Some Christmas wine chat....

             Whatever we say about Christmas, from a culinary perspective there’s certainly some serious fun to be had.  Have you already planned your menu or is someone else planning it for you? Either way I have a few wine thoughts to tempt you with.

            Say we start with a salmon mousse type of arrangement or a mackerel paté. Served on blinis, of course, or on oatcakes is rather fun. For those flavours, I’d suggest a Sauvignon Blanc from the Eastern or Upper Loire in France. Pouillé Fumé and Sancerre are the famous examples but there are others worth seeking out. Menetou Salon, Reuilly and Quincy are neighbouring areas providing that same beautiful crisp acidity at slightly more reasonable prices. Highly recommended. For those of you who think you probably don’t like Sav. Blanc due to the intense gooseberry bombs from Marlborough in New Zealand, don’t fret, this is a different experience, equally delicious with the famous goats’ cheese from the area such as Selles-sur-Cher (that’s my veggie tip). Yum yum yum.

            Now let’s assume you’re having turkey. You may not be, of course. I had pheasant in recent Christmases, one as as turkey is too big, two, I like pheasant and three, it’s cheap and roams around a bit more in quaint, leafy England, before being shot. But you probably are having turkey and why not. Turkey is delicious. Now, will you have white or red? You can have either really though red would probably be the experts’ choice.  With a roast turkey christmas dinner there are lots of flavours apart from the bird. Cranberry, stuffing, sprouts, rich, salty roasties and so on. For white, I‘d suggest a big chardonnay. Rich and oaky with good freshness and acidity too, in order to stand up to all those flavours. A rare treat would be Limoux in southern France which does fantastic examples, or South Africa does some delightful food-friendly Chardonnay, notably from the Western Cape. Margaret River in Western Australia also would be a good bet.  

            If you’re more inclined to red, as I would be, California or New Zealand Pinot Noir could be a good place to start, if you like the big new world flavours.  Burgundy, my favoured location for the sensual wonder that is Pinot Noir, may be dominated by the sharpness of the cranberry sauce, whereas the New World Pinots have more weight and depth of fruit. New Zealand can be procured for less money – still quite a lot though - but Californian Pinots are worth investigating if you’re happy to plunder your overdraft. Personally, I’d go for a European, something a bit more restrained. Maybe a high quality Beaujolais – no, that’s not a contradiction in terms – such as a Morgon or a Moulin-a-Vent or or a Côtes-du-Rhône named village such as Cairanne or Séguret or even a Rioja Reserva. Or less obvious, how about a Zweigelt, unique to Austria, medium-bodied with enough fruit, spice and acidity to match the turkey and trimmings.            

Some other reds worth discovering this Christmas and after, would include Saperavi. Saperavi is from Georgia. Yes, Georgia, on the Black Sea near Russia, that’s right. Caviar comes from there. I don’t know much more about Georgia but discovering this wonderful wine makes me want to. Too much for turkey – big and rich with strong tannins  - it would be a great match for beef or venison. Or how about Aglianico from south-west Italy. A similarly powerful red, with added minerality from the volcanic soils, it’s wonderful with dark meats or strong cheeses. Wine is about discovery. Voyages of discovery to places that you don’t need to spend a fortune visiting. Just spend twenty quid, drink a glass and imagine these beautiful lands where grapes have been grown for thousands of years.

As for dessert, there would have to be some kind of chocolate involved, as far as I’m concerned. Pedro Ximenez from south-west Spain is a dark, sweet sherry, reminiscent of chocolate raisins. It’s recommended poured over ice cream though ice cream is not particularly Christmassy. If you want to save the waistline, just drink it - chilled - on its own. The sherry that is, thanks to my editor for that one. The fascinating Icewine or Eiswein is also a thing of miraculous qualities. Produced in Canada, Germany and Austria, primarily, it has a unique genesis. When temperatures drop below a certain level, around minus eight, I believe, the grapes are picked and crushed frozen. The result is an acidity of astonishing intensity and very concentrated sweetness. Less cloying than classic dessert wine like Sauternes it is, again, a wine to be discovered, but it’s not easy to find and not cheap. Also, unusually, it comes in red and white. Maybe start saving up for next Christmas on that one...

Christmas again! At least, we have a choice...

