Here We Go Gathering 'Nuts' in May!

 

 Goodness me – it’s that time of year again! Spring has crept up on us and pounced. We have been freezing cold since Christmas and my garden, on top of a hill, has been in a snit – refusing to pop out a bud or waggle a leaf while Jack Frost is still stalking the avenue. Then, without a ‘by-your-leave’, warm gusts from the Continent have turned us positively tropical and spring has sprung all over. Thomas Carlyle knew what he was talking about when he wrote:

Long stormy spring-time, wet contentious April, winter chilling the lap of very May; but at length the season of summer does come.

With Chelsea Flower Show in a couple of weeks I am sure the garden designers are heaving a sigh of relief and unplugging their hairdryers as there is no longer any need to persuade their blooms to blossom. I am looking forward to seeing what extravagant and expensive creations the designers come up with this year. 

As it happens, it seems that Chelsea is very much in tune with RHE Media this year. The RHS has designed a garden called ‘Heath, Happiness and Horticulture’ https://www.rhs.org.uk/shows-events/rhs-chelsea-flower-show/2016/Articles/health-happiness-and-healing-gardens and, much to our delight, Diarmuid Gavin has designed ‘The British Eccentrics’ Garden’ that celebrates, among others, Heath Robinson - https://www.rhs.org.uk/shows-events/rhs-chelsea-flower-show/exhibitors/2016/gardens/the-harrods-eccentric-british-garden I must say that I am very pleased that our small efforts, here at RHE Media, to spread the word about wellbeing have reached the ears of the gardening movers and shakers. Gardening is indeed a great way to add years to your life and life to your years.

Also, spookily (as Dame Edna Everidge is fond of saying) the William Heath Robinson Trust posted the following on Facebook yesterday. https://www.facebook.com/HeathRobinsonMuseum/photos/pcb.520361224821457/520361111488135/?type=3 The Hare and Hounds in Waytown is my family’s local pub, well known to me as the place to go for a pint of cider after hay-making. So it appears that the universe is telling me to write a blog post about our Heath Robinson books and, specifically, about How to Make a Garden Grow.

William Heath Robinson and K.R.G. Browne offer some useful advice on garden design and choice of plants in this helpful volume:

Re flowers, now. Before planting so much as a solitary buttercup – which would look dashed silly, anyway – the gardener should give some thought to the general colour-scheme that will result when everything (to his astonishment) has come up. A garden containing only red flowers, for example, is an affront to the eye and a menace to the peace of the home, the irritant effect of red upon the nerve-centres being well known to psychologists, bulls and the retired military. In the same way, an all-white garden tends to induce snow-blindness in the family and neighbours, while an all-yellow one just looks bilious.

The gardener, then, must either work out a preliminary colour-scheme himself or hire a local artist for a small sum in bronze. As a foundation, a few roses, tulips and/or dahlias are generally useful, as these can be had in several pleasing shades and always look well in vases. Among roses, my personal favourites are Mrs. Wapshott (light crimson: very sweet), Lady Bilch-Overspoon (glossy rose: most abundant and continuous bloomer), Prunella Simpson (pink: large), Fifi Mechante (creamy pink: very free and beautiful), General Quacklingham (rich velvety crimson: very strong), and O. J. W. Featheringstonehamptonhaugh (salmon pink: large white eye). Apart from the two last, a jollier bunch of girls one could not hope to meet.

His roses selected, and his tulips and dahlias added to taste, the gardener can turn his attention to his hardy annuals – those tough little growths which can be trusted to do their stuff with the minimum of supervision. The most popular of these, at the moment, are phlox, sox, clarkia elegans (named, I believe, after that Mr. Clark who introduced spats into England), larkspur, love-in-a-mist, fun-in-a-belfry, coreopsis, ellipsis, mignonette, candytuft, bishop’s-nightshirt, nasturtium and echsol … eschscol… (Just a moment, please)… eschscholtzia. The last-named, which is pronounced like a walrus sneezing through a double thickness of felt after a heavy meal on a murky evening in Kirkcudbright, is generally spelt “Cal-i-for-ni-an pop-py”, to the relief of all.

I am sure the Chelsea designers will find such advice most useful and I am going to search the plant catalogues for fun-in-a-belfry and bishop’s nightshirt!

For those without outside space, don’t forget that you can learn much about spring planting indoors from another of our other gardening titles – Room and Window Gardening.

As ever, after an energetic morning digging weeds out of the lawn with a screwdriver (a handy tip from Grandad and using the screwdriver he gave me) and ducking dive-bombing seagulls while rescuing a drooping passion flower, my mind turns to lunch. It turns out that it is British Sandwich Week this week, which reminded me of my blog posts http://www.wordstothewise.co.uk/blog/my-life-in-sandwiches-part-1 and http://www.wordstothewise.co.uk/blog/my-life-in-sandwiches-part-2  Having little in the fridge I looked in the freezer and spotted a box of fish fingers, no doubt bought in anticipation of a visit from my nieces or nephew. Now the fish finger sandwich is much celebrated and there is considerable debate about the correct ingredients. I like to spread the bread (usually brown, but I know white is more popular) with mayonnaise, add the hot fish fingers and top with some tomato ketchup. I have also tried tartare sauce instead of mayo and that is very good too. For more thoughts on how to eat a fish-finger sandwich see - http://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2015/dec/15/how-to-eat-fish-finger-sandwiches

Hand over that fish-finger sandwich RIGHT NOW! By Stu's Images, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=27048015

I was admiring my pear blossom this morning and I wondered what Mrs Beeton recommended for preserving pears in Mrs Beeton’s Jam-making and Preserves. Here is her recipe for Pears, Sweet, Pickled:

Select some nice firm pears. To each lb. allow ½ a lb. of brown sugar, and ¼ of a pint of malt vinegar, cloves, cinnamon, and allspice.

