As I sit down to write about the recent happenings at Priory Cottages, it is always in my mind that I am an intruder. The fact that Mrs. Win Kirby has lived here since birth, some four score years and more, her father was born in the same house and her grandfather moved into the house when it was first built, certainly makes my five years of residence rather insignificant.
Add to this, because I have been away for a week, that a lot has happened in the countryside, it feels rather strange, almost a different world. Before going away trees were coming into leaf and there were still gaps in the hedgerows, on our return trees were fully in leaf and long distance viewing of the fields was via gateways only. The main difference though was one of colour, and it wasn’t green. No indeed, it was the change from yellow to white. What am I talking about ?
The answer is very simple, the first, yellow flowers of spring; daffodils, celandines, primroses, cowslip and dandelions, have given way to a spectacular display of white. It started with snowdrops followed by white violets, stitchworts, Jack-by-the-hedge, wild garlic, cow parsley, Star of Bethlehem and then the trees, the wayfarer, the lilac, May blossom and the horse chestnuts. I suspect you can name more, but whatever, they are producing a wonderful show this year.
What a wonderful sight to come back to, although while down in Deban, I had another wonderful surprise, I actually found two wild flowers I had never seen before.
We were staying just south of Combe Martin in north Devon and on one of our excursions we walked along the lower parts of the valley of the River Lyn. This notorious river carried a continuous, ten inches of rain falling on Exmoor to the sea, taking much of Lynmouth with it including a school, back in the fifties. To make amends for this, it is possibly the only natural site in England, where Irish Spurge can be found. Despite the fact that this plant has a mainly green inflorescence; its shades of green, the luxurious stem and leaves and its lush growth habit make it a wonderful spectacle. This spectacle was surpassed the following day on our journey home. Driving along rivers valleys on Exmoor, where oak trees provided shade, I noticed clusters of rather striking, pink flowers, growing at the roadside. Despite having lived in Devon and being an occasional visitor to Exmoor I was perplexed. When it was safe to stop, we did so in a convenient place to investigate. After investigation, I decided I was looking at Pink Purslane, an import from North America. All I can say is that whoever introduced it here had good taste, albeit poor environmental standards. It is done now and it is just one more exotic to add to the thousands of others already here.
So our stay in Deban was quite eventful, despite not hearing a single Devonian local say, "Come down by yere, my luver."
While speaking in tongues, (I must apologies if I have been writing in a weird accent.) or at least about them, I must return to north east Dorset, where it is hoped all will understand the accent. (If you can’t I’ll type more slowly.) The subject here is another older member of the village community, "Old Jim". Jim is proud of the fact that he is of Romany origins, and will talk to any interested parties, in fact I don’t think you even have to be interested. Whatever, it reminds me of my village childhood in Blackmoor, Hampshire. The school was split almost fifty/fifty; children of estate workers and gipsy children. Hence I picked up some of the lingo, especially as one of my greatest friends in later life, was of this stock.
Having heard this remark in a Petersfield pub, "Gaw dawdy mi mush, tent moine, Oi paed fur the las un.", I was able to translate, "Gor blimey, mate it can’t be my round I paid for the last one." The speaker, Michael, had at one stage been apprenticed to my father who was a carpenter. Unfortunately he could not finish anything that lasted for more than a few months, because as he put it, "Oi’ve bin on oliday agin, paid for by Er Magesty." Those magistrates were not at all worried about the interruptions in Mike’s education. No wonder people tried to catch him out, particularly in pubs when another round was called for.
We have been too long away from Woodcutts, please don’t keep side tracking me, or I will never finish. Before I leave the language barrier, I must tell you about Old Isaac. He, every year, in late August brought his family to Selborne for hop-picking.
The Estate always provided tents for visiting workers, one per family. These were huge bell tents, providing plenty of room, as in those days, the nineteen forties and fifties, people did not have the expectations of today. Of course Isaac insisted on using his own accommodation, "the benders"; to those in the know, this means long hazel poles stuck into the ground, bent over in an inverted ‘U’ and covered with a tarpaulin. Cooking facilities consisted of an open fire in front of the benders, which if the wind was in the wrong direction, meant that the smoke permeated, (please note the wording) the habitation.
It was on one of these occasions, that Isaac’s wife, and I use the term loosely, muttered those immortal words, "Cum out of thay, there benders mi Jobie an’ ‘ave some o this mokey tay." Which roughly translates as, "Come out of the tent my dear Joe and have some of this tea, so delicately infused with smoke from the fire." You have got me at it again, I’m supposed to be back in Woodcutts, stop side-tracking me.
Back home we had pouvie and cannie for supper last night, which if I have spelt it correctly is of course, potatoes and rabbit. The one thing missing for this language is a dictionary, so I have tried spelling phonetically, whatever that means. Which brings me back to home-grown food and the garden
It has been an odd year, after a warm, dry start, there was a cold wet spell which slowed growth tremendously. What started as an extremely early year was suddenly stopped in its tracks, which started to accelerate away again in late April and early May, which accounts for all the wonderful white blossoms currently on view, as well as rapid growth of runners and potatoes planted half way through March. In the green-house we have actually lost plants from the excess heat when the door and windows were inadvertently left closed all day. (This translated, I forgot.)
As I sit here typing, I look out on white and purple lilac backed by a massive horse-chestnut tree, in magnificent bloom, with a small dark green yew beneath and the beautiful lime green of the small, leaved limes to the left. Mother Nature has excelled herself this year, if you haven’t noticed get out and look now, and thank God for it.
Today I feel I could go on and on writing with great enthusiasm about the countryside, but I don’t want to keep you up.
Therefore I have decided to leave it, so goodbye for now, thank you for reading to the end.
God bless you all.