“It’s Christmas time, there’s no need to be afraid…” as Paul Young once sang. It’s true there are lots of things to be afraid of at the moment, or at least worried about. So much negativity, mediocrity, anger and hysteria Etc. so we probably need Christmas more than ever. Christmas, ideally in the Christian sense of peace, love and compassion or at least those great Crimbo songs from the 1970's. What we're more likely to get, however is people dressing in ridiculous costumes - one guy I saw, seemed to be dressed up in a baby suit covered in baubles and tinsel - people getting drunk at office parties, tacky light displays outside our houses, offending the eyes of anyone with a modicum of aesthetic judgement and the usual tasteless circus that is modern Christmas. We can also go to a carol concert or we could help feed homeless people. Good, spiritual things happen at Christmas too. I don’t tend to do either of these two things, though I wish I did. Point is, we have a choice. I often feel guilty at being a bit self-indulgent and lazy at this time of year, rather than helping my fellow man. At least I don’t offend my neighbours and contribute to global warming with a flashing reindeer outside the house.

I can think of many reasons for which I’d like to have a time machine. One would be to travel to mid 17^th century England and bring back a Puritan type to see what they made of modern Christmas. I fear the horror might be too much for them. You see, the Puritans (Oliver Cromwell et al,  today’s equivalent of the DUP or Daily Mail readers minus the boozing and wife-swapping) banned Christmas, or rather the celebrating of Christmas. They felt it would be much better to spend time in quiet contemplation, praying for the salvation of one’s soul, being, as we are human, prone to sinfulness. What a bunch of killjoys. They did the same in Scotland, even earlier. “Dreary pricks” as Billy Connolly once described them. The banning of revelry had other reasons too. The Puritans, not being too keen on Catholics, also wanted to erase any evidence of Catholicism’s existence. Mass etc., hence Christ-mas, so it was partly political but also, clearly, because they were “dreary pricks”.

When Cromwell died and England decided they didn’t like him after all, they invited the Catholic monarch, Charles the 2^nd, whose father’s head they had chopped off, to take the throne. Can never quite make their minds up, the English.  Charlie boy, grandson of James the Sixth of Scotland and First of England, for whom the term “party animal” was probably invented, quickly shook things up. Partying and producing illegitimate children left right and centre, he took a salacious revenge on those fun-hating puritans and of course laughter at Christmas was re-instated. Quite what he would have made of modern Christmas, who knows, but I suspect he wouldn’t ban it, except perhaps the playing of Christmas music in shops in October. Well that’s what I would do…And if it came down to choosing between a puritan Christmas and today’s then fetch me a Reindeer hat and a baby suit covered in tinsel anytime. On second thought…In any case, I feel grateful for the agony of choice.

With the passing of Topsy it really is a Black Friday

        There are dog people and there are others, right?! Some people just don’t get what the fuss is all about. It’s fair enough. There are cat people, too. There are reptile people. There are people who keep scorpions and stick insects as pets. I wonder if they grieve as much for their deceased scorpion or stick insect as I have this week for the loss of Topsy. She was eleven years old. I’d known her since she was a tiny puppy. My mother, Kate, living in the south of Spain, took her from a friend who had taken in a little stray dog which had subsequently given birth to ten pups. Initially rejected by someone else for not being “pretty enough” my mother and Topsy “found” each other and it was, I suspect, love at first sight. Certainly devotion at first sight from this little pup who would be named Topsy. A vibe that can’t be explained. It just is. Ex-pats in Spain understandably get a bad rap at times, but we forget the work some of them do in saving and re-homing stray dogs. Granted, it’s not generally the ones with skin like lobsters who drink beer or scotch for breakfast who are doing the good work. In any case, it’s an entire industry of benevolence, but I digress. She was a tiny, little, black bundle of fur. A mix of Lurcher and Spanish hunting dog, she grew up quickly and was, until relatively recently, a true athlete. Fast and agile. But she was first and foremost a great personality. Cheeky, intelligent, sneaky at times, especially when it came to food or the sofa, fun loving, low maintenance and utterly devoted and giving. Her vibe calmed the room.

            My first real memory of her is of around ten years ago, when spending some time in Sotogrande, Spain, as I was, I returned to the house to find her hanging helpless, upside down by one leg on some wire. I don’t what she’d done but my mobile phone was broken, there were magazines, knitting needles and cushions scattered everywhere (it wasn’t my house, it was Kates). This is no ordinary dog, I remember thinking. Slightly insane perhaps, but one of a kind. I think she grew into herself. That early madness and boisterous energy seems like a long time ago.  Christmas of 2010, I was going out to spend a week on my own with her at the family Finca in the mountains. I missed my flight and couldn't get another. Topsy had to spend a week on her own in her kennel outside, in the wind and rain. Someone fed her but she was alone. That was my first memory of being aware of loving this dog. I was worried, upset and angry with myself. She had also just lost her friend,

our other dog, Honey in horrific circumstances, a month before. I guessed she would be fine, just a bit lonely and cold for a week, but it was a terrible feeling. She brought that emotion out in me, as dogs do. A maturation, if you like.

