Just a brief post today, to show you some exquisite leaves which I gathered on a walk yesterday. We have a few trees of Japanese origin here in the castle grounds. One of these varieties is the Katsura or Cercidiphyllum japonicum. Since I never remember either its Japanese name or its Latin binomial, however, I simply call it the pudding tree; as at this time of year it smells deliciously of burnt sugar. This is a tree to make your mouth water.
Not only does it smell wonderful in the autumn, it looks delicious too. The heart-shaped leaves turn all shades of juicy pink, yellow, orange and red before they fall. At the moment, our two Katsuras have the full spectrum of their shades on display. One has a bright rainbow of colour; the other has a sweet selection of delicate pinks. (A tree covered in pink hearts: perhaps I should call it the Valentines’ tree?)
On the tree itself, I think I preferred the delicacy of the pinks, glowing prettily in the mild sunshine. Having brought a selection home, however, I find it is the rainbow which really catches the attention. I can’t think of any other tree here which displays such a wide spectrum of autumn colour.
If you were wondering, by the way, the page on which I photographed the leaves is taken from one of two books on Japan which were acquired by my husband’s great-grandmother over a hundred years ago. They are each a mixture of travel journal, visitors’ guide and artist’s sketchbook, reflecting the fascination of the West at that time for the barely-known culture and horticulture of the land of the rising sun. Now, of course, they are fascinating and beautiful period pieces in their own right – if a little the worse for wear.
You might enjoy Abroad thoughts from home.
It has slowly dawned on me over the past decade at Castle Beastie that September is one of my favourite times of year. For so long, I associated the month only with the end of the holidays, the start of the new school year – and a consequent sinking feeling. It was October which, after university, made me nostalgic: horse chestnut trees blazing with autumn colour over a punt-strewn backwater; the smell of damp leaves in a cobbled college lane.
September’s subtle beauty I have overlooked for too long. Morning mists clear to reveal a mild blue sky; mellow sunlight gilds the grass and kindles the first gleams of topaz and amber on the limes and the beech trees. Birdsong fills the woods again, a brief echo of the music of the spring chorus. Animals which hibernate in the winter are busy fattening up before the cold sets in, so it is one of the best times of year to see red squirrels digging under the avenue of ancient yews, and hedgehogs about their business on the lawns.
The ospreys flew south some time ago now, and a week ago the swallows and house martins followed suit. Buzzards still patrol the skies, though, their high mewing call haunting the tree tops. A raven cronks from a tall fir tree; a gathering of jackdaws squabble comfortably together in the limes. Outside the kitchen window, there is a fence post which is a favourite perch for a robin: he and I observe each other as I’m washing the dishes in the morning. His red breast feathers are growing a little brighter week by week.
What’s so lovely about this season, I think, is the mellowness. The children are back at school, the last of the holiday clothes have been washed and put away, and our events season is drawing to a close. Humans may have a feeling of new beginnings engendered by the start of the school year but, in the cycle of the natural world, there is a sense that the turning wheel is slowing down a little. Daytime temperatures continue to be warm: indeed, this year’s September has been unusually warm, with temperatures in the high teens Centigrade/ high sixties Fahrenheit on and off all month. Although the leaves are beginning to be tinged with gold and to colour the ground, overhead the trees are still thickly green. This is the moment in the year when we can almost fool ourselves that summer will drift on indefinitely.
The equinox is past, however. In the evenings, mist creeps up from the river as the daylight fails soon after 7pm. By morning the mist is sometimes thick fog, and there is condensation on the windows despite their being ajar. Today’s golden sunshine, birdsong and mild blue sky are amongst the last of summer’s gifts – which is precisely why they are so precious.
The coincidence of receiving two nudges in two days about my long absence from the blogosphere has persuaded me back to Dancing Beastie. Hello again!
You might have noticed, just possibly, that Scotland is about to vote on whether we want to become an independent country. We go to the polls tomorrow. The tension in the country has reached bursting point. Media coverage attained saturation levels some time ago. Westminster is in a panic, having belatedly realised that the three-hundred year old Union of Great Britain and Northern Ireland might be about to be torn up. There is doom-mongering from one side, bluster and outright aggression from the other. Many of us – including, I know, some of those who are campaigning for independence – are heartily sickened by the whole affair, by what it is doing to our country, pitching erstwhile good neighbours against each other and putting us all in a state of anxiety and uncertainty about our future.
