A Terrific Time on the Tree Trail!

The weather has turned vile again – cold, wet, grey and gloomy. But early last week the sky was blue, the sun shone, birds sang, flowers bloomed and it was hot, hot, hot. Aa, I thought, we’ve skipped spring and gone straight to summer! It was so nice that Elder Daughter (who travelled up from Plymouth for my birthday and stayed several days) joined me on a walk around the Tree Trail at a local park and we sat on the grass and enjoyed a picnic in the sunshine, and she wore her sunglasses, and I wore my floppy sunhat. So here are some pictures I took for my  Saturday Snapshot.

Picnic in the Park... In the sunshine... Whatever that may be!

  Wigginton Park is one of the many places I haven’t been to for years and years and years, so our morning’s outing was part of my ‘Exploring the Local Area and Doing Something Different’ plan. Like most of Tamworth’s ‘wild’ spaces it’s a fairly small area, and is bounded by houses, roads and a railway line, but it’s got a fascinating history, and is a fabulous green oasis in an urban area, boasting rare trees and a wealth of wildlife. We saw grey squirrels, as wells as all kinds of birds, insects and butterflies, and came away feeling as if we’d had a trip to the country. 

Wigginton Lodge, Tamworth: Built by fashionable women's surgeon John
Clarke and his wife Elizabeth in the early days if the !9th Century. 

A view of the park with trees, grass and blue sky!

Way back in the 18th Century Tamworth Town Clerk Charles Oakes (which is such an apt name considering the tree trail) had a farm here, but by the early 19th Century the land was owned by John Clarke, who was a top surgeon specialising in women’s diseases. He and his wife Elizabeth built a small mansion there (today it is known as Wigginton Lodge, and is the headquarters of Tamworth Rugby Club), as well as a lodge and a farmhouse, both of which have long-since vanished. The estate was later inherited by John Clarke’s brother Charles, an even more famous  surgeon, who also specialised in women’s diseases and must have been very fashionable and highly respected because he was personal physician to Queen Adelaide, wife of King William IV, and was made a baron in 1831 in recognition of his services to womankind.

Anyway, it was John and Elizabeth who created a 45-acre park on the site, with grass and trees - some imported from abroad at great expense. Amazingly, the area has survived changes in ownership, and modern development (which destroyed an awful lot of old Tamworth) and is now a public park, which includes rugby pitches and a play area for children.  And at its heart are the trees, featuring some planted by the Clarkes 200 years ago.

Bloom along the bough... Trees and bushes were laden
with blossom in shades of pink and white.

My favourites were probably the two Giant Redwoods which, despite their size, have strange, spongy bark which is soft like cardboard – so said the online guide (Elder Daughter’s mobile came in handy again!) and we felt the bark, and the information was spot-on.  Apparently the bark protects the trees from the intense heat of forest fires in the Sierra Nevada mountains of California, which is the place they grow naturally. Isn’t that a wonderful example of the way evolution ensures plants are perfectly adapted to their habitat? And how incredible to think that a tree native to that one special environment can still flourish here in damp, cold England!

What a whopper! This should be Sequoiadendron Giganteum.

I was so intrigued I looked them up and discovered Sequoiadendron Giganteum (also known as (Wellingtonia) are the world’s largest trees. The bark can grow up to three feet thick, and they can survive for several millennia – apparently one recorded specimen is 3,500 years old.  Europeans first came across them in 1830, but it wasn’t until the 1850s that plant collectors started to bring seed back to the UK, so park founders John and Elizabeth obviously never knew about this species, but I’m sure they would have liked the idea of something new and exotic becoming a feature at their old home.

Chestnut Avenue: Trees still mark the line of the old driveway.

Landmarks include ‘Bomb Holes’, which are almost certainly where people extracted clay and marl, and are nothing to do with war. These days they’re full of trees, bushes and flowers, providing perfect sites for nesting birds and sheltered homes for other wildlife. In addition there are little woodland copses, and the remains of the old avenue of trees that once lined the main driveway to Wigginton Lodge, where you can see the ridge in the ground where the drive was, though it does not photograph all that clearly.