            She came to London in 2015 - via an unorthodox route, including being pointlessly quarantined in Calais, due to the incompetent and twisted machinations of the shameless spiv who had been paid to bring her over – to be with Kate who was living in London at the time. She spent the summer here. She adapted perfectly, charming everyone she met; people in the street, in the pub, in the school where Kate worked, with my young nephew who would walk her.

            In the last year, tragically, she’d been very ill at times. Emaciated, with tumours eating away at her, the prognosis was very poor but with the help of a pioneering treatment called Bicom Bioresonance - which I can’t claim to understand but I intend to try – and her indomitable spirit she lived longer and better - and without pain killers - than anyone, vets included, had imagined. One more anecdote sums up her spirit. Back in the summer, Kate was driving back, late at night to the village. Coming up the hill she was confronted by a pair of eyes. Those eyes accompanied her, alongside the car back up the hill to to the house. The eyes belonged to Topsy, who on hearing the car’s engine had jumped down the ten-foot high garden wall and made her way towards the car to welcome her back. All this while at death’s door. A truly extraordinary spirit. A lesson in giving unconditional love and joy. I hope if her soul goes somewhere it goes into a future powerful politician or the like. That strength and spirit should not be wasted. The world is in dire need of more of those vibes. She was more than just a dog, more than just a little scruffy mutt. She was Topsy. I’ll stop now, my glasses are steaming up.

A Man For All Seasons...

I think it’s fair to say that we tend to think about colour when we think of autumn. Colour is always with us, so presumably as green leaves turn to red, it is the contrast – striking and beautiful – that gains our attention. Pumpkins and squash appear in supermarkets with their intense reds and oranges. Berries appear on trees with similar fiery colours. Lawns and pavements turn brown and red with fallen leaves. Some people like to ‘kick against the pricks’, I prefer kicking autumn leaves along the street. Pure therapy. I retain a memory – from so long ago that I don’t know when it was – of being knee-deep in leaves and kicking them along Kelvin Way in Glasgow’s West End.

Yet, actually, all seasons, when you think about it, are about colour. In spring, we’re grateful for any colour that appears. Pink blossom, for example, always thrills. In summer it’s green as the trees burst into bloom. It’s warm sunsets, it’s fruit and flowers on trees. Even winter has colours, usually grey, but frosty whites and crisp blue skies, ideally. There’s a fine film called A Man for All Seasons. It’s based on a book about Thomas More. In case you don’t know, Thomas More was a mate of Henry the Eighth, until Henry decided to have his head chopped off. I always liked the title. I suspect it might be ironic. More was a principled man. I like to think of myself as a man for all seasons though in a more literal way. I like the four seasons of our climate. I also like Frankie Valli’s band, the music by Vivaldi (well, a little) and the pizza too. However, let’s stick to the topic. I love autumn and its aforementioned colours and atmosphere. Equally evocative are the first misty mornings, the first cold evenings when you can see your breath, the melancholy and wistful call of the Robin red breast at night. All of these are special. They can’t entirely take away the loss of summer but you have to embrace the changes. Be a man or woman for all seasons, literally and metaphorically, if you can manage. I’m trying that.

            It is, thus, with a certain pleasure and a certain amusement that my garden remains partly dominated by summer colours. The weather’s been pretty good, it is a sun trap, and there’s not been much rain, so certain flowers remain in bloom and the colours are stubbornly representative of summer. Purples, yellows, pinks, whites and blues. Red from the few tomatoes, which is definitely a summer red. The yellow rose is in amazing shape. Literally reaching out to touch the sky. The stubbornness of nature is wonderful, despite autumn being undoubtedly in the ascendancy. There’s even still the odd bee, and the odd wasp flying around. Stubbornness is actually unfair, it has a negative sense. Let’s credit her with a Quaker-like discipline. Let’s say ‘strike while the iron is hot’, ‘make hay while the sun shines’, even “when ze cat’s away, Mister Fawlty” to quote Mrs Peignoir. Nature once again remains an inspiration and a teacher.

