farmette days

Slowly, I am returning to a summer routine. Lots of work outside, kids in my afternoon, little tasks, but also little pleasures sprinkled throughout.

The weather is still perfect, the mosquitoes are low in number in the morning, medium in the afternoon and evening. That may not be great for those who come around later, but for me, it's great. My work in the flower fields is almost always heavily concentrated to the mornings. Today's images from my weeding and pruning:

 

(lilies that don't recognize the end of the lily season)

(the new orchard: apples and a flowering meadow...)

(the six girls)

(oh, hello more lilies)

(pathway to the door)

And I return to the bakery to pick up breakfast treats and cookies for Sparrow. 

After breakfast, Ed is preoccupied with work calls and I do not want to devote the rest of my living days to weed pulling, so I head out for a walk. Just along the bike path which weaves to the back of the farmette lands. I've always loved looking at the "rear end" of the farmette -- there's something gloriously wild about it since you dont see any of the structures in the season of dense foliage.

I dont often worry about how long I will keep on living there or whether Ed will lose the strength that we need to keep the place going (mine is less important: I can always let go of gardening, allowing the flower fields to sink into some dense jungle of weeds. It would be painful to watch, but we would survive, whereas without his engineering knowhow and physical stamina, we would not thrive there for long. All this is not usually on my mind. I've always believed that if we, if I had to take a radical turn in life, I would manage. But in the meantime, I remind myself that I cannot take all this for granted. It's easy to just accept waking up to a farmette day, to look outside and see all that is expansive and beautiful, seasonally exciting, to feel the calm, to believe that it will forever be this way.  

And maybe it will be and maybe it wont. But for each day that is exactly like this one, we really are grateful. And I suppose ignoring the possibility (indeed, likelihood) of change in the coming years is a good way to live with affection for the present. I need only look to my mother to know that you can snuff out and destroy all seeds of joy if you're sure nothing good will ever come your way again. Her favorite home has always, always been the one she just left behind.  And so I remind myself each day -- this is what good luck looks like. This field of golden and purple flowers, this porch breakfast, this walk on a brilliant late summer day.

 

After, I get ready for the kids. Fruits in their fruit bowls, cookie for the cookie guy, a croissant split between them.

I'm at their pick up point on the nose at 2:15. And I ask them: should we get corn at Stoneman's today and get ice cream tomorrow, or the other way around?

Guess which of two won for this day?

(she loves the friendly cat at Stoneman's)

(he likes to feed Rosie the goat)

(Boo the sheep is not hungry)

(at the farmette now...)

(cherry doubles...)

Surely what you'd recognize as a fantastic day. An noble day. Weeds pulled, steps taken, kids fed and happy. Summer at her best.

farmette days

I am sitting on the farmhouse porch. Gorgeous weather. Sunny, but not too hot this week. The familiar sound of known to me birds. Two cats, Dance and Friendly, taking in the sun  -- one on a chair and one on the table. Before me, a felled gladiolus murielae with some false sunflowers, in a Brighton Blue vase from Sissinghurst.

 

Nothing is as calming, soothing, and brain unscrambling as a day started in just this way.

Oh, okay: with Ed, over breakfast.

This is why my posts always include this morning pause at the table. It's like a pill popped by people who depend on pills: it sets the mood for the hours to come. It is so important for me that I post it again and again.

It isn't that I returned to a perfectly wonderful state of things. First of all, Unfriendly -- my second most favorite cat of the seven that are here -- disappeared the day after I left. Ed called for her, he walked the roads and searched the farmette lands. Nothing.

Unfriendly liked me best and one tiny part of me thought that maybe she went out looking for me once I left, but that's highly speculative. Much more likely is the sad reality that she lost it to predators or to some fight in the wild. She was the most fearful of all the cats and so she was prone to start fights with anyone and everyone except for Dance. Fear breads that kind of cat behavior. Dance and she were buddies. Dance understood her and took her under her fold. They'd often snuggle together in the farmhouse. 

Her absence is palpable.

Then there's the house -- I cleaned stuff all evening and unpacked stuff all morning and still, there's work to be done.

