Green-fingered Eccentricity
Once upon a time, many years ago, when I was a wee lass, I adored beyond comprehension Enid Blyton’s books, particularly ‘The Magic Faraway Tree‘.
So I had a complete regression to seven years old when I saw this particular tree in the grounds of Harewood House.
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That title is starting to look like the sort of chapter heading you get in a textbook, but the next (seriously awesome) part of England I’m covering is so huge I only got to see about one sixteenth of it, and that one sixteenth will take four postings to cover.
Harewood House. It’s big. And in Australian vernacular, rilly rilly old.
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I adore my droseras. I think it’s the sparkly flamboyance of them that really appeals to my inner showgirl. So I was feeling quietly despondent at the thought of them failing. They were starting to look faded and droopy, like a showgirl at the end of her career and I wasn’t sure what they needed to un-tarnish the sequins and bring the shimmy back.
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My all time garden hero is Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall of River Cottage fame. I have refrained from mentioning him so far in the hopes that this blog doesn’t morph into the H F-W stalkery Biggest Fan Ever dribbly love-fest. But I can’t talk about the following without citing Hugh as inspiration.
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Looking into the heart of my Savoy cabbage is like looking into a mirror – except I’m not green. And I don’t have that many wrinkles yet. And I don’t live in a pot in the garden.
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One of the many joys of travelling 25 hours in a stinky, sweaty plane is seeing my sister waiting for me at the other end. She’s lived in England now for near on eight years and I consider her more of a Londoner than anything else these days. The City suits her.
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