Tapas anybody?

Tapas has become very trendy hasn’t it? Lots of things have become very trendy, particularly regarding food and drink. It makes sense in a way. Britain invented trendy, a guy called Beau Brummel. And the food and drink culture was in a pretty dire state till quite recently. Personally speaking, I don’t care much for trends, maybe because I doubt the sincerity but enough polemics. Back to tapas. I was lucky enough to recently spend ten days in southern Spain, Western Andalucia, to be precise. Seville, Ronda and a tiny village of two hundred people in the shadow of magnificent mountains.  Like many of us, until relatively recently - about 1999 - I thought of southern Spain as sun, sea and sangria. Tacky Brits with skin like lobsters, drinking beer and eating calamari. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but it’s limiting. There’s more to life and there’s more to southern Spain. A whole lot more. A unique place, partly due to the Arabic influence on the architecture and the cuisine, partly due to the geography, the proximity to Africa, partly due to the intense heat and climate.

            And the food is equally impactful. Lunchtime, inside an authentic tapas bar

is a memorable experience, for me, one of the greatest culinary experiences. There really is something in escaping the blue skies and searing heat, it feels almost furtive. There’s plenty of time to eat outside, later in the day, when the sun has gone down. You start with a cerveza. Ice cold, Cruzcampo, ideally, made in Seville. It doesn’t last long. Then tapas frias, cold tapas. Ensalada Rusa, Russian salad, apparently named after a Russian fellow who came to Spain, invented it and took the recipe to his grave. Made fresh every day, there’s potato, mayo, sometimes egg, usually tuna and always grated carrot. One we had included little chunks of sweetcorn. And there’s the salad of Pulpo. Octopus sometimes done in a similar way, sometimes in a more classic salad; tomato, onion, peppers and so on. Boquerones, small white anchovies in vinegar, garlic and parsley. That’s got things started so let’s go for some hot. Albondigas. Mini meatballs, usually made from pork, in sauce; tomato or almond. Croquetas. Meat filled balls deep-fried in breadcrumbs. One of our favourite places does them with mushrooms.  A delightful little bar in a small town called Cortes. Intense blue skies contrasting with the white buildings. A hot wind blowing through the narrow streets. Classic Andalucia. The delightful patron, Alphonso, always welcomes you with a smile. He, or rather his talented wife, does the aforementioned albondigas in almond sauce, the less common of the two. Pure exalted pleasure. They also do another classic; Flamenquine, cheese wrapped in ham, again done in breadcrumbs. I consider it my local, ever though I only manage to visit a few times a year.

Another of our favourite places, a hectic, crazy bar in Ronda - a tourist town with an extraordinary bridge over a deep gorge, surrounded by spectacular mountians - into which the odd bemused tourist strays, does a black-pudding sandwich. Doesn’t sound like much but believe me, it is. Spanish Morcilla as they call it, is spicy and sweet, probably due to that Spanish marvel, Paprika. It also serves a plate of sharp crisp lettuce, served with white wine vinegar. Simplicity is the key. Then there’s the fried fish. In another place we had Hake - so beloved of Michelin Starred chefs in London - deep fried. As a man from Glasgow, I like things deep fried (just don’t mention Mars Bars, a dull cliché). And in Andaucia they know how to fry. There’s Camarones, like a deep fried prawn pancake. The list goes on. Harder to find, but recommended is Cauliflower with paprika! There’s quail’s eggs in vinegar. There’s the extraordinary Garbanzos con Espinica. Chick peas and Spinach. A wondrous legacy bequeathed by the Arabs to southern Spain using spices such as cumin. There’s Solomillo, pork in a whisky sauce. Both these dishes are specialities of Seville. And so much more…

 It’s ultimately often simple stuff but the flavours are so good, the atmosphere so unique, that it’s perfect. Little Andalucian men in hats, skin like leather, shouting in their almost incomprehensible dialect. Spanish mothers with their noisy babies drinking ice cold beer. Completely in the moment, no showing off, no looking over your shoulder. Even in classy and more fashion-conscious Seville, most people are happy ensconced in the olfactory pleasures of the moment. Beau Brummel would have hated it. As for further drink, if you don’t want another beer, have a sherry. A Fino or a Manzanilla, salty and tangy. Perfect to wash down the fried goodies. Unlike Frasier and Niles Crane, I only drink Sherry in Spain.