I wont even mention my mother: I have voicemails from her that came at all hours of the night in Europe and there is much that I have to figure out with respect to her care going forward. For now, we are back to our daily "visits by phone" (she prefers it that way).

 

Perhaps most pressing is the issue of the flower fields. Obviously after a two and a half week absence in the height of summer, they need work. I expected as much. What I did not expect is this back issue that clicked in a couple of days ago. Working in the garden with a whacked out back is... uncomfortable. Nonetheless, I worked. From just after sunrise until Ed and I sat down to breakfast at 9:30, I worked. Pulling weeds (only the tall ones! bending down is not a great idea for me right now) and snipping spent stalks. Lilies, yes, but those are long past their flowering period (with some exceptions).1 snipped off spent rudbeckias, spent phloxes, oh, why even list them! Everything needed a snip and a tidying hand.

A few photos from a late August garden, because, well, it is late August.

(Big Bed)

(these are my tall, long lasting, late lilies...)

It was interesting working in the fields so closely to the time I was in Sissinghurst. On the one hand, my flower fields are so familiar to me! I know their issues, their strengths. At the same time, I looked at them with new eyes. I'd snip off a hollyhock and mutter -- how come you're so tall and need to be staked? Sissinghurst hollyhocks were shorter and remained upright on their own! And of course the glads -- I liked the way they looked in big tubs on the Estate. Maybe I should try that here? And speaking of tubs, maybe I should  change things around next year, following some ideas from one of Sarah Raven's books? 

And I hum songs to myself that are still with me from my visit to Poland. And I move through the day in this way - immersed in my farmette life, more confident now in keeping at it, moving ahead in the way that I have chosen to move ahead. 

Supermoon tonight. Blue moon (the third in a season of four full moons). Very rare to have these coincide. Maybe you happened to look up? Did it make you smile?

with love...

returning home

It's a beautiful, mildly sunny morning here, in London. 

(out my window, towards the back this time)

I almost wish I had another day here. I say "almost." I am so ready to go home.

My flight is at noon. I plan to leave the hotel at 9, and so I can fit in an early morning walk. After breakfast. They can be pokey with serving it and I don't want to take chances.

Where might I walk? Well, in many previous visits to London, I'd stayed closer to Sloan Square. Same Kensington neighborhood, but away from the chaos of Brompton Road. I walk over there now. Not so much for old times sake, but for the quiet.

I guess I expected a tidier face of London in these blocks which, after all, are at a price point you wouldn't believe. 

But no. For a society that is so darn stratified, trash here knows no class boundaries. It's everywhere. Such a visually interesting city...

... with such indifference to litter.

Okay, you probably think I'm exaggerating. That I come here with a bias. Ha. I'll break from my principled position of respect for the local, not liking to post pics that highlight the indignities of a tough existence, just because I think London deserves this:

And this...

And in the very lovely block of my hotel (though not next to it), this:

So I ask the staff -- is it that there is a trash collectors' strike, or is there some problem with rubbish removal service? No, they tell me. It's the way Londoners are. Indifferent to it. They'll put their trash right next to a sign telling them not to do so. (Yes, see above!) In front of their own homes, seemingly hurting themselves too. 

Is it that they've given up? Or is there no pride of place? We're not talking impoverished neighborhoods. This is a district of expensive homes. 

And speaking of expensive homes, there's another trait in this town that I don't much care for: padlocked private parks.

It used to drive me nuts when I'd spot a small green space on the map, walk over with the girls (when they were little) and find that "Do not Enter" sign. Walking past this particular little park, I see that no one is using it. And yet there is stands: locked. [Some wealthy Londoners with private access to such city gardens "generously" let in the public for two days each year. Read about it here.]

What can I say -- the city has so many virtues. It's vibrant, diverse, culturally exciting, visually -- well, potentially grand. But you have to not mind its problems and at my age, I do mind, especially since so many places in this world, in Europe where I usually travel, do have a pride of place. We're on this planet for such a short spec of time. It seems obvious to me that we are all responsible for the people and places we encounter in our very small orbit. We owe them something. Care, kindness, respect.

