I squished so many garden photos in my last post there was no room for anything else so this is a little catcher upper for the last few weeks. When I left off I think we had made it through Keith’s big party and were awaiting the advent of the rugby crowd for further celebrations. We managed a couple of days of lettuce, soft drinks and brisk dog walks by way of corrective and then the sporting guests arrived. We ate, we drank (copiously, yet again, on both counts) and then I waved them off to the sevens and gathered the left behind ladies for compulsory dog walking and rhododendron appreciation in Dundock Wood. It proved a little too early for the fancier bushes, but the early pink zingers were out and we duly ooed and aahed. After counting the calves and admiring the first haze of bluebells beside the walled garden we repaired to the Hirsel cafe for a restorative hot chocolate. Having both cooked the vegetarian banquet the night before (first go with jackfruit!) and cleared up as I went along (I don’t like onlookers when I am winging it so mum was despatched to the lounge and I was my own plongeur), I was let off dinner detail and the ever excellent Radjhani Spice came up trumps. The following day Keith declared that he would produce a wondrous feast. Scarred by previous interaction with Ruthven’s own Gordon Ramsay, I made myself scarce in the interests of self preservation and hid in the garden. When I finally came in, I found Keith installed in a chair directing affairs with Ann, Anne, Lachlan and my mum scurrying around stirring, chopping and what have you. Bob, a man of sense, was also in hiding. I pointed out that the serfs should unionise and made my way to the bath, happy to have dodged a bullet. Dinner was, of course, lovely. Mum advised that this came at the cost of every pan, bowl, jug and stirring utensil in the house being left in the sink.
A further period of asceticism followed. Pilates classes recommenced. Lyra, Mum and I trudged around the woods again in search of (i) squirrels (Lyra) and (ii) further rhododendrons (mum and I). We ate fish and chicken and nursery puddings followed by sedate evenings of diet Horlicks, nostalgic audiobooks and a new knitting project. I filled the freezer with chicken stock and carrot soup and even started (making, not drinking) rhubarb vodka. Having weeded through some outstanding post, I recommenced my ongoing war with Scottish Borders Council and sent them a lengthy email linking to obscure statutory instruments and, for spite, two tax case reports. The ounces gained grudgingly slinked away and the to-do pile dwindled somewhat.
Ovbviously, such levels of virtue were completely unsustainable. On Wednesday Keith and I motored down to Wall for the last hoorah of his birthday celebrations. I had booked dinner, bed and breakfast at Hjem, a lovely place with both a Michelin star and a relaxed and jovial atmosphere (which quite often don’t go together!). We dined in style with the tasting menu and powered through the matching wine flight. This morning, after a splendid breakfast of all manner of delights (from cured halibut to blueberry tart via all manner of picking treats and a perfect soft boiled egg), we decided to walk it off by taking the old military road up to a bit of Hadrian’s Wall. The sun came out and we admired chunky little texel lambs and spangles of stitchwort in the long grass. There was a pleasing burble from a vigorous beck running beside the road and I was startled to see nodding water avens out. Ours have yet to uncurl (or so I thought anyway – I shall be off along the lane tomorrow to check). Bronze shoots of bramble were reaching up from last year’s curving spines and there was a tangle of wild honeysuckle scampering up and over the dyke (which sported some suspiciously well dressed stones I felt). We clambered over various styles (Keith performing a masterful forward roll dismount on the last) before we reached a fairly well preserved, if short, stretch of the Wall. If my suspicions are correct, the remainder now sets the boundaries to several fields and underpins a number of fine farm houses. My “recovery” reading of late has been the Ivy Tree, an ancient Mary Stewart I liked as a girl. It is set in this part of Northumberland and the landscape is very well described. I half expected the pleasingly brooding farmer who was the villain of the piece to come looming out of one of old farmhouses to chase me off.
And now it’s my turn to make dinner again. Now what can I do with duck and rhubarb…..