I feel sorry, in a way, for the people who spend a fortune in trendy and pricey Tapas bars up and down the country. I think it’s great that our modern cuisine options are so varied but when when you’ve been fortunate enough to have access to the real thing for so long…

Smugness is also a modern affliction, no chance of that here, just pure gratitude. Mucho Gracias, by the way.

Wee bit of french poetry and a white rose made my day....

Dedicated to my late friend, Daniel Kirkpatrick who left us on this day 5 years ago...

"Comme on voit sur la branche au mois de mai la rose,
En sa belle jeunesse, en sa première fleur,
Rendre le ciel jaloux de sa vive couleur,
Quand l’Aube de ses pleurs au point du jour l’arrose". Pierre de Ronsard 1524-1585

            For the uninitiated amongst you, Pierre De Ronsard was a renaissance poet. I'm sure Dan knew about him. He wrote beautiful poetry about many things, including nature. Dan would have liked that. Very famous at the time, he was the equivalent of a rock star in his era, though better behaved. He even wrote a poem to his love Marie, “quand vous serez bien vielle”, "when you are very old" – that was of similar sentiment to The Beatles “When I’m sixty-four”. Why am I going on about some poet from five hundred years ago? Well, he wrote the two quotes that inspired today’s blog. He also knew Mary Queen of Scots, regarded her highly - more than most Scots did - and sang her praises in verse. I realize May has long gone but May this year was so beautiful and my roses are still blooming (just) so Pierre’s lovely words seemed apt.

Chilly mornings. The first red leaves on the trees. Berries appearing. A change of mood, of vibe. Another summer has gone. There may well be some more warm days, but summer is no more. One minute it was here, announcing itself in early May with hot days and glorious blue skies and the promise that early summer brings. And – August aside - it didn’t disappoint. Nature reacted in kind; swifts thundering through the blue skies, bats silently speeding past on warm evenings in their fleeting manner, random, colourful insects appearing at the table, late at night. Then, in seemingly an instant, it’s gone. I love summer. I love all the seasons for their unique characteristics, but summer's passing is undoubtedly the saddest for me.  It comes and goes with ruthless abandon. Not really appearing fully till late May – psychologically at least - when everything is suddenly green, June and July pass so very quickly. Very hot this year until August when blue skies became the exception rather than the rule of the previous three months. However, this is not a lament, more a celebration, with a hint of sadness that I can never quite shake.

With Autumn’s imminent arrival, there’s plenty of life in the garden. The buzz and hum of insects has mostly gone –  though warm days will see more buzz - but the birds are full of activity and numbers. The great tits and the goldfinches have produced a second brood of youngsters. And most of the other garden birds are fairly conspicuous, including blue tits, dunnocks, blackbirds and the robin. An exception being the little wren which I haven’t seen or heard. The continued appearance of one or two stray bees serves as a reminder of the joys of summer, and most, though not all, of the flowers remain full of vim and vigour.

So it’s not all doom and gloom. Autumn is a wonderful season; of colour, mist and atmosphere and the dastardly mosquitoes will soon be gone, but early September is a kind of no-mans' land between the two, so the best we can hope for is some warm sunshine to bask in.

Nature'

s changing seasons are like dogs. They remind us or help us to be in the moment. Don’t lament summers passing, relish the pleasure it gave but don’t lament it. I’m saying that to myself. Nature doesn’t stop. Life continues. Nothing is permanent. And one day you’ll be sixty-four or seventy-four or eighty-four…. As Ronsard also wrote “Cueillez, dès aujourd’huy, les roses de la vie…”, "Gather from today, the roses of life".

Bloody gardening metaphors again.

Frederico The Frog...

Watering the plants this morning in the garden I was reminded of the therapeutic value of such moments and the sheer bliss involved. People think of bliss I think as intense pleasure, but I think there is also the sense of inner calm and peace that could be described as bliss. Until the dramatic end to the heatwave a little while back, watering the garden had become not so much a chore, that would be ridiculous, but nevertheless a responsibility. Not that I ever resented it and always enjoy it but anything that by its very nature needs to be done, literally ever day, can at times seems onerous. In other words, it can be easy to see it as a task, rather than a privilege.

 The significant rain in the last two weeks had reduced the need to water the plants so after today's little reminder, I am hoping for no more rain for a while. An activity which is only really possible for about 4 or five month of the year, should be treasured. You don’t know what you got till the whole things gone, the attitude of gratitude, summers lease being all too short etc.

