Indian summer days out

At Martyn’s suggestion yesterday, we cut some sandwiches and took ourselves out for a spot of sea air, motoring down to the coast at the Birling Gap, part way along the line of chalk cliffs between Seaford and Eastbourne in East Sussex.  The drive took a bit longer than expected, since soon after leaving town we got caught up behind a tractor and trailer.  The driver sportingly pulled over into a lay-by to let the tail get past and press on to the next set of roadworks.  Of which there were many.  We got slightly lost in the outskirts of Eastbourne, so got a small bonus of a tour via the Long Man of Wilmington which (whom?) I hadn't seen before.  On reading up when I got home, I find that he is almost certainly not of prehistoric origins, But dates at the earliest from the 16th century, And quite possibly from C18, depending which story you read.  Neither is

he carved into the chalk, since the soil thereabouts is too deep.  The white outline at one time consisted of whitewashed yellow bricks, which have subsequently been replaced by breeze blocks painted white.  Striking all the same.

We were astonished to see how many cars were parked at the Birling Gap.  Fortunately, as a life National Trust member, I get to park free of charge close to the stairs by flashing my membership card at the machine.  There were a lot of people on the beach and in the water, including several exuberant dogs!  We didn’t hang around too long, since the beach was so busy.  We’d no trouble keeping our distance while we had our lunch, but I was a bit anxious about using the stairs to and from the beach since there was no hope or maintaining the recommended two metres distance.  We slapped on masks,  unlike anyone else we saw, since we each have plenty of reasons to try to avoid infection.

Although I no longer send people to clink, I retain the letters after the name, so can be asked to authenticate signatures on declarations not involving oaths.  I had four to deal with yesterday evening in a pleasant rural environment.  But when one punter drove in with his mobile phone clamped to his ear, he got the benefit of a beakish dressing down.  Old habits die hard.

Today our outing was somewhat more mundane.  When I was changing bed linen this morning I could see that it was time for some new pillows.  We took ourselves off to a well-known big shed just outside the county town, and I foolishly remarked en route that we were out of town within twelve minutes compared with the usual 25-30 when I was doing the journey first thing in the morning for days at the hobby.  We had a long wait at a four-way traffic light where they are tinkering with a roundabout, and had two or three other waits at roadworks on the way.  So, one way and another, in the past two days we’ve seen enough traffic lights to last us a lifetime.

Anyway, at said big shed we quickly found what we were after, and had paid and left within five minutes. Sad, the rewards of life in retirement: I feel modestly pleased at having got two lots of bedding washed and dried, the new lot out on the line and well on the way, and two pillows in the washing machine (they’ll do for spares).  Stand by for further balls-achingly boring bulletins of elderly domesticity.

Autumn already

 

A consolation of approaching autumn is the emergence of some old favourites, like this cyclamen, which colleague Jane invited me to plunder from her garden before she moved - gosh! - ten years ago.  So that’s as long as we’ve had the motor mower, which she didn’t need in her new garden.  It’s therefore entitled to be on its last legs: like its owner, the engine is in good shape, but the bodywork is rotting away.  It’s still working, however, and saves a whole lot of effort compared with the old electric job.  But I’m researching rechargeable battery machines

Tomorrow being shopping day, I was rather scratching around this evening for supper ingredients. So it was a mug of pasta into lots of boiling water, a packet of smoked lardons sweated over a medium-low flame, followed by half an onion finely chopped and a clove of garlic, the remaining half of a red pepper, the last mushroom and a handful of our tomatoes, halved and de-seeded.  Salt, pepper and basil, plus a good dollop of crème fraîche, and freshly grated Parmesan.  Bob: uncle; Fanny: aunt.

I can’t begin to describe my feelings about our political masters either side of the pond.  All I’d say is that HMG is thrashing around like a rudderless dinghy in a gale, and N°45 is advocating voting felony to his supporters, while doing all he can to undermine the voting system itself.  The times are depressing enough as it is without the increasing threats to democracy.

Closer to home, the third visit from the wasp man seems to have done the trick.  I sent him up into the garage loft this time, and he admitted that the latest nasty materials are less effective than the old stuff, to which he has reverted.

Reflections on tomato growing

We only grow cherry plum tomatoes - or that’s the plan at least: we’ve also been given some bigger, fleshier tomato plants, and are now waiting for them to ripen.  All are grown outside on a south-facing terrace. The wind got up in the night and blew over some of the smaller pots in which we’ve been growing the little chaps from cuttings, so I went out earlier to collect the windfalls, and pick all that were ripe.  That crop ran to 600g, qv.  We’re hoping that trimming the sails and watering well will keep them standing now.  The pickings from the six parent plants brought this morning’s crop up to 1.375kg.  That’s a lot of cherry tomatoes!

As I’ve probably mentioned before, Annie heard Bob Flowerdew say on Gardeners’ Question Time a while ago that you only need one tomato plant per variety, since the side shoots root easily.  Given that our preferred variety, Sweet Olive, comes in not inexpensive packets of six to eight seeds, this seemed worth a try: ever a fan of owt for nowt, I’ve experimented, and here’s what we’ve found (though we hear that results are less good with other varieties):

• Side shoots root in water, which is fun to watch, or directly in compost.
• Direct rooting in in compost is probably better, since those rooted in water wilt a bit when potted up (they do recover well).
• Cuttings grown in big pots of the size used for the parent plants perform just as well, and extend the cropping season.
• Cuttings grown in smaller pots, hence less well fed and watered, produce just as much fruit, but smaller. 

