Heron

 

On Monday, Mr Life and I walked by the Water of Leith, not far from where we live. I imagine that in many cities there are areas like this, that feel miles from the traffic noise. But on the whole, you never find out about them when you're a tourist.

 

 

This house backs on to the river. Rather nice...

 

 

with a lovely garden, though you couldn't let your small children out by

themselves to play in it.

 

 

We saw a heron.

 

 

It must have felt like William's Kate pursued by the paparazzi. It flapped upstream; we followed - just because we happened to be going in the same direction.

 

 

Here it is again.

 

 

And here.

 

I've decided I wouldn't like to be a heron. It's idyllic down by the river on a sunny day, but imagine being here at night, alone and in the cold. Brr. And I don't like eating fish.

Mayfield

 

 

Well, the Great Retirement Photo Reorganise hasn't happened yet and I'm not feeling strong enough to do a major search for photos, but I had a very quick look in a drawer and came across this slide, which Mr Life has scanned in for me. It's a fairly rubbish picture, but it shows Mayfield, the house where he lived from early teens till we married when he was 25. There are his mum and his great-aunt Chris in the garden. Look at the lovingly-tended lawns and flower beds. Inside the house, there are high ceilings, cornices, beautiful fireplaces, polished surfaces, the smell of wonderful cooking (my mother-in-law was a domestic goddess).

 

And this is it on Saturday, taken a bit to the left of the other photo, from the bottom of the drive.

Mr Life's parents moved out in the mid-70s after his father retired. The house went with his father's job and the Coal Board sold it after a while. It was then made into a pub/restaurant, rather to our shock, and for the past - ooh - thirty years we've wondered about going there for a meal. We were a bit wary because we didn't want to see it messed up. Last June (we don't make rash decisions) we decided to go for lunch but found it closed and obviously empty.

But it never occurred to us that it would be demolished.

Well, nothing lasts for ever. But if you'd told me, when Mr Life and I were gazing into each other's eyes in that sitting room whose windows you can see at the front and side of the house, that we would outlive the house, we'd have been most surprised.  Most surprised indeed.

This is how it happened:

http://www.eastlothiancourier.com/news/musselburgh/articles/2009/06/04/388157-pub-to-be-demolished-to-make-way-for-new-flats

Well. Gosh. Alas.

 

Today was a funny old day. Mainly it was very nice. The sun shone and we took Daughter 1, Son-in-Law 1 and Grandson out for lunch and then went for a walk along the River Esk in Musselburgh, near where Mr Life lived with his parents, in his teenage years and early twenties, in the lower half of a beautiful big house . The house belonged to the Coal Board, for which his father worked. It was Victorian, very elegant and spacious.

 

 

We observed the river, discussing the various times that Mr Life's family dog, a somewhat bonkers spaniel, had fallen in the water.

 

 

 We looked at a chap fishing and wondered why anyone would.

 

 

 We failed to notice (until he pointed it out) that Grandson had his hand stuck inside the buggy straps. And we approached the beautiful house that Mr Life had lived in, planning to show it to Son-in-Law 1. Mr Life and I had last walked past it on June 19th last year - Father's Day - after lunching nearby.

 

 

Look at what we found.

 

 

 It was gone. Demolished.

 

 

I don't often feel the need to use the word "gobsmacked" but this would have been a suitable occasion. Gobsmacked and horrified.

Pink

 

Grandson and I walked past the Bank of Scotland headquarters today (well, technically I was doing the walking; he just sat) and saw this chap picking up fallen leaves with one of those metal grabber things. One by one. There aren't very many at the moment but in a week or two I think he'll have to devise a different system ... .

 

 

I like fuchsias. Yes, Rachel, I know you don't. But I really enjoy their ridiculous frilliness at this time of year, when some other things in the garden are beginning to look a bit sad.

 

 

Phlox - we had phlox in the garden when I was a little girl. I just need to smell its perfume and I'm eight again. These have lasted well - they were in flower when Thimbleanna was here, weeks ago now. (Could be the absence of blazing sunshine that's kept them fresh.)

 

 

I seem to have a lot of pink at the moment. I prefer it to scarlet.

 

Pink pelargoniums and begonia semperflorens.

 

 

This is a really lovely dark fuchsia.

 

 

And another, a bit less dark. This one is frost-hardy; some of the ones in pots aren't, so I take cuttings in the autumn and just keep these in a jar of water till the spring. They produce lots of roots but don't seem to mind just hanging on, sitting in water on the kitchen windowsill. I do bring some of the pots in as well, but overwintering plants aren't really an ornament to a spare bedroom. Oh, for a heated greenhouse (that someone else would pay for and clean and defumigate and so on).