So I am not the only Scot who is feeling a little prickly today.
As I would rather think about anything than the political situation, I will be happy to bring you a little light relief from it all this autumn in the form of further writings about the goings-on here at the castle and in the countryside around us. For the next few days, though, I’ll be trying to keep a low profile. All the best.
Sometimes you need someone else to remind you of the beauty and wonder of the world. Even at this balmy time of year, attention can grow tired. I find this especially true in matters of the spirit.
One Sunday a couple of weeks ago, sitting in morning mass at church, I was dully contemplating the long slog from Pentecost (in May) to Advent (December). This period is what is known in the Catholic and Anglican traditions as Ordinary Time, when there is – or rather, it can feel like there is – nothing special going on. Easter is done and dusted, Advent and Christmas are months and months away. It often feels to me a bit like trudging back to the office or the housework the day after a marvellous party.
Far from being the end of the excitement, Pentecost is, of course, only the beginning. This feast, celebrating the descent of the Holy Spirit on the disciples, signifies the moment when the disciples of Christ changed from being followers to leaders. Fired with the Holy Spirit, they began to spread the good news and thus to start building the foundations of the Church as we know it today. The book of the Acts of the Apostles in the Bible is full of a sense of the exciting dynamism of this time.
Somehow, however, I so often seem to feel that Pentecost is an ending. It’s the last half-hearted hurrah after the spiritual high of Easter. After that, as the weather warms up and holidays come and go and school terms end and begin again, it’s just a case of dragging the children and oneself along to church, week after week, through all the disruptions and spiritual torpor of the season.
I’ve only ever been to Rome once, and it was for a single day. I was making my roundabout way home after a summer job in Italy, and had one day to spare between trains. My Scottish-Polish boyfriend had lugged his kilt across Europe specifically to wear it while paying his respects to the Pope, then a fellow Pole. Without a map, we found our way on foot across the hot and busy city to St. Peter’s…and discovered that the Pope was out. It was mid-August, the eve of the Feast of the Assumption, and he was sensibly on holiday at his cooler summer residence in the hills.
That is what Ordinary Time often feels like to me. It is as if the Holy Spirit is on his summer vacation: still in charge, but not making any personal appearances on the balcony to hand out blessings.
Thinking about this feeling, a far wiser writer than me has pointed out that ‘to the new-born baby or the dying man there is no such thing as ordinary time: everything is shot through with wonder.’ I know this, and I too am constantly surprised by the wonder of the world – so why can’t I carry that feeling into my worship? Sitting in church a couple of weeks ago, I thought I must make more of an effort. Dutifully, I started trying to pray. But the old phrases that rose to my mind felt formulaic and stale.
‘This is getting us nowhere,’ I realised, ‘neither the Holy Spirit nor me.’
And I began to wonder: when I ponder what especially prompts praise and thanks at this time of year, what is it I really think of? Outside the stuffy church building, it was another glorious summer day. Beech and oak trees threw green shadows across the sunny windows; in quiet moments I could hear the chaffinches and bluetits chirping in the branches just beyond the door. And it came to me: summer woods, tall feathery grasses, calves growing strong in the meadow; hot sunny days, blue sea lochs, pebbly beaches. This is where I find love and wonder and praise. This is where I find prayer. Suddenly the Holy Spirit didn’t seem so far away after all.
Speaking of wiser writers, I have only recently begun to discover the work of Mary Oliver. (Isn’t it thrilling when you find a writer who can articulate your own heart? I feel so lucky to be embarking on a voyage through her poetry.) In many of her poems she writes about attentiveness, the importance of noticing the small details of the world. She writes movingly, too, about the soul’s instinctive awareness of grace. These two themes come together in her much-loved poem, ‘The Summer Day’. Reading it, I found that my own thoughts had echoed her words, as this little extract shows.
‘…I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?’
You can read the full poem here, reproduced with permission.
I am so sorry. I’ve been neglecting you, haven’t I? Hope you are having a good summer so far.