I loved the roots and dappled shade of this tree, perched up on the edge
 of a 'Bomb Hole' that owes its existence to quarrying rather than war.

We spotted the Holm Oak, a native of the Mediterranean, with leaves that look like holly (that’s how it got its name, because holm is thought to be the Anglo Saxon for holly). And we recognised a dead elm, and saw the marks left by ambrosia beetles which bored into the trunk. The beetles are not as heavenly as they sound, for they were responsible for the spread of Dutch Elm Disease, which killed this tree, along with thousands of others throughout England. The dead tree has been left to provide a habitat for flora and fauna, which seems a good idea. 

 And there’s a walnut tree, looking as if it’s on its last legs, but apparently its roots are strong so it is healthy, despite the drunken angle it stands at! We were interested to learn that because walnuts look like brains, Greeks and Romans believed they cured headaches, and whilst I can’t vouch for the truth of that it sounds a pretty good reason for eating walnuts, which are delicious.

Elder Daughter says this is the walnut the tree, and she was the 
Electronic Map Reader, so I hope she's right!

I wanted to try out a bit of Natural Navigation, as advocated by Tristan Gooley, but we had quite enough trouble trying to follow the map (an aerial photo which looks quite different to the way things are on the ground) and identifying trees. The details and photos on the website are excellent, but if you not an expert it is incredibly difficult trying to decide which tree is which. Consequently, although I took lots of photos, I still have no idea which trees they show! Obviously, it’s always tricky balancing the needs of visitors against the need to protect and conserve the environment, but simple, numbered wooden posts would help - or, better still, get local sculptors and artists involved to design waymarkers. And a display board near the main entrance (the one promoted on the website) would be good.

The road through the woods...

However, I shouldn’t complain because it was a wonderful morning, and I’ll definitely go back – armed with a print-out of the map, photos and information and a book on trees!

Trunk call... Looking skyward!

There’s an ongoing programme of planting, improvement and management at Wigginton Park, and a volunteer Friends group carries out work under the the Wild About Tamworth initiative, funded by site owner Tamworth Borough Council, and Staffordshire Wildlife Trust, so full marks to them all for giving us such a lovely, enjoyable spot, which deserves o better known - but if more people used it, then it wouldn't be as peaceful as it was during our visit.

Little Fir Trees... Well, not so little really, since they are very tall conifers... Scots Pines I think...

Saturday Snapshot is hosted by Alyce at http://athomewithbooks.net/2013/05/saturday-snapshot-may-18/. Press on the link to see more photographs taken by participants.

Peaches for Monsieur Le Curé

‘Fairy tale’ is what would spring to mind if I were asked to describe Joanne Harris’ Peaches for Monsieur Le Curé, which continues the story of Vianne Rocher, who we first met in Chocolat and then in its sequel, The Lollipop Shoes. This latest instalment is slightly grittier than its predecessors – there’s less magic and witchery, and more social realism, centred on the topical and controversial issues like attitudes towards women, and conflict between Moslem immigrants and Christian residents in the small (and frequently small-minded) village of Lansquenet. But in the end it’s people who matter, and the wickedness that must be overcome is created by a man’s nature and has nothing to do with religion or race.

And if you’re expecting a comforting, cosy read don’t worry because that’s exactly what you’ll get: reality may intrude in this novel, but it doesn’t dominate. The overall tone is as enchanting as ever and there’s warmth and affection for humanity as good battles against evil on the banks of the Tannes in the idyllic French countryside.

You don’t need to have read the first two books to appreciate Peaches for Monsieur Le Curé, but knowing the backstory helps to set the scene and understand the characters. Harris is an astute writer who clearly understands that too much re-hashing of the past is not only boring, but destroys the dramatic tension of the work in hand.

Here Vianne returns to Lansquenet eight years after her first visit, answering a plea for help from beyond the grave. She has no idea what awaits her, but she cannot ignore a letter written by her friend Armande before her death. When she arrives in Lansquenet with her daughters Anouk and Rosette she finds everything has changed. The tumbledown buildings in Les Marauds, the ‘slum’ quarter of the village, now provide homes and businesses for an ever-growing North African community, and a mosque challenges the power of the church. The initial friendship and tolerance that existed between new and old has turned sour, and there’s a feeling of menace and distrust as a mysterious black-clad woman walks the streets...

