Monthly Archives: December 2011

A Christmas Eve Ghost Story*

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Sometimes I get a little lonely working at the Priory.  If I happen to spot someone walking along the public footpath, I’ll sprint after them, yelling and waving my arms, grab them by the wrist and make them do the chatting.   And they almost always say one of two things to me.  One is:  “Please go away and leave us alone.  You’re scaring my children / my dog / my husband.”
The other thing they say is: “Don’t you get a little scared working all alone here at this big, old house?”
“Um no, not really,” I reply, looking over my shoulder at the Priory.  In the past, several villagers have taken me aside to warn me that the house is haunted. “Wouldn’t catch me working there,” they say, looking me up and down and deciding that I must be a needle short of a haystack to take on the job.  Certainly, my brother-in-law, while conceding that the gardens were lovely, took one look at the house and shivered.  “Wouldn’t get me inside there,” he said giving me a pitying look and shivering again.

But I’ve never seen anything to scare me at the Priory.  Though I have felt that I am being watched on occasion.  My first day, for instance, dawned a blisteringly hot, archly still, July day.  I spent much of it weeding the beds that run about the eastern walls of the house.  These beds, after the-years-of-neglect, were full of brambles, bindweed and ash saplings.  And so with my head buried in the undergrowth, and my back to the gardens, I was totally unaware of any drooling, yellow-fanged miscreant shuffling up behind me;  licking his pointy knife.  Just as well there wasn’t one then, or at least if there was, I didn’t see him.  But, on that first day, I did get a little nervy – conscious that someone might be watching me work; though the house was empty.

During periods of bad winter weather, I scurry into the house and carry out work inside.  Last winter, for example, I painted the kitchen ceiling.  And yes, OK – a couple of times I did get a little spooked.  A little squeaky, shall we say.  Imagined I heard someone tramping about upstairs, closing doors, murmuring – that sort of thing.  But I just gulped, turned up the radio a notch and concentrated on kittens-in-mittens and pretty puppies wrapped up in ribbons.  Usually does the trick.

And then about a year ago, I was introduced to Alfred (not his real name).  Tall and handsome and in his seventies, Alfred has known the Priory all his life.  Indeed, as a younger man he used to do much of the regular painting and decorating that is ongoing with a house of its size.  Shaking hands, his first words to me were, “You do know that the house is haunted, don’t you?”  I laughed and shook my head resignedly, “Er, yes.  I have been told that a few times.”

Alfred didn’t laugh back at me.

Sometimes I look up at an upstairs window and imagine what I would do if I saw my own dispassionate, pale face staring back down at me.  Scream, I imagine.
Instead, he looked up at the blank first floor windows and started talking;  more to the house, it seemed, than to me.  “I worked here one Spring with two other chaps.  Back in the ’60′s it was.  We were alone in the house and were up there painting the bedrooms.  We propped open one of the doors onto the landing with a big, old bucket of whitewash.  Door kept on swinging shut, you see.  Half hour later, I went to fill up my empty paint-pot from that there bucket.  But it had been moved.  Moved right out onto the landing and the door was shut fast.  I didn’t shut it and my two mates couldn’t have got to that door without getting past me.  And do you know?  That landing was freezing cold.  Truly freezing.  Could see my breath.  It hadn’t been earlier but now it was.  Far, far colder than it ought to have been on that sunny May morning.
“Later, when I went to get paid, I told the owner what had happened.  He smiled faintly and said, “Oh, that’ll just be the Priory ghost.  Can’t leave a door open in this place but the ghost won’t shut it.  Story goes that many, many years ago a young man was attacked and, on fleeing his enemies, sought sanctuary in the Priory.  He ran into the main building but left the front door wide open.  His pursuers ran in after him, drew their swords and cut him down.  The poor unfortunate now haunts the Priory and won’t stand for any of the doors being left ajar.”
“Blimey, Alfred,” I laughed, “that’s quite a story.”
“Isn’t it just,” he replied. “Quite a story.”  But he still didn’t laugh.
oooOOOooo
Like I say, I’ve never seen a ghost, or indeed anything scary, at the Priory.  And I don’t find it an inherently frightening place.  So I thought it might be fun to create the image of a ghost from an ivy growing up an outbuilding wall (see “The Shape”).  As a nod, if you like, to Alfred’s story.
The Shape – December 2011.  The left ‘arm’ needs to grow more.
Unfortunately, rather than a ghost, the ivy is looking increasingly like a tall-spouted tea-pot.  Or, as several readers have commented, a chicken.  Sigh.  It does have a hint of ghost about it though, doesn’t it?  Reader?  Don’t you think?  Just a hint?  A whiff?  A suggestion?  Either way, I don’t suppose Alfred will find it amusing.

oooOOOooo


I wish you a Very Merry Christmas and a Happy and Healthy 2012.

