Because they have all gone home. Whew.
Leaving me with time to take a survey of the perennials whose seeds I planted back in the early spring. Some have done well, some started well and then sulked, some looked pathetic and then changed their minds and went woosh. I’ll never understand plants.
I have been particularly taken with the agastache. They have a pleasing aromatic foliage, and the bees LOVE them; there’s a continual buzz of bumbles around them (already in progress by six this morning), which has to be good for all of us.
Then there are these rich, dark rudbeckia. At the moment the plants are a bit on the spindly side, but on this showing I’m really hoping that they live through the winter and fatten up next summer.
Fluffers has been restored to the correct family bosom, and snuggled to show she knew it.
The garden in general and chicken pen in particular look as if a vigorous pillow-fight has taken place. One of the guest chooks has decided to do a moult (at least, I hope it is just a moult), and every time she flaps or preens a few more bits detach themselves. Already she only has half a tail, with a patch of – quite frankly – repellent bright pink flesh showing through. I keep imagining that one morning I’ll open the roost, release a small puff of quills and down onto the breeze, and a sort of horrid oven-ready bird will come pacing beadily out.
It took two years to reach it. I brushed the last shaggy locks of the alpaca into incompetent rolags, and spent the rest of the afternoon obsessively spinning.
I’ve not been here for a long time, and in the interval the parking has been made pay-and-display, and the knobs on the railings, which used to be painted gold, are all black.
The sea, luckily, remained blue, and I watched for a while,
as it slopped white water casually onto the prom (and my waiting car).
Let’s ignore the annoying middle of the day.
Later, there was a fortuitous concurrence of images.
I have to de-spider the door before walking through it, de-spider the ceiling before crossing under it, de-spider the table before working at it, de-spider the glaze buckets before opening them, de-spider the chair before sitting on it, de-spider the kettle before boiling it, de-spider the pots before glazing them, de-spider the towel before drying my hands, and de-spider the kiln before packing it.
Now there are a few glazed pots to go in, and I am a grumpy bundle of arachnophobical twitches.
Not that I originally had any idea how annoying it would be.
One batch of beach clay was a rich, dark, intense orange-red, slightly gritty, and I soaked it for a long time to get the smoothest consistency possible. Turns out that it is a pig of a clay – staining everything it touches, sticky and lumpy at the same time, and almost impossible to wedge up, as it goes from a glutinous unhandleable mess to a dense resistant lump with no apparent intermediate stage. Of course, it absolutely did not want to be thrown; and after one attempt I damped it down (making it glutinously unhandleable again) and added some fine sand in an attempt to open the body a little. This had no practical effect when the clay firmed up again (perhaps not enough sand) and it reverted to being a heavy, dense, entirely un-plastic clod.
Naturally I am far too obstinate just to chuck it out – having carried it three-quarters of a mile off the beach – so the intransigent clay and I sat to the wheel and beat one another into submission. The throwing slurry is an even brighter colour than the clay, so I ended up red in tooth and claw, and the conservatory looked as if a massacre had taken place.
I can scarcely bear to think of the turning and drying and firing processes still to come; surely these pots won’t survive.
My forearms hurt. Time for a nice little lie down.
I’ve trained them too well: every time I walk out into the garden they rush under my feet, looking for breadcrumbs. So far I have managed not to stand on them (much).
You would think I had stamped them all flat when they are lying in their favourite dirt bath, squashed down, spread out, heads extended at bizarre angles, feathers cocked inside out, feet projecting improbably, squirming their wings as if dismembered. In fact, of course, they are just superbly relaxed.
I was not as relaxed as they were, having undertaken a maddening hunt for a pin. I’m careful with pottery tools, but I’m always losing pins. After half an hour looking in every drawer and receptacle, likely or unlikely, I found a brand new one. Where the others have gone, who can tell?
Today was the start of one final collection of beach clay pots, from six or seven different small batches of clay, hoping for some good colour variations after firing. Then I’m going to call a halt – at least until I have grown some new skin on my fingers and the palms of my hands. Exfoliation? Ow!
Lots of technical vocabulary in this one. Some of the authors translate or define the Greek terms they use; some just transliterate; and some don’t bother at all. Which leaves me, with my primitive half-familiarity with the Greek alphabet, painfully sounding out words, and hoping they will come out as something vaguely familiar and guessable.
A few are fairly easy given a context – I could cope with θεολογια; and γνωσις was doable. But προσαρμοσας? Urg.
As for the English language parts: some of these sentences and paragraphs will remain mysterious to me for ever. But that’s another story.
At the first end: ugly lumps, and wet newspaper everywhere, but it’s invigorating to work up the beach clay from slop to gloop to squodge.
At the other end: fragments of apricot light coruscating through trees, becoming a broken arc, a distorted rectangle, finally a golden disc. Full moon.