We’ve been pretty busy, from the run-up to end of terms (including our younger son reaching the milestone of leaving our local primary school, as he goes to join his brother at prep school in September) to the usual happy chaos of the summer holidays.
In addition, the wonderful course I took in June-July on book art/ creative writing kept my focus and inspiration away from blogging for its duration. It was so full of ideas: I am still working my way through them and it will continue to feed my imagination for months to come. However, it did mean that poor old Dancing Beastie fell by the wayside for a while.
Then there’s illness. I’m happy to say that my M.E. is still relatively mild, and indeed I feel better than I did a couple of months ago. It does continue to sap my energy, however, both physical and mental.
So there you go, three, count ‘em, three excuses for a dearth of blogging. Enough! I’ll re-start small, with just a picture of flowers.
My younger son planted a small patch of his own in the garden in the spring. Returning from a few days away, we have found everything burgeoning after a hot week followed by heavy rain. The red currants and raspberries are ripe, the parsley is running to seed, tiny marigold plants have each become a shouty fistful of bright blooms and modestly sized clumps of nasturtiums are now a tangled mass of colour. Since everything in son’s patch is grown primarily to be eaten, he started gathering the biggest and most leathery of the nasturtium leaves, on the basis that we should eat those first before we start on the more tender ones.
‘You know what,’ I told him, ‘we have a whole garden to eat. Let’s just pick some of the nasturtiums to enjoy looking at.’
‘Oh. O.K., and then can we eat them?’
‘Weeell….how would it be if you let me pick a tiny bunch just to look at, and you pick as many as you want to put in a salad?’
Here is an essential difference between gardeners. Is it a male/ female thing, or just the pragmatist versus the aesthete? Whatever, he agreed; and so we had a very tasty salad for lunch, and I have a sun-bright posy of marigolds and nasturtiums to share with you. Consider it an apology for being such an erratic blogger this year, and a promise of more sunny days to come.
You might enjoy The very hungry caterpillar: a tragedy in three acts.
I’m not sure where the past month has gone. Oh dear, why does midsummer always take me by surprise? One moment I am bumbling along thinking, ‘Ooh, the year is starting to get rolling now, isn’t it, we’re into May already, I suppose that’s Spring well under way.’ The next moment, ‘Aaghh! The year is HALF WAY THROUGH!’ Anyway, here we are, only a few days from being able to observe sagely that the nights are drawing in again. I suppose it’s time I got going on my 2014 to-do list.
Out in the woods, meanwhile (the weather is far too nice this week to be wasted on ticking off to-do lists) I noticed with a start today that the season has changed while I wasn’t looking. Those heavenly bluebells have all gone now, leaving a forest of seed heads instead.
The edges of the woods have become a thicket of nettles and sticky goose-grass, almost smothering the many other plants growing vigourously there.
The meadow between the wood and the river ripples in the warm breeze, lush with long grasses.
And in the hollow horse chestnut – still the first tree in the wood to come into leaf every spring, despite its scooped out interior – a pair of crows have raised three young. I’ve often thought that this hollow would make a wonderful home for some creature or other; but I only realised it was in use at last when, as I was walking past it not so long ago, the tree croaked at me.
Peering cautiously inside, wary of being pecked on the nose, I spied three yellow mouths wide open in the gloom, squawking for food. A week later, the young were fledged and ready to go. The last one flew the nest a couple of days ago, to join the noisy mob who hang out in the big lime tree at the edge of the cow pasture. I wonder if the same family will return to the hollow horse chestnut next year.
Before I go, I should explain that I do have an excuse for having ‘lost’ a month, and for my woefully sparse blog posts this year. After a rather trying few months, I have recently been diagnosed with M.E. It seems that this can be triggered by head trauma, which my doctor is sure is the case for me. Anyway, what it means is that, for the present, my walks are rather fewer and shorter than of old, and my head is and has been rather fuzzy and lacking in inspiration and concentration for writing (or indeed for much else). However, I am in pretty good heart and am hopeful that it won’t get much worse before it gets better. Now, where’s that to-do list…
From the days when I had a pre-schooler at home, you might enjoy Midsummer’s treasures.