*I don’t believe in ghosts, but Alfred does exist and he really did tell me this tale of the Priory ghost.

"Stood a Lowly Cattle Shed"

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Once a week I drive up onto the ridge above the Priory to visit Margaret.
In her large, warm kitchen we have a natter, exchanging gossip about the Priory and the village, and a cup of tea.  Afterwards, I might have a nosey about the farmyard.  Go and see her chickens and guinea fowl or, at this time of year, go into her cattle shed and visit her cows.

Margaret's farm through the trees and up on the hill above the Priory.

A heifer which she bought a few months ago at market, recently gave birth.  Or at least she tried to; the calf, which tragically was still-born, got stuck.  Poor  Margaret had to tie a rope about the corpse and pull it out – all by herself.  I was a little annoyed at her for not phoning me to come and help.  I could have jumped on the quad bike and been up at the farm in minutes.  Though truthfully I was a little relieved as well.  As much as I always wanted to be James Herriott, the thought of pulling a dead calf from it’s Mum did turn me a little green about the gills.

The replacement calf

Margaret rushed over to a dairy farmer friend and bought a baby calf off him to replace the still-born.  Smearing the new arrival with the cow’s placenta (sorry, you’re not eating, I hope) she managed to fool the mother into believing this replacement was actually her own baby.

Hoorah – don’t you love a happy outcome?  This is the new arrival with her new mum.

There are several other baby calves in the sheds at the moment including this one, which we’ve decided has as much teddy bear blood in it as cow.

And this white one which was born a day before this photo was taken.

Here she is again a few days later.

The cattle shed, freshly cleaned out and heaped high with fresh straw, is a warm, sweet smelling place to be.

Though the thought of Margaret physically forking in the amount of hay and silage that she does every day is humbling.

Trojan (not his real name).

Opposite the cows and calves are the big boys.  As well as raising beef cattle, Margaret leases out bulls to other farmers.  They go out into surrounding farms to do what bulls do best; make babies.

Mr Grumpy with Proud Crosby behind (their real names).

Sadly, one of Margaret’s favourites, Elgin, recently had to be sold off as beef.  Though she had had him for several years and was very fond of him, he had developed a kink in his bullhood.  Unable to hit his target and consequently unable to do his duty he, very sadly, had to go.  Let that be a lesson to you, boys.

Mr Grumpy

The bulls are massive.  Truly massive, with heads the size of armchairs.  When I first met them, Margaret hurriedly warned me not to stroked their enormous heads through the bars.  Not because they’re aggressive but because if they suddenly raise or shake their heads they can easily snap an arm against the railings.

Mr Grumpy

All the cattle will remain in the sheds now until the ground is firm and the grass starts growing again.  It’s a huge amount of work for Margaret as they obviously need to be fed, watered and cleaned out.  That many cows, bulls and calves produce a vast amount of manure.  But, hey!  A vast amount of manure is a good thing.  There are an awful lot of Priory roses.

A Watery World

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A few short weeks ago, I was bemoaning the lack of rain at the Priory and how very low the water levels were.  (See “My Pond Leaks …“).   But not any more.

The west pond - December 2011

Over the past couple of weeks, we’ve had some seriously heavy downpours here in East Sussex.  The west pond (with it’s leak) was particularly badly affected by the lack of rain.  It’s now brimming and it won’t be long before I begin the annual will-the-house-flood-worry.
Ditches that have been bone dry since the spring, are once again funnelling water through the grounds and into the ponds.

The main ditch, which connects the two ponds, is also full.

Lovely; I like it full.  It generally remains so for the winter, affording the gardens a moat-like feature which is handy for deterring invaders and marauders.

Strong winds have swept the accursed duckweed from most of the east pond (gifting me the deep, enthralling reflections I’ve missed so much – and doubling the number of trees at a stroke)

A reflective east pond - December 2011

and forced it into the pond’s north-eastern tip.

The NE corner of the east pond with the slippy-slidey bridge. Cross with great caution as it's terribly slippy. And slidey.

Here in this tucked away backwater, is a rich habitat of reed mace and water forget-me-not, kingcup, carex, alder and willow.  And duckweed.  Lots and lots of duckweed – whisked here by strong southerly winds.

Concentrated duckweed - grrrrrrr.

Though the reed mace has been laid low by frost and battered by wind and rain, it seems to spring back to life in bright sunlight.
Often, when I walk past this area (across the slippy-slidey bridge), my heart leaps into my throat as, without warning, a pair of unseen mallard explode off the water and up into the chilly, bright air.  They catch me out every time.  I suspect they do it on purpose and chortle to themselves as my hand clutches at my chest, I gasp for breath and a spasm of undiluted alarm ripples across my face.
In early 2009, Reg (his real name) and his almighty digger scooped out huge amounts of mud and silt from this shallow part of the east pond.  It needed doing but it did look terribly ravaged and barren afterwards.