So in probably just over a months’ time, this act will no longer be required and I’ll miss it. It’s a reminder, not only, of carpe diem – I learnt that phrase watching Roxanne with Steve Martin- seizing the day or indeed the moment, but trying to focus on that moment. Our minds are so distracted, filled with worries, pre-occupations, that simple acts such as this do allow one to forget.

“Someone saved my life tonight.” Elton John & Bernie Taupin. 1975

Saving Frederico…Frogs by their physical appearance are more pleasant company than toads.  No–one’s fault. Like with humans, it’s just the luck of the draw. Though a human being who doesn’t have the luck of being easy on the eye at least has the option of working on their personality. Toads, judging by the way the breed, presumably don’t. A violent, graceless, murderous orgy, I think is an apt description. They should do an animated version of Shakespeare’s Titus Andronicus with Toads, I reckon.

A frog’s presence is as soothing as their skin is smooth. Toads; bumpy and bilious, just ain’t got it.  Our frogs have become very approachable. They have a very calming energy too. Very still, sitting in the corner, a few feet away. So it was all the more gratifying that I saved Frederico’s life last night. It was about half-nine, dark, quiet and still and we heard some shuffling. This is perfect weather for frog spotting. Sure enough, it was Frederico, but I looked again and I wasn’t convinced. This frog seemed smaller and paler. It was, me thought, the other frog which appeared a couple of weeks ago. But where is Frederico? Do we have a usurper? Murder most foul amongst our amphibian friends? Should we call this new frog Macbeth? Then more shuffling. It seemed to be coming from the drain. Surely not? Closer inspection revealed a pair of goggly eyes seemingly belonging to Fred. He was trapped. Panic all round. But the cover lifts up and he gratefully and speedily jumped out, an inch from my hand. Joy all round. He then quickly moved past Macbeth (or Lady Macbeth as I think it’s a lady) who remained perfectly still and took his place behind the corner pipe. We ascertained that this is his specific place at night. A stand-off of epic proportions ensued. Neither one batted an eyelid. The tension was palpable. My life is not very exciting of course. Around a half hour later they remained as they were.  So I watered the plants thoroughly and not long after Lady Macbeth set off, presumably now confident in finding a damp corner to spend the night. Either that or Fred's chat was no good. Frogs need a damp place to spend their time. Otherwise they’ll dry out, you see.

Elsewhere the flowers remain sprightly but there are far fewer “buzzing things” to quote Baldrick’s description of a bee (Blackadder Three – The Dictionary) which is sad. The odd honeybee, the odd hoverfly and one or two brown bumbles.

So it’s a question of quality not quantity with my friends the bees and and as with the plant watering, I’ll cherish every moment I see a bee buzzing around before the wind turns to autumn and winter forcing the bees into retirement followed by the next life.

           

A swift end to Summer...? Let's hope not...

“But in nothing are swifts more singular than in their early retreat. They retire, as to the main body of them, by the tenth of August, and sometimes a few days sooner: and every straggler invariably withdraws by the twentieth”. Gilbert White  The Natural History of Selborne 1789

         He’s right, damn him. It’s the 7^th of August and I’ve just realized that I haven’t heard a swift in a few days and seen only one or two. As I said in a previous thread, few things symbolize summer more - in the city at least - than swifts screeching through the skies between the buildings. But does they’re parting symbolize the end of summer? In principle, not at all but it is a sign…

         What is it about summer anyway? What’s its significance? We grow up as children and associate summer with freedom. Freedom from school. Freedom from the humdrum or the routine. As adults, we associate it with freedom too. Unless it involves going to Center parks. But, yes, holidays or beer gardens or taking up tennis or whatever activity it may be that requires relative warmth and no rain. Either way, it’s about being more alive. Which makes sense. In summer everything else is alive. All of nature reveals itself. And this leads to my point. Prior to finding this particular Gilbert White quote regarding the swifts I was thinking about this summer’s continuing magnificence YET it’s imminent demise. So, discovering this particular one seemed pertinent to my thoughts. Ridiculous, you may say, I should be living in the moment, enjoying this glorious weather.  I am, of course, summer is the ultimate season to be in the moment, as it’s the season when we are freest to just “be”. We don’t need to worry about putting on a coat, turning on the heating, staying warm etc., all of which are necessary the rest of the year. It’s when we can get closest to nature. Another means by which we can just “be”. Of course, we have to stay cool in these hot summers, but that is ultimately a nice worry to have, unless you’re stuck on a London tube for too long. Moving into August, however, the last month of summer technically, it is inevitable, for me at least, that it’s on its way out. Truthfully, lamenting something's passing when it’s still here is rather dumb but I can’t help it. Whenever I think of August I feel a bit emotional, who knows why? Decades ago, when I was a football fan, August, the start of the season, was an exciting time. Pop songs were always good in August when I listened to pop songs. Maybe it’s just a nice time of year? It is often the nicest of the summer months but it’s been so splendid since May that it will do well to achieve that this year.