Worse still, Vianne’s old adversary Father Reynaud is balanced on the edge of disaster, in danger of losing everything he holds dear, so the one-time enemies find themselves forming an unlikely alliance as they seek to restore harmony to the divided community. 

Once again the novel is told from two different viewpoints, with chapters narrated by Vianne and the priest, and many of the themes and elements are the same as those in the earlier books. There’s the wind that blows through the village changing lives, and Vianne’s ability to reach into people’s hearts, to see their true colours, and her desire to give them what they really want. But she finds it more difficult to know what she wants from life.

Food, prepared and eaten with love, is as central to this novel as it is in much of the author’s other work. There are the chocolates of course, flavoured with coconut, with rose and cardamom, with chilli to warm the heart and bring courage. There are the peaches of the title, with their sleepy, end-of-summer scent, and the jam and pastries Vianne makes with them. And in the home of Vianne’s Moslem friends  she catches the exotic scents of anise and almond and rosewater and chickpeas cooked in turmeric, and chopped mint, and toasted cardamom, and sesame pastries fried in oil ‘flower-shaped and brittle and perfect with a glass of mint tea’.

A Maghrébin woman tells Vianne that during Ramadan everyone fasts, but they think about food, buy food, prepare food in readiness for the after-sunset feasts – and dream about food when they sleep. It sounds a bit like me when I’m dieting or in thin mode and I become totally obsessed by food, and spend hours planning what I will eat! Vianne herself sees cooking as a kind of alchemy, and wonders if conflicts could be solved by people talking as they share  food, and perhaps she has a point and people should eat together rather fighting. It’s a nice thought, but unlikely to happen I suppose.

Anyway, Peaches for Monsieur Le Curé is an easy read. It’s thoroughly enjoyable, with some wonderfully drawn characters, and is well paced with a plot that races along, and it’s a book I’ll read again – it’s the kind of novel I’ll turn to on a grey day, when the world seems against me, and I want my spirits lifting without having to think too deeply about anything.

A Birthday Treat in Oxford

It was my my birthday this week, and my wonderful daughters celebrated by treating me to a surprise day out in Oxford, because I'd always wanted to there. They arranged it all for last Saturday, a few days before the birthday, so my Elder Daughter could get back from Devon, and they swore the Man of the House to secrecy, and none of them would reveal anything about the plan, despite the fact that I kept badgering them to try and find out what was happening! It wasn't until we were at New Street Station that they told me: they presented me with a card they had made, with pictures of themselves on the outside, and an outline of what the day held in store written inside. I was so touched I burst into tears, which probably embarrassed them horribly, but if it did they didn't say. So here are some of the photos for my Saturday Snapshot.

Here I am, with my special card.

It was the most perfect day - the best birthday pressie I've ever had, and the highlight was a posh afternoon tea, with proper tea made with tea leaves (and a strainer in it's own little dish, to catch the drips), and sandwiches served up with a salad and crisps, and huge home-made scones with lashings of cream and jam, and home-made cake (we chose the coffee and marscarpone, and it was heavenly). The girls had planned a meal out with the Man of the House when we got home in the evening, but the three of us were stuffed we couldn't eat another thing, so the MOTH made do with take-away fish'n'chips instead! However, the two of us are going for a meal today or tomorrow, because it was his birthday this week as well.

Three of a kind: Left to right are Lucy (my elder daughter). me,
my younger daughter Emily.

Oxford really lived up to expectations. I loved the architecture, and all the literary connections - Thomas Hardy's Jude, and Colin Dexter's Morse, Auberon Waugh's Charles and Sebastian and their friends, as well as Philip Pullman, Charles Dodgson (better known as Lewis Carroll, as I'm sure you are all aware), CS Lewis, JRR Tolkien... there's an endless list of writers who were students at Oxford. The list of famous alumni in other fields, like science, history and politics is every bit as impressive, and I was surprised to discover that Sir Robert Peel, founder of the police force, who was MP for Tamworth (where I live) studied at Christ Church. Sir Robert, who served two terms of office as Prime Minister, took a double first in classics and mathematics. At his old college we were interested to see a door, with the words 'no peel' embedded in it in nails, hammered in by students who were outraged by Peel's bill calling for the emancipation of Catholics, and consequently opposed the idea of him being appointed to a university position!