‘Think before you write.’ That is good advice for anyone committing words to paper or screen. Seventy years ago, however, it had rather more urgency.
Inspired, as predicted, by this wonderful online book art course which I am doing, I began to search the castle the other day for old scraps of paper ephemera. There is plenty of it about. Several members of the family over the past century have left desks here, each with drawers full of letters, photos, bills, diaries and all the odds and ends that we each think we really will get round to sorting out one of these days, only life goes on and more urgent bills arrive and perhaps ill health strikes and so on until, one day, it falls to the children to go through your desk instead. In a house this size, however, the desk can just be left in a spare room and forgotten about; so the contents remain inside, a time capsule of a life busily lived.
The strange thing is that, going through the contents of a desk decades after the death of their owner, one still feels an intruder. Inevitably we put ourselves in the other’s shoes, thinking how indignant we would be if someone else thumbed through our private correspondence. Indignation, however, is a prerogative of the living. It is the descendants we must consider more, I think, in our treatment of the belongings of our ancestors.
When you find something really interesting, however, respect for family privacy conflicts with the historian’s fascination. Thus, when I discovered, under a pile of bank statements from the 1970s, a carefully preserved cache of letters from two brothers serving in the army in World War Two, I could not resist reading some of them. In this week when we have just been commemorating the seventieth anniversary of D-Day, the massive assault which began the liberation of Europe from Nazism, these letters are poignant first-hand accounts of what it was like to live through the war.
I approach these letters, I suppose, in three minds. One is that of the family: this is the correspondence of men who are remembered with affection, whose children and grandchildren are our cousins. I feel that their stories are not mine to publicise. The second is that of the historian: time has rendered these letters historical documents, first-hand accounts of a period which is now studied by my children at school. It is my moral duty to keep these primary sources safe.
The third is that of the paper hoarder, amateur artist/craftswoman and lover of ephemera. And it is in this mind that I wanted to show you one or two details of the letters. Arguably it is the most trivial; but it is a way of sharing my appreciation of them without, I trust, invading the family’s privacy.
What fascinates me as a lover of ephemera is the stamps, franks and other officialdom displayed on these documents. Here are some letters sent by the elder brother, on regulation British Forces aerogrammes. I rather like the way that the king’s profile has been garlanded by the frank on the letter at the top of this first photo.
At least one of these letters was opened by an army censor, who stamped his own rather splendid crowned mark upon it:
One notices the imperious tone of British officialdom at that time: ‘Security: think before you write.’ ‘Air Letter. If anything is enclosed this letter will be sent by ordinary mail.’ It was an attitude which won us the war, so one can’t complain.
The letters from the younger brother are also fascinating. Captured by the Germans in 1940, he spent the next four years kicking his heels in Prisoner of War camps somewhere in northern Europe (I have yet to discover where). His letters home are written on regulation PoW paper. Each postcard or aerogramme is marked Kriegsgefangenenpost, Prisoner of War Post. At least this made them free of charge (gebührenfrei).
On one there is a rather beautiful German stamp: unusual as all the other correspondence from PoW camps was franked rather than stamped (if I have my terminology right).
These letters home from PoW camps are small masterpieces of the unsaid. ‘No letters for ten days or more,’ wrote our officer on a postcard one March. ‘Hope J & C [his siblings] are OK: longing for news of them. Weather foul – snow, sleet, mud. …When the spring comes and the place dries up a bit it will be a good thing.’ You can imagine how dismal it must have been for him to have mentioned it at all to his parents. ‘Got clothes parcel y’day, v. useful’, he wrote in another card in March ’41. I guess that he had been pretty cold. In one letter he was thinking of his good wool coat left behind at his club in England, and asked his mother to put some moth powder on it. How he must have longed for that coat in the endless winters in camp!
Both these brothers, happily, survived the war and went on to marry and have children and grandchildren. The letters have ended up here because they were inherited and treasured by their sister, my husband’s grandmother. Their story is for another to tell, or not: all I can tell you is that, whatever the temptation, these are pieces of ephemera which I will not be cutting up for my art course.
You might enjoy some wartime memories of the castle in Cycling in the ballroom: children’s castle memories.