The Thin Line

'Intruders Keep Out'. Every home could post a severe warning at its entrance. I'm weeding the front borders of this ancient farmhouse where wild Valerian spills onto the gravel and meshes with tough grass and bramble.

Wearing the owner's gardening gloves, wielding her secateurs, I hack back enthusiastically. Until I'm struck by a deep sense of intrusion. "Is this what she wants?" I ask myself and tread the fine line from helpful to intrusion.

Stepping back to her seat beneath the vine, I sense my job is to cut out damage while keeping the beauty of gentle leaves and deep pink flower heads that frame the doorway to the house.

As temporary custodian of the space, I take the gardener's Hippocratic oath, promising to leave the garden in good health, treat it with respect and encourage it to thrive for years to come.

The Tango Lesson

Any skill develops with practice; get out of practice and you feel uncomfortable. As your practice develops, you forget the time when it was new and difficult to learn.




The Argentinian tango night at Reading's Canoe Club creates a strange mix of pleasure and pain. Pleasure to see familiar faces and hear the music. Pleasure to be close to the River Thames on a Saturday night, taking the pulse of the river and admiring candlelight from the terrace.




Pain reflects my embarassment and lack of control. Memories of lessons past drift in and out as I pivot clumsily and accept invitations to dance with strangers. The negative voices rise in my head: "You can't remember the steps;" "You could have bought a new dress;" "You're out of your depth." Can I go home yet?



I stop. I turn around and notice the other dancers of all shapes, sizes and ages. Experts encourage newcomers to join the dance regardless of faltering steps and moments of indecision. I remind myself that I have chosen a difficult dance and allow myself to enjoy the learning right now. Skill grows with practice and encouraging teachers: the real tango lesson.

Switching to Plan B

Like a child let loose on the 'pick and mix' sweet counter, I'm back from the local home-grown plant nursery and the old Peugeot is stuffed with a chaotic array of plants. This time last year, I filled five large terracotta pots with deep red agyranthemums, lime green surfinia petunias, variegated nepeta and felicia. All happily co-existed on the patio through an unpredictable and damp summer.



I had a stylish, winning formula to repeat.

By March, the plan began to go awry: first, the frost-free greenhouse heater cut out and the strident agyranthemums died a black death. Lime green petunia plugs bloomed a lurid fuschia pink - not too tasteful. So I created a neat plant shopping list on Saturday to save the day, and the plan fell apart completely: I was beaten to the nursery by earlier plant hunters.

Instead I returned with blue/black salvias, juicy big begonias, ornamental millet, trailing indian mint and zig zag scaevola to live with the dark trailing geraniums and fushias I've been nuturing.

As I look out on the garden now, they're a happy bunch of companions with the moon shining down - chirpily random and just not what I'd planned. When work is challenging, I tell my clients to have the plan and be willing to adapt to circumstances. After all, the formula worked for Charles Darwin. Now I'm swallowing my medicine to see how it all grows.

From the Cafe at the Water's Edge

Behind the lumps of jagged rocks, layers of turquoise and petrol blue sea ripple over the stones. Ahead, the low-lying mountains dip into the cool sea. Only with time to sit and stare, do I notice the crocodile shape of the landscape.

In such a place, I grow two hours older without question, simply content to absorb the warmth through every pore of my body. The flower be-decked terrace offers gentle shade. The photo reveals a limited shot. Being here in the moment, I appreciate the patient continuity of the sea in motion, framing the busyness of Greek cooks pitting olives and cherries, the blonde young mother exploring rock pools, hand in hand with her lithe, demanding young son.

An old man rides his motorcycle slowly past, his labrador is attached by rope lead and jogs ahead to ensure its morning exercise.

Hungry business, this, sitting and sipping coffee.

Let them eat cake

Spattered bits of wholemeal flour and egg adorn the old Cranks cookbook. Page 178 is falling out along with the rest of the old brown pages and we're in danger of losing the Luscious Lemon Cake recipe.

For friends and family, picnics and parties, some recipes need to be handed down. Today it was my monthly writers' workshop and we looked at shifting the words from chaos into order. These writers don't just need space and creative input. Cake fuels the words and helps make delicious connections.

Marie-Antoinette would be pleased: "Let them eat cake!"

For a little batch you need: a 100g butter, 150g sugar, rind and juice of one lemon, 1 egg, 100g of wholemeal self-raising flour. Triple the quantity because one batch is never enough.

Melt the butter and most of the sugar in a pan over gentle heat, stir in lemon rind, whisk the egg and mix it in, fold in the sifted flour, and bake for about 30 mins at 180 or gas mark 4.

Mix the lemon juice and a large spoon or two of sugar in a pan over heat, dribble it over the cake once cooked. (Poke a few holes in the top first.) Eat it before the gannets get it.

Interview with Kate

I've just been interviewed by my friend Ro Gorell on this writing world. See the video here
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VxFCfkzA5wg

Honesty

Honesty (its Latin name is Lunaria) has self seeded right through the dustiest border in the garden, offering a generous flowery white skirt to the new red leaves of the Cotinus Coggyria, the smoke tree. Soon a dark blue clematis will join the party, weaving through the branches.

The honesty came out of nowhere. I didn't consciously plant the seeds.

Watching this 'stuff' happen in the flower beds is like reading Fiona Robyn's new novel 'The Blue Handbag' as it unfolds sentence by sentence. Her book gently records the life of its main character, Leonard, an unassuming gardener mourning the death of his wife Rose. It's a mystery story.

Honesty cannot help but come out bright and white, and I'm anticipating the slow dawning of truth that will appear on the page, as it always does in the end.