19th Century students protesting against the
possible appointment of Sir Robert Peel were
responsible for this graffiti. 

Christ Church also boasts a beautiful meadow hidden away in the heart of the city but, sadly, we didn't get to see the great hall at Christ Church (where the Harry Potter movies were filmed) because it was in use, but the entrance fee was reduced. and we wandered around the site and looked at the shrine of St Frideswide, patron saint of Oxford, in the Cathedral at the college (apparently it's the only college anywhere to have its own cathedral). According to legend, Frideswide prayed for divine help  to escape marriage, and her unfortunate suitor was struck blind, whereupon she was so full remorse she prayed again, and his sight was restored - and off he galloped, as fast as ever he could, glad to get away from the place I should think!

The Shrine of St Frideswide.

There was so much to see and do we spent most of our time wandering around and soaking up the atmosphere, but I bet even if you stayed for a couple of weeks you wouldn't have time to see and do everything. We squeezed in brief visits to the Bodleian Library and the Ashmolean Museum, the first public museum in the world, which is another place with a local link since founder Elias Ashmole's Lichfield home can still be seen just around the corner from the Oxfam book shop where I volunteer. And, of course, Oxford is where Oxfam started back in 1942 when the Oxford Committee for Famine Relief was established.

The doorway to the library for the School of
Music at the Bodleian Library.

As we walked around the city Lucy used her mobile phone to get directions and information, and gave us a guided tour, but I took so many pictures, and didn't make any notes, so - I've already forgotten most of what she said, and need to check out some of my photos, to find out what they are. I took lots of bits of buildings that caught my eye: decorated clocks, sundials, towers, spires, domes, cupolas, plaques, gargoyles and so on.

I love this clock and the decorative work on the building, but I
have no idea where it was taken!

There were lots of fascinating doors, gates, arches, passageways and alleys that we peered through to catch a glimpse of what lay beyond (especially the ones where there was no public access!).

An entrance to the Bodleian, with the Radcliffe
Camera in the background.

We walked under the Bridge of Sighs, which links Hertford College with New College Lane, and is generally thought to be based on the Venetian landmark of the same name, but I gather this is now regarded as an urban myth, as is the tale that only the lightest students were allowed to use it!

Hertford Bridge, generally known as the Bridge of Sighs.

One of the many amazing things about Oxford is the vast number of bicycles you see. Cyclists are everywhere, even on the pavements, and there are so many cycles stacked in some places, like the area outside the railway station, that I wondered how people ever find their own machine among all the wheels and spokes and saddles and handlebars. And that led me to ponder whether there is a collective noun for a group of bikes or cyclists... a ride, perhaps? 

One bicycle enthusiast found a novel way of parking!

We looked at shops - even the stores seemed to be housed in historic buildings, and the covered market, opened in 1774, has a lovely ceiling and was established to clear the streets of 'untidy, messy and unsavoury stalls'. I can think of towns which might from the same approach today! Best shop of all is the tiny Alice Shop selling, as its name implies, all kinds of things to do with Alice and Charles Dodgson. Every inch of space is crammed with goods. There are editions of the books, and toys and games, and mugs, bags, ornaments, postcards and a host of other items. I guess tourists would consider it gimmicky and touristified, but we loved it, and I bought a calico tote bag, with Tenniel's characters from both books printed on it in red.

Part of the window display in the Alice Shop.