We might grow some bigger fleshy tomatoes next year, depending how a certain recipe turns out.  More anon, maybe.

Seemed like a good idea at the time, iteration 693: UPDATED

The deal with our current energy suppliers requires me to send them meter readings at intervals.  Anyone watching me wrestle with the software so as to enter readings would be reminded of the celebrated Private Eye cartoon: New Technology Baffles Pissed Old Hack.  As a rule, they send a meter reader a day or two after I’ve done so, so I don’t quite see the point.  Any road up, out of the blue came an email the other day inviting us to have ‘smart meters’ fitted, which would avoid my having to get into outdoor shoes, heave the dustbins around, wrestle with the cabinets and read the meters.  Since that sounded like a good plan, we signed up for it.  

Along came a nice young man today to do the work.  The electricity side went OK, but when it came to the gas, he discovered that the gas shut-off lever is fitted in such a way that it conflicted with the new meter when he came to turn the supply back on.  Back went the old meter, the pressure test nipple on which then sheared off when he went to close it after testing.  Fortunately he had a spare with him.  So we soon had a gas supply again.  No further for’arder, mind you.

Next came a call from a nice woman at whatever part of the gas supply mafia is responsible for the supply valve.  They are sending someone tomorrow to see if it can be fixed.  If not, I’ll have to settle for going outside every time they want a gas meter reading.  

The deal came with a cute little box that is meant to display our energy use.  A glance at the instruction leaflet brought back the sort of sinking feeling I used to get on turning over a Moral Philosophy exam paper, so I think I’ll outsource that job to Management.  I haven’t yet persuaded said cute little box to get data from the meter, so have parked it out of harm’s way on top of the fridge, next to the carbon monoxide alarm.

This one could run and run.

[Next morning]  Today’s experience was brief and satisfactory in part.  The fellow was here a few minutes after 08:00, and quickly reversed the action of the shut-off lever.  But we’ll have to wait over three weeks for the new gas meter...

Dog days

 For the last week or so it has been too hot to do much but sit and sweat.  Fortunately, the last couple of days have been cooler, but humid and with very little breeze.  We’ve been under warning of storms and torrential rain, but aside from a few rumbles and a few drops, the forecast rain has so far failed to materialise.  The water butts are empty, of course, so we’ve had to resort to tap water for the garden.  I’ve managed to do the watering in the morning coolth, and today have done some hacking back of leggy shrubs, dead-heading roses and annuals and stuff like that.  

Martyn has been sitting in his study with the fan on, model-making for the 27th canton of Switzerland up in the loft, and it has even been cool enough for him to get up the ladder today, though not for very long.  He has turned out some really impressive models from scratch, designing the elevations on screen, then printing them on card for assembly.  Skilful stuff: I lack the patience.

The wasp man came and did his stuff on Monday, but there are still some wasps buzzing around the entrances to the nest.  We’ll give it till this coming Monday as he suggested, but it looks as if it may need a repeat treatment.  We need rid of them before the contractors come to replace the gutters and stuff, which ought to be in the coming few weeks.

We are not lucky with doorbells, as I think I may have reported in the past!  Another one started becoming kind of hit or miss, sometimes not ringing at all, occasionally following the usual bing-bong with a kind of tortured shriek, and occasionally starting ringing and not stopping.  So with undying gratitude to the beneficent, generous Mr Bezos (who must be worried sick by his dreadful financial situation) we’re now on bell N°5 of our 13-year tenancy.

Wee beasties

Much as we love our fellow creatures, our love is not unquestioning.  The bees delight us mainly by pollinating our crops: it’s also really good to watch them busying themselves in the flower garden, and amusing to see a fat bumble bee disappearing in an anttirrhium floret.

Less lovely are the ones that feast on our suits and pullovers.  We noticed the day of Margaret’s funeral that the moth had had a munch at the sleeve of Martyn’s best suit jacket.  So that’s a trip to the retoucherie in prospect.  Meanwhile, I’ve instructed that nice Mr Bezos to send us some thingies to hang in the wardrobes.  Must make a note to get replacements six month hence.

A colony of wasps has elected domicile in the roof of the larger garage, dammit.  So the exterminator has been summoned, and will be here on Monday.  I wonder if it’ll be the same fellow who came once before - same reason, different roof.  He arrived in an unmarked van, and when I opened the door, almost whispered ‘pest control’!  Quelle délicatesse.

Since the potatoes had started getting scabby, we decided yesterday to turn them all out, so the bottom drawer of the fridge is now rather full.  I know, I know: spuds should be put in double-layer paper sacks and stored in a cool, dark, dry place.  We ain’t got one of them that isn’t full of tool boxes and vacuum cleaners, so the fridge will have to do - and I expect we’ll have wolfed the lot before they can come to any harm.  

Tomatoes and things

Martyn made a delicious tarte tatin aux tomates yesterday with our home-grown baby plum toms, and it has provided us with two delicious lunches.  When he mused what the recipe might be for the Tarte Mado of La Fargo fame, I thought: ‘what the hell?’ and sent a message to its ancien propriétaire Christophe to ask for the recipe.  Que bénies soient ses chaussettes en coton, he has sent it to me, and we shall give it a go once we have enough ripe tomatoes again, which won’t be long.  He also kindly told me the story of the name: his paternal grand-papa called his wife, Madeleine, who invented the dish, Mado.  This did not entirely meet with favour, since Mado was often the name given to ladies of a certain ancient profession.  So it’s a tart tart.

Glad to report that the grateful servants of the benevolent, modest and generous Mr Bezos delivered the new tyre pump yesterday, and that it works.