           Summers this hot, dry and long are slightly incongruous in this country. This is the green and pleasant land for a reason. Over two months of almost constant Mediterranean heat is an extraordinary thing, but it’s odd. And it’s also rare, unless the doomsday scenario proves otherwise. So let’s make the most of it. The petunias certainly are. They’re positively proclaiming the power and beauty of nature and the strength that summer gives. The tomatoes are building up a fair head of steam and there’s plenty of insects buzzing about. It’s this burst of life that I’m talking about. It literally gives me a buzz. Mosquitoes aside, which are a menace and rather psychotic here in North London. I remember as a kid, my uncle who lived in London at the time telling me about the mosquitoes in this part of the world. I didn't quite believe him. Growing up in Glasgow I thought mosquitoes only lived in Africa. My basil has grown beautifully but been destroyed but some pest or another, the lavender is attempting a comeback and the scabious remains the main draw for my small but loyal band of bees.

          The birds are quiet, they tend to be in August but there’s been a couple of new and welcome visitors. Frederico the frog now has a friend, or certainly some company. Time will tell if they become friends. The second frog appeared on Saturday night, ate something then disappeared behind a plant. Frogs are useful in the garden; they eat slugs amongst other things so make sure there’s always somewhere damp for them to spend time if you have no pond. The other visitor was a green bush cricket, a striking lime green beastie with big red eyes that seem to look straight at you. I had seen it earlier in the day when I trimmed a tree but it reappeared on Saturday night on the table and circulated several times around it before disappearing. Most amusing.

            So there it is. Who knows what further visitors and experiences are to occur this summer but I’m living in the moment either way.

Words on Wine: "Il faut cultiver son jardin." - Candide by Voltai...

Words on Wine: "Il faut cultiver son jardin." - Candide by Voltai...: My lavender plants are dying, I feel slighted, pained, a failure and confused. Isn't this lavender weather? Sa...

"Il faut cultiver son jardin." - Candide by Voltaire. 1758

My lavender plants are dying, I feel slighted, pained, a failure and confused. Isn't this lavender weather? Saving or reviving a plant’s life does not equate to saving or reviving a person’s life, of course, but the I think the instinct is similar. It’s paternal or maternal.  It’s not the same but there are elements in common. It’s nurturing, it’s protective, it’s a mutual relationship and if a plant suffers or dies you suffer a little.

These nurturing, parental thoughts came to me yesterday. The pink Hydrangea that appeared last summer has finally flowered this year. Its magnificent pink petals were one of the highlights of last year. All the more so as I didn’t even think I think I liked Hydrangeas, in fact I would have struggled to identify one but it had re-appeared as a result of the clearing work I did in that part of the garden the previous summer. Clearing space allowed it to revive itself in a magnificent display. Metaphors about clearing space literally manifest in a garden at times, allowing us to enjoy the beauty of nature, its power, its ability to have a renaissance.  The gardening metaphors are already there of course. We all know them; “Planting new seeds”, "reaping what you sow", "blossoming career". The French philosopher Voltaire said we need to “cultivate our garden” if we are to make something of our lives. Well that's how I understood it. Perhaps he was being ironic or facetious?  The world was far more savage in 1758 than it is now, though eeerily similar in some ways, so he must have been partly serious surely? Read the book, Candide, you'll know what I mean. I always liked that metaphor, it’s beautiful yet simplistic, it’s economical yet powerful, intimate yet vast. Get to the point, please. It took me to thirty-five to really become an actual gardener and I’m still learning. I’m not sure if Voltaire was interested in gardening, but literally cultivating your garden is one way of getting there.