There are an awful lot of buildings packed into what is really a fairly small area. Oxford isn't a large city by any means, but there are 38 colleges, and six halls attached to religious institutions, as well as shops, cafes, offices, hotels and so on. University College, Balliol and Merton were all established in the middle of the 13th century, and all claim to be the oldest college. And rivalry in the non-academic sector is just as fierce, with the Grand Cafe, mentioned by Samuel Pepys, believing itself to be the first coffee house in the country, while the Queen's Lane Coffee House maintains it is the oldest coffee house in Europe. You might think there would be no room for green spaces, but there is grass in the college quads, and parks and gardens, and the meadow at Christ Church, and lots of magnolia trees blooming in small spaces in front of buildings.

Gardens at Christ Church

We passed the remains of Oxford Castle on our way back to the station where historians now believe Geoffrey of Monmouth produce the first written tale about King ~Arthur in his History of the Kings of Britain, but we didn't have time to stop because we had a train to catch. It really was a 'snapshot' kind of a day, where I came home with a kalaidescope of views and memories, and the nice thing is that now I know how easy it is to get there, and what a beautiful city it is, I'll be able to go back and spend more time exploring places I've glimpsed briefly during my special day out. Anyway, I'll leave with photos of my girlies and I enjoying our afternoon tea.

Saturday Snapshot is hosted by Alyce at http://athomewithbooks.net/2013/05/saturday-snapshot-may-11/ . Press on the link to see more photographs taken by participants.

Pink Sugar

A pink cover seems hgihly suitable for a
novel which rejoices in the title Pink Sugar.
My copy was published by Stodder nd
Houghton.

I may have mentioned this before, but I’ll say it again anyway: as a reader, I’m a sucker for a story with a happy ending. And I guess novelist O Douglas must have felt the same way, because one of the chapter headings in Pink Sugar is a quote from GK Chesterton which says: “The popular preference for a story with a happy ending is not a mere sweet stuff optimism: it is the remains of the old idea of the triumph of the dragon-slayer, the ultimate apotheosis of the man beloved of heaven.” So there you have it. Those of us who like slushy, mushy, happy-ever-after finales are not shallow airheads who can’t cope with reality – we’re tapping into folk memories which are buried deep within our psyche and are all about the victory of good over evil!

Anyway, Pink Sugar is a lovely, sweet, frothy concoction of a novel, offering a happy, cheerful view of life, and I loved it. Although I’ve read reviews of her work, I hadn’t come across Douglas before, and don’t really know much about her, but I gather this was her pen name, and she was really Anna Masterton Buchan, sister of adventure writer John Buchan. She was popular when she wrote her books in the 1920s and 30s, but has been forgotten since then which is a shame, because she deserves to be known in her own right rather than as an adjunct to her famous brother.

In this novel Douglas writes about the world she knew, and the small domestic concerns of her social class, where upper and middle class folk lead comfortable lives in pleasant surroundings with servants to care for them – and she does it very well. Pink Sugar may not be ‘great literature’ but it’s immensely enjoyable and very easy to read.

It centres on Kirsty Gilmour who is 30 but insists ‘you shouldn’t make me say it out loud’, and I warmed to her the moment I saw those words halfway down the first page because I know just how she feels as I’ve got a milestone birthday of my own approaching. The Big Day is tomorrow, and I’m considerably older than Kirsty, but I started the celebrations on Saturday when my two daughters whisked me off on a surprise day out to Oxford and a posh afternoon tea, and I had the most wonderful time, but I’m not going to reveal my age out loud, in print, or online. I’m a sensitive soul, and don’t want anyone except my nearest and dearest to know just how ancient I am!

So... back to the book. Kirsty has returned to Scotland after 22 years, spent first at boarding school, then in a series of ‘smart’ hotels as her stepmother wanders the globe seeking cures for her largely imaginary ailments. Following Lady Gilmour’s death Kirsty has enough money to indulge her wishes – and wishes to create a proper home of her own, with true friends rather than the hangers-on who have peopled her life in the past.

An art deco style frontispiece in my 1924
edition of Pink Sugar. 

She rents Little Phantasy, part of the Phantasy estate, decorates it stylishly, tastefully and, I assume, at great expense, then brings her maiden aunt to live with her and invites three motherless children and their governess to spend the summer with her while their grief-stricken father travels abroad. In addition she takes on a cook, a young girl who is ‘the help’, and Miss Wotherspoon, who ‘isn’t an ordinary parlour-maid’ but is a superior sort of woman who has come down the world, and would scare me witless if I met her!

