How many gentle flowers grow
In an English country garden?
I’ll tell you now of some I know
And those I’ll miss I hope you’ll pardon
Daffodils, heart’s ease and flox
Meadowsweet and lilly stalks
Gentain, lupine and tall hollihocks
Roses, foxgloves, snowdrops, forget-me-nots
In an English country garden.
Nana Mouskouri, remember her singing this?
Globally speaking the biggest selling female artist of all time. As a multi linguist she sold all over Europe, America and Asia. Quite surreal to think of this young woman from Crete singing about native English flowers and gardens.
This garden is in Cheshire. Very close to home. The Dower house to a big estate, and open annually for charity. I love it here. An oasis of tranquility, adjacent to a beautiful boating lake swamped in yellow lillies, and overlooking a village green opposite a cluster of ancient cottages reserved for estate workers.
The garden to be absolutely frank, isn’t the most cultivated or colourful or groomed, but I like it for those reasons. The English love a good nosey, and here is the perfect excuse, pay a couple of pounds, wander round the borders and the arboretum, and pretend, just for a short while that you are Lady of The Manor, about to disappear indoors to prepare for dinner, you’ve maybe been out earlier with your trug, collecting rose blooms for the table, not it’s time to break out the pearls and enjoy a glass of chilled champagne in a crystal coupe.
If you’re going to have a dream, have a big one!
So PoshPedlar has been away again, hence the acres of silence through the ether.
It was bliss.
More posts/clues to follow.
And more importantly, more lush lovely objects to look at!
The sea is a hungry dog,
Giant and grey.
He rolls on the beach all day.
With his clashing teeth and shaggy jaws
Hour upon hour he gnaws
The rumbling, tumbling stones,
And ‘Bones, bones, bones, bones! ‘
The giant sea-dog moans,
Licking his greasy paws.
And when the night wind roars
And the moon rocks in the stormy cloud,
He bounds to his feet and snuffs and sniffs,
Shaking his wet sides over the cliffs,
And howls and hollos long and loud.
But on quiet days in May or June,
When even the grasses on the dune
Play no more their reedy tune,
With his head between his paws
He lies on the sandy shores,
So quiet, so quiet, he scarcely snores.
This amazing Kashmir Shawl is huge.
It is pure wool. And it is beautifully embroidered.
With Chinar Leaves.
The fire of the Chinar is reknowned in Kashmir.
Myths and legends abound in its branches, weave through its roots, whisper and waft to the tips of its twigs.
Platanus Orientalis. Flame orange, scarlet, crimson.
Read this fascinating piece in The Free Press Kashmir here.
This is a very important tree. It symbolises so much for the Kashmiri nation.
And if you want to look fabulous, and feel warm, and wear wisdom.
Then Treat Yourself here.
“Rather than turning over a new leaf, prune your tree so that new leaves continue to blossom.”
Photograph taken this morning at Denzell Gardens in Cheshire.
Click on the photo for an interesting read about North West England’s heritage.
Let me know if you recognise the species… some kind of Cherry?