A garden is an emotional relationship…you take responsibility. It’s holistic and reciprocal. It’s different for different people and as I said, I realise that gardening isn’t saving lives or curing diseases, but collectively if more people get involved it can only be good for the common good. I believe if more people in society took up gardening, discovered the joy and journey that is gardening, the world would be a slightly better place. I'm not a pessismistic satirist like Voltaire. I'm not a genius either but I'm a pragmatist and maybe an idealist. Collective responsibility. That’s not so common these days as we all have it a bit too easy, numbed by multi-media, sensationalism and additives. Just look at the politicians we've voted for or allowed to be voted in due to our collective irresponsability or indifference. I'm just saying. Gardening should be on the programme for every primary school on earth.

Anyway, back to this garden, the other news is the bramble bush. Brambles or blackberries, same thing. I’m not sure we could sell them at the local farmers’ market - not that you’d ever see me at a farmers’ market, I worry the smugness may be contagious – bit tiddly, but great to have fruit literally growing wild in the garden. Another metaphor! Should provide a brief feast for the Woodhouse and maybe a Blackcap if one stops by. Haven’t seen one this summer, sadly. Nice bird. Size of a large Robin, with a light body and a blackcap funnily enough.

Oh and the frog came into the house late last night, I opened the doors stepped out for a second, came back and it had hopped in, had to cajole it back out again. Love frogs, but not in the house, though I’ve probably had less agreeable flat-mates in the past.

A "herd" of Goldfinches....

In Gilbert White’s day, Goldfinches were almost certainly a bird of the countryside and not the cities. Today, there’s six of them, two adults and four young on my lawn. Now, there weren’t so many cities in the 18^th century, of course, but the only time you were likely to see a goldfinch in the city would be in a cage, their pretty colours and voices charming our ancestors with their slightly different moral code in regard to domestic pets and many other forms of domesticity, for that matter. I actually saw some goldfinches in a cage in Spain a few years ago and was rather shocked, but is it any worse than having a budgie in a cage? The only difference is that budgies are not native birds so our only experience of them is in a cage. Either way, Goldfinches give far more pleasure out of a cage.

Now the reason they were primarily birds of the country was due to diet. They like seeds. Seeds such as thistle seeds and from other plants of fields and waste ground. These days intensive farming and the like have ensured that such food sources are more likely to be found in cities, railways lines etc. than farmland. Goldfinches are a common sight, certainly in London, I see them more than Chaffinches or Greenfinches, a reverse of my experience as a birder in Glasgow in my youth. In fact, I don’t think I ever saw one, this lack or yearning, perhaps the reason for my inventing a game, whereby my friend Colin Dunlop would violently interrupt our Latin class by pretending to share my enthusiasm. I would move over the side of the class that looked out onto gardens, I would shout to Colin that I’d just seen a “herd” of goldfinches – it’s actually a “charm” - and he would shout “where” and run across the room to spot these imaginary birds, leaving desks and chairs in his wake. Very productive that Latin class. Anyway, I digress, the other factor is of course, the human factor. In Britain we like to feed the birds - rather than putting them in cages -  and Goldfinches take advantage with great enthusiasm. Whoever the bright spark is that designed the Goldfinch feeder, he or she is very bright. Probably a he, that’s not sexism, just that I don’t think any woman capable of such extreme geekism.  The slits in the feeder, exactly fit their bills that they traditionally use to extract seeds from plants.  Thus, essentially mimicking, ergonomically, their natural feeding pattern on a plant. Who had the time to think that up? Within a couple of days of me putting this feeder up, the Goldfinches had arrived. How did they know? Amazing.

Anyway the fact that they are feeding on my lawn is what inspired this article. You see, I want this garden to be a natural food source for the birds, not merely an artificial one. So the fact that they‘re using the lawn rather than the feeder is very interesting. There’s no thistles there, sadly. I like Thistles, must the Scot in me, but there’s clover and another little purple flower. This is great, the clover is also very popular with bees, though many have suffered from the heatwave and have dried out but some are going strong. The clovers that is. Bees can suffer in the heat too, BTW, keep an eye out.

Elsewhere, the yellow rose has suddenly burst into life again from no-where, the wild brambles are coming and the tomatoes are still green but this warm sun should continue their metamorphosis. It’s all wunderbar, not Wonderbra as my spellcheck attempted to convince me! Not that there’s anything wrong with a Wonderbra.           

Finally, no takers yet for my bee apartment yet but they do say it’s a difficult time of year for the property market.     

Anyway, best summer in five years, long may it continue but a little bit of rain wouldn’t go amiss. At night too when we’re sleeping if you’re listening, Ming the Merciless…