As her warm, cosy house fills up with this instant family, Kirsty gradually gets to know her neighbours and determines that she will live her life with others. She’s a rather enchanting heroine, like a little girl lost, who has never had a home of her own, or felt loved and wanted, but suddenly finds she’s a fairy tale princess able to make her own dreams come true and to help others – whether or not they want to be helped. I guess that to anyone who didn’t know her well she could come across as being rather patronising, but she’s actually very vulnerable, hates to hurt people’s feelings and wants to be liked by everyone.

And if you’re wondering about a love interest, there’s the children’s father, kind, charming, good-looking Mr Crawford, and there’s curmudgeonly Colonel Home, Kirsty’s landlord, a war hero wounded in mind and body who seems to bring out the worst in his new tenant, which is surprising, since she is always nice to everyone, however great the provocation (but we all know which way the wind is blowing, and what she truly feels, even if she doesn’t realise it herself).

The novel features a host of wonderful characters that I’d love to meet. The three children, Barbara, Specky and Bad Bill, are utterly believable, while woolly-minded Aunt Fanny is delightful – she even looks like a sheep, and wears layers of fluffy shawls, and is constantly knitting. And just as I beginning to think Alice Through The Looking Glass, Bad Bill spots the connection and says she is the sheep who sat in the boat and knitted.

Despite appearances, the novel is not all sweetness and light. Douglas has a merciless way with social climbers, and beneath the surface there is poverty, deprivation and illness. The central characters may be warm, well-fed and seemingly care-free, but life is hard for many of the villagers, and some live in grim conditions. And who could fail to be moved by the fate of beautiful young Nannie Tait in her cold, damp home, dying of TB just like her two sisters before her.

Anna Buchan, aka O Douglas, at work
 in her study during the 1940s. 

Hardship is present (but hidden) even among the middle classes where penniless young Vicar Robert Brand is cared for by his plain, graceless sister Rebecca who has never had anything pretty, and has become soured by years of scrimping and saving. Even Kirsty, a glass half-full person if ever there was, has moments of doubt when she is cast down, but the bleaker side of life intrudes only rarely, and makes no impact.

Douglas was obviously aware that she could be criticised for being light-weight, for at one point she has Colonel Home tell Kirsty: “There is something to be said for the pink sugar view of life.”

And she gives us Merren Strang, a character I like to think is a self-portrait of the author, for she too is a novelist and she says she started to write because she wanted to create ‘something very simple that would make pleasant reading’, which is exactly what Douglas has done with Pink Sugar.  Merren explains: “This is a book about good, gentle, scrupulous people who live on the bright side of life.” And that’s really as good a description as any. 

A Poem for Spring

Well, April is almost over, and during the last few days it really does feel as Spring is finally here, weeks after its usual arrival. It's definitely warmer than it has been, flowers are blooming everywhere, and leaves on trees and bushes have put on an incredible burst of growth, as if they are trying to make up for lost time. There are masses of butterflies and bees around, and birds are obviously nesting.

So in honour of Spring, today's post is is one of my favourite poems: Home Thoughts, From Abroad, by Robert Browning. I'd always assumed he wrote it while he was living in Italy following his marriage to Elizabeth Barrett, but apparently it was written while he was visiting England in 1845. 

And here's a photo of blossom I took in the hedge alongside the canal. I'm not sure what it is, but I'm positive it's not pear I. think it may be some kind of philadelphus, but whatever it is, t is very delicate, and very spring-like.  

Home Thoughts, From Abroad

O, to be in England

Now that April 's there,

And whoever wakes in England

Sees, some morning, unaware,

That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf

Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,

While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough

In England—now!

And after April, when May follows,

And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!

Hark, where my blossom'd pear-tree in the hedge

Leans to the field and scatters on the clover

Blossoms and dewdrops—at the bent spray's edge—

That 's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,

Lest you should think he never could recapture

The first fine careless rapture!

And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,

All will be gay when noontide wakes anew

The buttercups, the little children's dower

—Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!

Robert Browning