Londoners, get it together! Do better by your city!

(I'll leave you with a photo that makes me smile: the discreet sign by the door, announcing my hotel. Nothing flashy, nothing grand. Just small and intimate.)

 

At the airport, I find hierarchies firmly in place and my dedication to Delta pays off. I'm zipped through without hassle or delays. Given my back and knee issues, I am actually very grateful.

And the flight takes off on time. (I watch endless episodes of Frazier for the 8 hour 8 minute flight to Detroit, laughing too loudly, dozing off occasionally. Some traveler recently wrote that on overseas flight, light TV reruns are the best. I agree. Movies are hit or miss and finding one you like can be frustrating, but known to you TV shows? A real chuckle can be had.) And my layover in Detroit is the perfect amount of waiting minutes and by 6 pm, Ed is there at Madison's airport, waiting.

I have missed you, my travel-hating ever patient partner in the project of living a principled, calm and happy farmette life. So good to be home.Tomorrow, I'll take stock of the damage my absence has done in the flower fields. Tonight, I just want to stay content with being back.

with so much love...

to London

You travel, you suffer the inconvenience, you see beautiful things, you go home and it's done. If you traveled well, you will have stimulated your senses deeply. The show you bought tickets for, whether a classical performance or Taylor Swift, moved you to tears, the museum opened your eyes to new art forms, the meal you ate was like no other. You're ready to do all this again: a new place, with the potential for new impressions, new beautiful parks, new tasty foods, here we go! And again! It's like me to live like this. Soaking in what I see, whom I meet, what I eat. But every once in a while, I demand more of myself. 

On this trip, I demanded more. 

Poland required of me that extra charge. I needed more stamina, for one thing! Social perseverance. You have to remember that I am a quiet person who rarely these days steps out of her home orbit. I see friends. Occasionally. Certainly not every day for periods of 6, 7, 8 hours at a time, nine days in a row. That intensity works beautifully for those friends who are almost family, but otherwise -- it's work!

Sissinghurst -- it asked that I focus with care, with an open mind and heart. It asked that I bring back thoughts and images I've had that lay dormant for decades now. It very much set forth the stage for my future conduct -- in the farmette flower fields and beyond. In other words, I needed to get ready for it, and I needed to take away more than just a stack of flower notes and photos and the occasional souvenir. 

All this has been exhausting and as a result, I've consistently slept poorly. (The more mentally tired I am, the worst the night promises to be.) It hasn't helped that I seem to have shot my unreplaced knee early on and the pain from that is irritating, especially at 3 o'clock in the morning. I took a selfie yesterday in the gardens and looking at it, I thought -- my, but I suddenly look ancient! It may have been the lighting. I don't think it was the lighting.

But this last night, my next to last night in Europe and final night at Sissinghurst -- I slept beautifully. The magic of Sissinghurst? Maybe. More likely, the contentment that follows when you truly believe that you did the best you could and did not shy away from the challenges. (And nothing fell apart and you didn't get sick and the weather was like a gift!)

I wake up smiling. Good morning, Sissinghurst!

It's going to be a beautiful day!

I go down to breakfast early. So that I can sit by the window. Mmmm, wonderful breakfast options once again.

 

And once again I go on to a second course, this time just porridge. 

It's just after 9 when I am done and packed and ready to go. Richard will be driving me to the station in Staplehurst, but not for another hour.

I go for a walk. Toward the Estate buildings first. Closed of course, but still, it gives me a few minutes to just stand outside and look. And reinforce all that I have taken away from here. 

It also gives me a chance to see a family member walk over to the private wing. Who are you? In age, you could be the son of the grandson. [Adam is the grandson of Vita and Harold. He has five children -- three sons by a first wife, two daughters by his second wife who is the very well known and well regarded author and gardener, Sarah Raven. But Adam and Sarah rarely come down to Sissinghurst. Rumor has it that they have a fraught relationship with the National Trust. Something to do with the mini series that was made about Sissinghurst and the Trust and Adam and Sarah's plan to do organic farming and grow fruits and vegetables here. There were issues. You can watch some of it on YouTube.]

