A DAY OUT WITH CERES IN FROME

It doesn't smell like autumn.

It doesn't look much like it yet either.

But the weather behaved like autumn on Saturday when I took Ceres to Frome.

Heavy mists hung in the fields and, in some places, we called

it fog.

Even on the train breath plumed from our mouths - till it warmed.

There was a spider metropolis in the graveyard. Ceres wanted to wind webs round her fingers. I handed her the phone and she photo-ed instead.

We didn't get much further. We lingered like mist in the coffee shops. We ate cakes. We ate lunch. We lingered still longer . Then we came home.

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.By evening, the mist had cleared and the sky had turned blue. (If you looked in the right direction.)

The photos are of:- The Graveyard at Frome The Roof of Frome Station A Window in Frome Station The Empty Track and Platform at Frome Station. (There used to be two tracks but now it is single line.) Frome is in Somerset . .

For Tomorrow's Post . .
For Yesterday's Post . .

THE HIGH POINT OF MY BLUE DAY

My router won't allow incoming phone calls. It's like being on dial-up. I messed up its feeds for Pictures Just Pictures so people are being sent to the wrong blog. Ceres has torn leaves from my new bamboo and stuck them to the front door with spit. Nothing is quite right; not even the bamboo - though it is pretty. "The stems will go red in winter and look cheerful," said my brother, standing on the doorstep, with the pot clutched against his chest. "Happy Birthday," he said. This will brighten up your north facing spot." It won't. (What does he know about north facing spots?) Phyllostachys Spectabilis stems go red in the sun. This one will be briefly lit on a few mid-mornings during our short mid-summers. Its canes may go cheerfully red for Christmas. On the other hand . . . . . This is the high point of my day - saying Phyllostachys Spectabilis. I can pretend I knew its Latin name all along. I'm not just copying the label. Nothing can go wrong with it. It won't be directed to the wrong house; it is already here. It won't stand in the way of visitors who want to ring the doorbell. And if I can persuade Ceres to stop spitting on its leaves and sticking them to the front door - we may have a pleasant weekend.
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For Yesterday's Post

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EROSION, SLEEVES AND STINKINGLY DISGUSTING TOMATOES

My brain has caught The Blight. When Easy Gardener asked if I put sleeves on tomato branches, I thought, for a whole day, this was a horticultural device I should have known about. I was imagining spores from Far Side of Fifty's next door potato field floating into Esther's Garden, slipping from the fabric unfulfilled and wafting off to do their damage elsewhere. And I chastised myself for ignorance. If only, I thought, the tomatoes had been wearing sleeves! Then, I thought, they wouldn't have looked like this. Meanwhile, Mr McGregor's Daughter and Rosa Sinensis were politely averting their eyes and taking note of Sandsfoot Castle. Although I'm glad it isn't over-run with tourists, I'm not sure buddleia roots between its stones are good for it either. But there is (I'm sorry Rosa!) another Henry Vlll Castle (preserved and gift-shoppized) sitting on the opposite side of Portland Harbour. It even has a roof. You can pay to go round and look at the kitchens and the armour and take part in its 'events'. Maybe Sandsfoot is a lost cause and the sea will simply take it. Erosion is eating long sections of the British Coastline. Sea defences tend to shift the problem; not solve it. These steps (which keep company with the fallen rocks and trees and stones below) seem as forlorn to me as Ceres' sleeves. There are sections of fallen brick wall down there too. (Ah! Yes! Ceres and her sleeves. She's very cross with me. She says they aren't 'sleeves' - they are 'arm warmers' - and if I had said 'arm warmers' in the first place, everyone would have known what I was talking about. For my part, I think 'arm warmers' describes 'sleeves' very well.) I shall scatter photos of the 'not-so-good' tomatoes and their leaves decoratively around the page. (Mr McGregor's Daughter, you really may prefer to shut your eyes.)

OH NO! NOT THE TOMATOES!

Ah!

The tomatoes.

The Il Pantano Romanesco - I'll recommend that highly.

It . . . ('they' would have sounded better) . . . was large with firm, succulent and tasty flesh. And it didn't have those huge cavities which turn into holes when the juice empties out - as most tomatoes have . . . especially, I find, the ones which turn up in salads in cafes.

Money Maker didn't do too badly.

Gardeners Delight - nice big trusses and tangy tasting fruit . . . though without much depth of flavour. I'll blame that deficiency on lack of sun.

Perhaps the size of the crop can be glossed over?

I'm pretty tired today. Ceres was up all night trying on clothes for a party she's going to at the weekend and I was up all night telling her to go to sleep.

She'll be wearing a pair of sleeves. Other things too, of course - but it's the sleeves which fascinate me because they aren't attached to a clothe - just a pair of independently living sleeves.

What is even more fascinating, perhaps, is that she practises wearing them.

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P.S.

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The picture at the top is of Castle Cove cliffs.

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The castle at the bottom is the 'castle' - Sandsfoot. It was built by Henry Vlll as part of his coastal defence. It was also used as a mint. Most of it has now fallen into Portland Harbour; all of it into disrepair.

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These photos have no relevence - but I took them this morning (22/09/08) and like them.

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The Tomatoes - I'm thinking if I put lots of photos of the same ones on my blog, it will look as if I managed to grow more than I did.

GARDENING FOR ESTHER

This is a post left over from when Loose and Leafy was a work of fiction. Later, it evolved into what it is now - a blog about the wild plants of the South Dorset Coast.

To make sense (in so far as there is sense) of these early posts, you may like to take a look at Esther in the Garden.

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It is a mistake, I have discovered, to look after the garden of a murderer.

It’s her own fault. She should have had flowers to attract insects.

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But, no!

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Flowers are too gaudy for Esther.

“Green," she said "is cool.”

And by cool, she meant properly 'cool' . . . 'not hot'.

For Esther, most definitely is not trendy.

She wilts in the sun and thinks the purpose of a garden is to provide air, food and

shade.

And it’s the food bit which has gone wrong. The grapes were not pollinated. The olives were not pollinated. You can’t expect olives to do well in Dorset but she might reasonably have expected a few. The apples, of course, did very well. Their blossoms simply suck in bees - grapes and olives are more discreet.

She'll be disappointed - but the blame for that, I am certain, can't be laid at my door.

The dearth of tomatoes is another matter and that's what's bothering me most - keeping me awake at night.

At first, they looked good; strong growth, deep green leaves, lots of flowers.

Then the flowers fell off.

They kept falling off.

I flicked them, just as she does, every time I passed but I had Ceres to look after - still do - and couldn't be going next door every five minutes to flick her flowers.

Maybe that was it.

Maybe it was erratic watering. It rained; then it didn't. I thought the soil was wet - when it wasn't.

Then, suddenly, late on, they were there. Green tomatoes. They began to ripen; they went orange-ish, then murky orange-ish, then brown, then black - and I've been chopping up her plants ever since and putting them in the dustbin - and worrying what she'll do when she returns.

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