. Turns out I have trigger finger. Well trigger thumb really as it’s not my finger. She was brilliant. Explained everything then threw in the killer question. So ‘ do you want a steroid injection now or do you want to go away and think about it ‘

Think about it? I wanted to do a runner. I don’t like needles. At all. I know that sounds strange as I have Accupuncture on a regular basis. But that’s different. My mother knew I hated needles. When I told her I was having Accupuncture she was shocked. But I was more shocked at her typical response. ‘ why are you having Accupuncture ‘ she asked concenrned. ‘ to make me a nice person ‘ I joked. ‘ do they have enough needles ‘ she responded. She never lost it. The first day I went to the nursing home to see her after she moved in my dad asked her if she knew who I was. ‘ I have no idea’ she replied. ‘But whoever you are you need to lose some weight’. Her dementia and Alzheimer’s had taken its toll – I had only seen her two weeks earlier. – and she never recognised me again. But she made us laugh.

I digress. The steroid injection happened. And it hurt. I know I’m a big girls blouse but I wanted to cry. I didn’t obviously. Stiff upper lip and all that. But i bit my lip so hard! Today my thumb feels easier Lets see. Fingers crossed. Oh. Sorry I can’t cross them. Arthritic fingers and all that !

I’m b hoping theres no more vet visits for a while. Please?

So I have a list of things to do. A long list so I’d better get on with it. Before Ian comes home.

Posted on June 3, 2016April 3, 2020 by happyretiredblog · 10 Comments

Gardening. Woolies and me.

I love my garden. The plants. The butterflies. The smells. The colours. The bees. Not the wasps or the snails -or slugs.

I was asked recently where my interest started. There’s no doubt at all. My parents.

They loved their garden. Took enormous pride in the front borders. Like me a bit of a show off. The back garden was nice. But the colour and the effort went into the front – that’s what people saw and there was always a bit of a competition with Den & Blem next door. Neighbours for over 50 years, each year they planted the borders to out do each other. Never mentioned. Never admitted. But always there.

Clearing out Dads things we came across some photos from the 80’s and 90’s of the garden. In the 70 s the garden beds along the front path were filled with roses. Beautiful.Tea roses. floribunda roses. Healthy and colourful. I recall names like Superstar. Iceberg. Ena Harkness. Vermillion red. White. The roses were their pride and joy. Majority bought in Woolworths in Cardiff.

In the early days there were no large garden centres or the dismal area in a B & Q where there always seems to be a drought. In those days Woolworths had an excellent gardening department. Row after row of seeds. Gardening utensils. Plants.

Disease came to the roses and they were taken out never to return. The same fate for Woolworth in later years. Gone. But not forgotten. There is an interesting history of gardening and Woolworth

Woolworths horticulture
So instead of roses Dad grew his own bedding plants. I had begged for a greenhouse to grow tomatoes and cucumbers. He relented and for a few years until I moved out I tended them religiously. He never allowed me to forget that he bought the greenhouse for me to use but within a space of a few short years I had moved out. As you do. Leaving him with a greenhouse he hadn’t wanted.

He failed to mention the bedding plants. The fact that without ‘my’ greenhouse he would have had to buy the plants. Still in competition with next door he returned to growing plants from seed. But didn’t admit that he was enjoying it. The sowing. The endless pricking out. The planting. Him and mum up to their necks in seed trays. But he did. She did. Especially when passing neighbours and friends complemented them on their ‘display’

The beds now became full of annuals. Grown by dad. Encouraged by mum. The awful smelling tagetes. Petunia. Busy Lizzie. Lobelia. Alyssum. The staples of the 70s and 80s. But they were colourful, bountiful and easy. Hanging baskets aside the door like sentries on guard duty.

We came across these photos when we were sifting through dad’s possessions A poignant reminder of those days. Now the house has been sold and Mum amd Dad both gone.

At the back of the house was the greenhouse. Bedding plants in spring. Tomatoes and cucumbers later. My job each year was to dig the bean trench. Always in the same place. Always the same length. Only beans. Never peas. Always ached liked hell the day after. . Now I don’t bother to dig a trench but every time I plant those beans I get a voice in my head. ‘You’d do better with a trench son’ . Thanks dad but I’m doing ok without! Maybe next year.

So the simple answer to a simple question is:- my parents.

With dad on the front door step