(I think this cottage too is used by the family)

I walk on. To the vegetable garden, because the walk there passes the stretch of countryside that I find so beautiful...

And because the vegetable garden remains open 24/7. And, of course, there's beauty in all that grows here.

As I study the layout, admire the berries, the pea pods, the sunflowers, my thoughts go back to the Estate itself: it attracts visitors from all over the world, but it's not as if it's ever packed. Right now, in August, there are no buses dropping off tired groups of seniors (though there are plenty of seniors! Gardens always attract an older crowd). It is no Giverny. It's tame here. You dont have to come in the last hour before closing to feel you have the place to yourself. [I'm sure it gets more crowded in spring. Understandable. August is a slow month in the gardens. Vita wrote this about August: "dull time, heavy time, when everything has lost its youth and is overgrown and mature." Still, Monet's garden attracts 500 000 visitors each year. Sissinghurst -- more like 100 000.]

And I wonder -- the people who come for the gardens, are they the live and let live type, without the judgemental horror that I think would belong to those who find unusual relational behavior to be reprehensible? Can you even separate Sissinghurst, the gardens, from Sissinghurst, the estate once owned and managed by Vita and Harold? Should you?

 

 

 

It's a good ending to my visit here.

 

On the drive to the station, we talk about Sissinghurst. Who lives there now, their relationship to the National Trust, the future of all these mansions in Britain, given that even the wealthy here are often cash poor and cannot pay the required taxes on their inheritance, let alone maintain the properties to a "proper standard."

Though many of these estates wind up being donated to the National Trust, Sissinghurst is different, in that a handful of visitors can actually stay on the premises (me, for example).  Richard tells me there's no other National Trust property quite like it. So I ask him how is it that he and Anna became "owners for a decade." Perhaps predictably, it's complicated. Richard was the vicar in the village. He and Anna befriended the previous "owners" and when their time was up, he was ready for the challenge. Anna, who has a background in hospitality, was less certain about plunging forth. But plunge they did and put in a bid, and then it was down to a dozen finalists, and then down to six, and finally theirs won. And now day in and day out, she is baking cakes for tea and overseeing the kitchen in the mornings and corresponding with silly people like me who want to know about the local restaurants and whether a certain room is bright and sunny, while he is attending to the finances and acting as a taxi service to those (again, like me) who come here without a car.

Perhaps the only good thing about this kind of work is that it shuts down for three winter months.

You mean you're open in March already? Good to know!

(Train ride to London)

And now I am back in my hotel, the Knightsbridge, a lovely place in a godawful (from my perspective) part of town. Or is it that all of London just seems this way to me? Crowded noisy and dirty? (Think: rubbish on the streets, heaping trash bags waiting at the curb for who knows how long for pick up... like New York! Which is one reason why I do not like New York.)

I would have tried another neighborhood of the city, a quieter one, with a more neighborhoody feel to it, but I was tied to this one because of my missing suitcase. Which did eventually show up here. But, not to fuss. I do like the hotel -- it's small and charming and once again they upgraded me to a giant room for who knows what reason. Maybe I joined some kind of loyalty program when booking. I tend to do that sort of thing.

One more impediment to my arrival in London: somewhere between Sissinghurst and London I blew out my lower back. Maybe I lifted a heavy bag too quickly. The fault is always with a sudden movement or a sudden heave, so now I am without a functional back and without a functional knee. This gives me an excuse not to do much this afternoon. You've got your view of the Parliament Buildings and Big Ben from the train, what else could you possibly want from this city!

Still, I do want my coffee, preferably with a pastry, so with great difficulty I get myself up and moving to venture out onto Brompton Road in search of a coffee shop. I'll give you one pretty sight of a side street:

And then the great monster road itself,  Brompton, though I've spared you the sidewalk with the piled trash. I have my standards!

Oh, and of my "lunch." I consider myself a bit of an expert on blueberry tarts, having sampled (and documented here on Ocean such samplings) at least a dozen this year alone, from France to Poland and now England, and I will say, this one in London is one heck of a good blueberry tart. They tell me it has elderflower something or other in it. I couldn't hear what exactly because older people cannot distinguish words easily when there is a din of music and loud talking in the dining area.