 

Grandson still has a cold. We've had to postpone a photo session with our local photographer because the baby's tiny nose is a bit pink. Alan, the photographer, emailed today: "I hope the wee man gets rid of his cold or I may have to use the anti-snot button in Photoshop." I could have done with one of those buttons today. Grandson is not keen on nose-wiping. But he's so cheery!

 

Chillier

 

Today it was COLD! What a shock to the system. In town, people were walking around in their summer clothes - with jerseys (this is Britain) but only thin ones - looking surprised and murmuring to each other, "That's a very chilly wind."

 

My hanging baskets are still quite pretty, as is the rest of the garden, but light levels are falling, the days are shortening and before long it will be autumn. Why does this come as a surprise every year?

 

 

Grandson has a cold and though generally as cheerful as ever, is less stoical than usual when faced with minor disasters such as getting himself stuck on the Velcro on his play tunnel, being squashed into layers of clothes or being kept waiting ten seconds longer than he would like for his lunch. He finds it difficult to sleep, too, since he sucks his thumb when falling asleep and then can't breathe. He has to go suck, suck, gasp, suck, suck, gasp.

 

 

Most of the time he beams, though.

 

 

Look at him reading that book. That's my boy.

Cow creamer

 

Yesterday, at Son-in-Law 1's suggestion, we took a trip to Gullane in East Lothian, not far from Edinburgh. His very nice mother was visiting. We had lunch at The Old Club House (very good, except that they don't cater much for vegetarians) and then took a walk. Grandson enjoyed swinging...

 

 

... and sliding.

 

 

Then we strolled along the beach.

 

 

You probably can't see clearly in this reduced-for-Blogger photo, but there are people swimming in the sea. The North Sea. Brrr. It was a pleasant day for walking, but I can tell you from experience (not recent, but memorably chilly) that even in high summer, our sea is not warm.

 

 

And lastly, also at SIL 1's suggestion, we had tea in Falko's German Bakery. Yum. I'm sure our long...ish... walk counteracted the Sachertorte that I shared with Daughter 1. There were cow creamers on the tables. I've never seen one in actuality; just read about them in P G Wodehouse. In a moment when we were all distracted by cake, Grandson picked ours up and poured a stream of milk on to the table in a most interesting way. I was impressed by the speed of our reactions in relieving him of it.

 

And Happy Birthday for today, Daughter 1. It was a good idea of ours, having you.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Slug and jug

 

I'm sure one ought to be blogging about the economy or the American elections or other distressing and important things but one doesn't feel qualified to do so. Well, I don't anyway. So I thought I'd tell the bloggy world about my slug rings. See above. Daughter 2 kindly sent away for these. They're copper and you put them round your plants and evidently when a slug comes into contact with the copper on its way to gorge itself on my gerberas, it gets a teeny electric shock and this makes it decided to slime away and eat something else instead, for example my pansies, which are now a lost cause.

 

I was favourably inclined towards these when I'd read the instructions. Two extracts:  Make sure that the rings are scrunched into the soil a little way to leave no gaps underneath from a slug to sneak through. This writer understands the nature of slugs, which inspires confidence. Make sure that there are no leaves overhanging the ring which allow snails to abseil in. Spooky - has this person been observing my personal slugs and snails, which are athletic and can climb like monkeys?

 

Anyway, they do seem to work! My gerberas don't appear to be any more chewed than they were before. I doubt if I can afford a huge ring to go round my entire garden, but it's a tempting thought. Though actually this would simply trap several million within my garden - not such a good idea. (If you want to try the rings, the company is called Slug Rings Ltd: a simple but informative name.)

 

 

And from slug(s) to jug. This is a little ornamental tankard that was my mother's. It's not a family piece; she bought it at an antique fair some years ago. She didn't have space for it in her room in our house (she had a lot of things on shelves) so I adopted it and put it on top of the piano. On the lid - see below - the name "William" is engraved.

 

 

I find it most frustrating that I shall never know who William was. I wonder if this was a christening present. It seems an odd thing to give to a boy or a man - I know it's a tankard shape but I don't think it was ever intended for use. It wouldn't hold much beer.

 

 

Bright

 

I'm feeling a little fraught these days. I went into my mum's room last night with the thought that I might look on the shelves down the side of her wardrobe and maybe do a little clearing out of papers and things, but there were her clothes hanging on the rails and I had to shut the wardrobe and go away. My mother was a very elegant lady (I take after my dad when it comes to elegance...) and her clothes are very much her. Anyway, I thought I'd post a completely unrelated (but cheerful) picture of geraniums, or more accurately pelargoniums, and begonias in Princes Street Gardens the other day. I wouldn't plant so many clashing colours of pink and red together in my garden, but in a large flower bed (which it is - and there are lots the same) it somehow works, don't you think?

