Among drifts of snowdrops

LONE Flower, hemmed in with snows and white as they
          But hardier far, once more I see thee bend
          Thy forehead, as if fearful to offend,
          Like an unbidden guest. Though day by day,
          Storms, sallying from the mountain-tops, waylay
          The rising sun, and on the plains descend;
          Yet art thou welcome, welcome as a friend
          Whose zeal outruns his promise! Blue-eyed May
          Shall soon behold this border thickly set
          With bright jonquils, their odours lavishing
          On the soft west-wind and his frolic peers;
          Nor will I then thy modest grace forget,
          Chaste Snowdrop, venturous harbinger of Spring,
          And pensive monitor of fleeting years!

Wordsworth, 1819

As winter recedes, the woodlands briefly fill with flakes and puddles of white galanthus blossoms tucked in clusters beneath trees and flowing across hollows.  These snowdrops are (for me) the first sign of spring in England, preceding the daffodils and bluebells (there is a sequence for these things).  Various parks and stately homes cultivate displays for viewing in February, and so we were off to one of the largest: Welford Park in Newbury.

The owners claim that these are historic, medicinal blossoms, planted by Norman monks when the acreage was a monastery.  The Georgian house was constructed 400 years ago, remarkable to think about, and has passed through the family to the present day.

And, more recently, the lawns have hosted the Great British Bakeoff.  Twice.

  

However, today was about the snowdrops.  It really was good, the flowers thickly carpeting the forests and fields.

  

Also good was the snowdrop tearoom, cakes echoing Mary Berry.

 

And, with my sailing-themed coffee cup cracked, the shop was an opportunity to find a seasonal alternative.

Snowdrops

Temperatures have grazed freezing all week across Dorset: what better time to go for a walk among the flowers?

The opportunity sprouted improbably in WhatsOnDorset, nestled against a barren winter landscape of beer markets and children’s theater.  The venue was Kingston Lacy, a manor house outside of Bournemouth listed with the National Trust.  The family home was built to resemble an Italian Villa, set into extensive parklands, so there was a chance of getting warm alongside romping through carpets of snowdrops.

The manor house was still closed, only the stables were open, but the snowdrops were lovely.  The varieties could only be distinguished by lifting their heads: some complex, some simple inside. The challenge was to count how many: by my reckoning five on display?

The trails were red mud, the skies grey overcast.  Nonetheless, we hiked the paths throughout, visiting the striking bamboo lines of the Japanese Garden (reminded me of Wolf Kahn pastels) and the distant, dormant Kitchen Gardens (children’s play area featuring tractors and wheelbarrows like a Chinese commune).

  

The café was all lemon drizzle cakes and hearty bean soups, teas and mulled wine.  And, on leaving. there was a lacy potted snowdrop to take home, seeding a local snowdrift for spring.

Autumn leaves and chestnuts

My days seem to grow longer as they actually get shorter.  I make coffee at 7 before the sun rises, reading the overnight news and sketching out the day while the warm rains spatter, unseen, against the kitchen windows.  I drive home from exercise at 7, headlights picking out the leaves and puddles, reflecting store windows and traffic signals.  A normal workday more than consumes the available daylight.

So I look forward to spending the weekends out in the sunshine, maybe a museum or a walk.  Today it was the South Hill Park Arts Centre in Berkshire.  ‘back in the day, I was a member of the Kirkland Arts Center, taking weekly classes in still life and charcoals, life drawing and pastel techniques.  This feels much the same, studios and student exhibitions, class announcements and seminars.  If it were closer, I’d be tempted back into the routine.

The difference is the rambling mansion set into rolling grounds.  Three trails loop around the lakes and through the forests, wooden sculptures punctuating the turns.  It’s not spectacular art, but the trees in autumn were lovely against the lakes and the ground was filled with spiny green chestnut casings crunching underfoot.

I needed a lesson. 

The first was in recognizing the difference between ‘good’ and ‘bad’, always my life’s work.  The good, Sweet chestnuts come in the spiny husks and have tassels at the tips.  The ‘bad’ horse chestnuts have simpler husks and shapes.  I confused the two, of course, but collected a good cup or two. 

The second lesson, still pending, is in how to cook the nuts for use in recipes and snacks. 

The British are, admirably, superb naturalists:  But I needed to take time to slow down and observe.

 

The Centre had a movie (Arthur and Mike,an innocent road romance)  and a decent Sunday Roast.  But mostly it was simply nice to be out and about while the sun was shinning.  The days may be shorter, but a day in the countryside, autumn colour and chestnuts, still restores the soul.

Groynes, Chines, and Denes

April and May are filled with day’s off in Britain: Half-term breaks, bank holidays, commemorative celebrations, Easter.  They all start to run together: I’m still faintly surprised whenever someone reminds me not to make work calls on a holiday – it’s less effort than it used to be to set work aside and relax for the nicer portion of a day (especially if I can get free of VAT Reporting in favor of views to the Isle of Wight).

 

And, if you were wondering, a Chine is a steep-sided river valley, a Dene is a wooded valley, and a Groyne is a wall erected to prevent erosion.  All are common features of the Sandbanks – Bournemouth beachfront.

The locals don’t wander down in great numbers until after 2 pm, so there’s good time for a stroll and an ice cream if you arrive by noon.  The beach huts are still mostly unoccupied, although the ones that are open are starting to reveal their individual character and utility as I stop to peer inside.

 

I may still prefer life in the big cliff-top house though, with the panoramic views across the sea.

Lifeguard stations are open, following the California model of a big station with a mustached guard in a red tracksuit and binoculars bigger than wine-bottles.

 

TripAdvisor has ranked the 7-mile Bournemouth Beach as ‘best in the UK’ (nearby Swanage is ninth and Weymouth is eighth), and on a perfect warm Sunday, it’s pretty perfect.  A few more restaurants,  a few less cyclists and rules, but there’s not much else that could be improved.