Toward evening I set out once again. I made a reservation in a restaurant that sounded just too good to pass by, even though google told me it's a 37 minute walk from my hotel and with my back and knee issues, I knew I needed to double that. 

I walked through Hyde Park. It was green. It was loud. It had many bicycles. People seemed happy.

(And I found an expanse that actually had few people or cyclists in it. It was not easy.)

 

(I also found a guy wearing a t-shirt which, if seen by my grandkids, would cause them to exclaim to me "hey, you say that all the time!" True. I do.)

And then back into the city. Having some time to kill, I side step onto nearby Oxford Street. 

 

 

I already know that I'm not a fan of it. I've always disliked it because it's so packed with so many irrelevant stores, but I'm near Selfridges, yet another department store (I've already checked Harvey Nichols earlier today) and I still haven't found anything for the kids. Clothes they can use in early fall.  

Nope. Not here either. These stores are for foreigners who have a few oil fields among their holdings, or Brits who talk in hushed voices lest someone recognize that they are toff. (I learned that word today! One of the restaurant people explained -- posh. It means posh.)

The restaurant, by the way, is called Apricity. 

 

 

 I had to look that word up -- it's a new one for me. It means the light and warmth of the sun. That sounds kind of new agey and it definitely is not what drew me here. What did pull me in was the write up (and of course the reviews). It's not cheap, but then nothing in this city is cheap. My tart and coffee eaten in humble surroundings had cost me $21.56. (I just looked at my credit card notice.) And honestly -- the dinner total was not that far away from yesterday's at the Milk House! Pretty remarkable considering I am in London.

About the restaurant and what drew me to it: Apricity uses (in their words) hyper-seasonal sustainable produce from small-scale farmers and locally foraged ingredients, with a low-waste approach to cooking. They get not a Michelin rosette, but a Michelin green star. I read about British vegetables here, and regeneratively farmed meat, and sustainably caught fish of the British Isles. And they pay a fair wage to their staff. This is a big deal to me, having worked in a restaurant for several years and having seen what happens when cooks, dish washers and waitstaff rely on discretionary tipping to get by. Here, the chef-owner is a woman and in London there are very few women chefs in good restaurants.

 

Yes, but how is the food???

It is very, very good. I'm going to say it because it's true: it was probably the best dinner I've ever had in any of my trips to London. 

It started with a fabulous Negroni drink: they collect leftover red wine and make vermouths out of them. This they add to their Negronis. For the meal, I ordered the stuffed zucchini flower with zucchini pieces and cucumber slices on the side. Pickled cucumber slices (they called it "smacked cucumber"). The British are very prone to adding pickled stuff to a cold dish.  

For the second course I ordered the mushrooms. 

 

 

 

Black pearl and oyster, over Flanders wheat. Hearing about where they were grown (in the city of London) and what was used to stimulate their growth was scary (this is London: anything grown here to me is suspect), but the combination of crispy and creamy was totally wonderful. 

And I ordered dessert. I had to! I asked for the strawberry dish which also had a basil granita and I believe cashew cream. It also had something crispy and sticky in it, which added a pleasant crunch, but the most memorable things was the combination of all these flavors. Outstanding! 

Are the British ready for this gem of a restaurant??

The walk home was... long. I considered hailing a cab, but the thought of that was somewhat terrifying as the traffic in the city remains dense, despite the fees imposed on drivers within the center. When I had asked about that on the long and congested ride from the airport the cabbie laughed and said -- the fees changed nothing. Everyone just pays them. And by the way, it's unfair! You own a car, you shouldn't have to pay to drive it. He told me!

 

 

So I walked. And I thought about how strange that I had bumped into a Taylor Swift concert in Scotland, I had bumped into the tail end of one in Warsaw, and now again -- Taylor Swift is here, in London. For you Swifties out there, let me reassure you, I am not just secretly here to attend her show!

And that was London for me. Tomorrow morning, I leave. To return home.

with love...