 

 

And here's another bright picture, of Sirius trying out Grandson's play tunnel. The vivid colours set off his black fur very fetchingly, no?

 

We've spent quite a lot of time this week down at Daughter 2's Edinburgh flat, which she rents out (because she's living in a different rented flat in London these days). The tenants who've just moved out had left the place a bit grubby and there were various wear-and-tear things to be rectified. This would all be fine except that it makes me particularly sad that she's not there.

 

Ah well, thank goodness for flowers, cats, family (even if distant) and friends. Including bloggy ones.

Things to do when you're one

 

Nearly 28 years ago, my father-in-law died unexpectedly twelve days after the birth of Son. It was a strange time, a mixture of sorrow and joy. I'm experiencing similar feelings at the moment - grief for my mother and happiness in the smiles of Grandson. Did we have fun today? We did.

 

 

Here he is, considering what to do next. I think I detect the light of mischief in those eyes.

 

 

 Ah, that's it: take the bowl of keys off the shelf and play with them.

 

 

 A pause to look at a book...

 

 

... and back to the play tunnel.

 

 

Peekaboo!

 

 

A little tune on the piano...

 

 

... and out for a walk in the new sunhat.

 

Life is simple and fun when you're nearly fourteen months old. How I love him.

I to the hills will lift mine feet

 

This afternoon we needed cheering up and there's nothing like hills for putting things into perspective. Hill - big. Us - small. Hills - fairly permanent. Us - just passing through. Edinburgh is built on seven hills (like Rome. The climate is marginally different, however) and today we climbed up Blackford Hill. As we did so, we looked down at the allotments and briefly fantasised about getting one and becoming self-sufficient. Only briefly, though. I like eating vegetables but I prefer expending my energies on flowers.

 

 

Standing still and gazing does the soul good. Also the lungs, after the climb.

 

 

Here's Edinburgh Castle, from an angle most tourists don't see it, with the sea beyond. It's not exactly the sea - it's an estuary - but it's tidal and salty. Behind that are the hills of Fife.

 

 

This is my beloved Arthur's Seat, said to look like a sleeping lion (a bit of imagination needed here - actually it's more leonine when looked at from elsewhere).

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And this is looking towards East Lothian. Berwick Law is that little pyramid shape against the horizon. (That's in North Berwick, not Berwick in England, which is in a different direction.)

 

And then we came down again. I managed not to break my ankle, unlike the previous occasion when we went up this hill. So I suppose the day wasn't so bad after all.

 

You would have found this an easier climb than Ben Nevis, Anna! (Yes, Thimbleanna and SweetiePie were our very exciting visitors!) And it was positively warm, unlike on the top of a real Highland mountain.

PS  Mr Life took the photos since I carefully brought my camera but it was out of battery.

A further day in which we didn't see Grandson

 

Today was the first time since... oh, about 1979 ... that Mr Life and I had absolutely no commitments; no one to whom we had to account for our movements. We did consider going for a medium-sized jaunt but then decided just to get on a bus and visit the National Portrait Gallery. That's it below. Above is a little mosaic-type-thing in the gap between buildings beside it. I thought it was rather fetching: thistles at the side (you have to imagine the right-hand one) an owl, a red squirrel, a newt? small dinosaur? and something else that I couldn't make out.

 

 

This is the outside of the gallery. I don't think I myself would have chosen sludge-coloured paint for the windows.

 

 

It happened to be coffee time when we arrived so we delayed the Culture bit for a while to check out that the ginger and oat slices and the date and oat squares were up to standard. They were. And the oats made them a healthy snack. But then we looked at the pictures. I've always enjoyed portraits. Who would have thought that there could be so many shapes of nose?

 

 

On the way home I decided to take a picture of this gold pillar box. Various British (red) pillar boxes have been painted gold in towns where Olympic gold medal winners live, and this one is for Sir Chris Hoy. I'm not a sports fan and don't fully understand why one should be sirred for riding a bike round and round in circles (or indeed for doing anything else, really) but still, how often does one see a gold post box?

 

That was the point at which I discovered that I'd lost the phone with which I was planning to take the photo. We retraced our steps and ran it to ground in a department store where we'd been earlier. Then, not to be foiled, we returned and took the picture. (Only because it was on the way to the bus stop. I'm not that entranced by gold paint. And you wouldn't have mistaken it for something King Midas had leaned against earlier in the day. There was a touch of sludge.)