After Reg - April 2009

I’m pleased that it is now an overgrown and ungardened corner once again.

But I can’t be doing with those mallard and their practical jokes.  For one thing my heart won’t stand for it.  For another, I’ll lose my footing one of these days on the slippy-slidey bridge and break my neck.  A brace of roast duck for Christmas dinner, do you think?

Red

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Are you feeling a little glum?  Depressed at the thought of weeks and weeks of grey drizzle and overcast sky?  (If you’re in the Northern hemisphere that is).  Do Christmas songs on perpetual loop drive you to random acts of meanness toward strangers?  Well ,what you need is a great, big slap of red.  Technicolour red.  Right here, right now.  I’ve been trawling through my backlog of unused photos and thought, mid-December, that  a splish of crimson, a splash of scarlet, a splosh of vermilion might do you the world of good.  So here you are then, whether you want it or not …… RED!

Cotoneaster berries. The Priory – November 2011.

Opium poppies. The Priory – June 2011.

Malus ‘Gorgeous’ crab apple. The Old Forge – November 2011.

Just a few drops of red. Soldier beetles (Rhagonycha fulva). The Priory – July 2011.

Pyracantha berries. The Priory – September 2011.

Virginia creeper (Parthenocissus quiquefolia). The Old Forge – September 2011.

Ivy leaf Pelargonium. The Priory – July 2011.

Dahlia ‘Dark Spirit.’ The Priory – July 2011.

Rosa rugosa ‘Roseraie de l’hay.’ The Priory -July 2011.

A blush of red. Sedum and nigella. The Old Forge – August 2011.

Another opium poppy – with visitors. The Priory – June 2011.

Holly. The Priory – December 2011.

There you go.  Did that help?  Less glum – more happy?  No?  Oh well, suit yourself.

"Anxious Hog"

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If you’re not a blogger, you may not be aware that I can see quite a lot of information about you, the reader.  I’m able to see where you are, how old you are, what you read on the blog, how long you stay, your weight, girth and what you’re wearing.  (Some of these aren’t strictly true).

Campanula. The Priory - September 2011.

And if you arrived via a search engine, I can see the words that brought you here.  And these search words are often enlightening, amusing, puzzling, alarming, and sometimes an imperative to have you apprehended and locked away without delay.

One of the two Priory Lions. June 2011

Sadly, it is only in the past few weeks that  I have started to keep a record of some of the more interesting search words and phrases.  The title of this post is one such entry but some real beauts have slipped through my fingers and tumbled out of my memory.  Shame.

Toadstool on one of my bonsais. November 2011

Some like “foxglove looks bad” or “perhaps I should give up tomatoes” are the wistful murmurs of gardeners the world over.  Others have a note of exasperation about them: “can’t mow” (to which my response is, stop whinging and get on with it) and “aquilegia running aMOK.”   I love the partial capitalisation on the latter.  Such bad behaviour from such a naughty aquILEGIA.

Verbascum chaixii ‘Album.’  The Priory – July 2011.
A few are rather more bemusing.   “Cows wearing earphones,” “cute calf with nose ring,” (whatever floats your boat, I suppose), “chicken staring into the distance” and “how does a plonk plant look” all set me to wondering.  Some are more unnerving, such as: “snake ate my dog,” and “insectivorous plants bite me.”  And the odd one simply seethes with anger:  “the gardener has butchered my beech hedge”  – hope they don’t mean me!

Nigella flower. The Priory - September 2011.

Others are just a little curious (if  owly): “standing like an owl”  and the similar “sitting somewhere and do like an owl.”    I now feel compelled to do both.   “Tawny owl flying without logos” – quite right too.  Owls should not be commercialised.   “Angelika asibo that come” – I have spent some time mulling over and am still none the wiser, while “sad rain” and “cows that are alone” have just made me feel melancholic.  My retort to “fence moved by creep” is a) I didn’t move it and b) don’t be so rude.

Cycad leaf unfurling (photo turned on it's side). The Priory - July 2011.

I concluded that “mallard ducks mink” is the only response to being chased by such a scary animal and that “when I takes some ahhhh” was presumably typed by someone as they walked off a cliff.  Several visitors who entered either “bums in beds” and “at home with the girls” were, I can’t help but feel, disappointed to end up at a gardening blog (both of these, in case you wondered, were more or less the titles of posts on the AG).

Miscanthus transmorrisonensis. The Priory - November 2011.

But, so far, my favourite is an existential wail (or at least an argumentative pout), which is so cryptic I can’t help but ponder what was meant by it:  “Gandalf, I too am a gardener.”  It seems churlish to point out that Gandalf wasn’t actually a gardener.  Besides there is something so irrefutable and heartfelt about those six words that I’m tempted to have them printed onto a tee-shirt.  You see Gandalf, I too am a gardener.