Peel the pears and tie the spices in muslin. Place the vinegar, sugar and spices in a preserving-pan; when boiling add the pears, and cook them gently until tender. Remove the pears to a bowl or large basin, boil the syrup for about 10 minutes longer, then pour it over the fruit. On the following day boil up the syrup, and repeat the process the two following days. On the third day place the pears in jars or wide-necked bottles, and remove the spices before adding the vinegar to the fruit. Store in a dry, cool place.

My mother makes pickled pears (I think her recipe is similar to Mrs B’s) – great with ham and other cold meats and my Dad’s favourite. The lovely painting on the cover of our edition of this book shows pears and the equipment needed for preserving them.

Finally, looking ahead, don’t forget that it is Father’s Day on the 19^th June. TheDangerous Book for Grandads is the ideal gift for Dads and Grandads. It includes lots of ideas for outdoor activities with the grandchildren during the holidays so get your copy now (it’s available in all good bookshops as well as online in The Great British Bookshop and Amazon) and start filling your notebook or scrapbook with plans for derring-do! For example, now the soil is warming up and (we fervently hope) the risk of frost is past, you can plant the seeds of your giant sunflower or enormous pumpkin!

With thanks to Rupert Stephenson

Of course, if your Dad and/or Grandad appreciates the outdoors more in theory than in practice then he has much in common with William Heath Robinson and K.R.G. Browne in How to Make a Garden Grow. I think they should have the last word:

The fact that neither Mr. Heath (“Towser”) Robinson nor myself has ever grown any of the flowers or vegetables mentioned in this work will not, we hope, detract from its educational value or its usefulness as a fly-swatter. After all, very few dramatic critics – a curious breed of men, remarkable chiefly for their ability to sleep through the loudest shows – have ever written plays; and, of those who have, the majority are now wishing that they had chosen something easier, such as making little woollen models of the Albert Hall. The looker-on, in other words, sees most of the game; and as onlookers (preferably from arm-chairs, with a large jug of something soothing within easy reach) Mr. Heath Robinson and I acknowledge few superiors below the rank of K.B.E.

Let's go Fly a Kite!

Remember the Peter Powell ^TM stunt kite? Apparently the Toy of the Year in 1976 is back http://www.peterpowellkites.co.uk and better than ever! I had one – a blue plastic kite with a long tail that would inflate in the wind. We used to take it up to the playing field to fly. On a good day, with a steady breeze, it was extremely exciting to put the kite through its paces, spiralling one way and then back the other while being pulled across the grass by the surprisingly strong kite with its aluminium struts. It was thrilling to develop a feel for the kite and the wind, to make the kite perform at its limits and to test your strength against the tug of the kite that seemed desperate to get away and fly on its own. On a bad day, I would spend most of my time untangling the two flying lines, running frantically backwards to no avail time and time again, dealing with the frustration of the parent or brother who had to throw the kite back into the air after each crash and then, when I gave up, spending ages getting the air out of the tail so that I could roll it up. 

Before the Peter Powell kite arrived, we children had made various attempts at making a kite out of sticks, paper and a piece of string – most were very disappointing and ended up stuck in trees. The best things about the Peter Powell kite were the dual control lines and its robust construction. Mine crashed into the ground on numerous occasions but it was easy to repair and would be back in the air quite quickly (as long as your ‘thrower’ hadn't got bored and gone home for a cup of tea!).

Here is a link to a YouTube video of someone flying stunt kites in stacks of 3-6. They look wonderful flying together like this. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vJXv5Lt06_s

Trying to describe the thrill of kite flying reminded me of the descriptions of the thrill of flying in our two aviation titles – The Boys’ Book of Aeroplanes and Sky Roads of the World. Amy Johnson and Hubbard and Turner are far better at describing what it is like to fly than I am at describing kite-flying. Of course, when these authors were flying they were doing so when manned flight was at the exciting visceral stage, where they stared death in the face on numerous occasions and when the skills needed to fly a plane made of balsa wood, paper and wire were being learned through trial and error by everyone.

The Boys’ Book of Aeroplanes was written only nine years after the Wright brothers made their first successful motor-driven flight. Here Hubbard and Turner describe the thrill of flying in an aeroplane for the first time:

The machine is held back, the motor started by swinging the propeller, and the wild clamour of the motor arises, obliterating all other sounds. The pilot seated by him raises his arm, the machine is released and rushes over the ground, and before the passenger has time to realise it, the machine is in the air, climbing steadily. Glancing right and left he sees the country spreading out like a map, and then looking down he sees the ground, far below, shrinking between his feet. The wind blows hard in his face, but it is not unpleasant, and he soon gets used to it, and also hardly notices the unending roar of the motor behind him. Movements of the pilot's hand and foot on lever and cross-bar footrest send the machine turning, tilting over towards the side to which the turn is made. There is no sensation of giddiness, certainly none of fear; he feels as secure as in an armchair in his own home. Far below, now, he can see the roofs of the aeroplane sheds, and the little black dots, which are in reality men, moving very slowly over the ground. Another turn, and the machine is passing over a belt of trees, and for the first time he feels an indescribable thrill - a thrill of inexplicable pleasure. To fly over the tops of trees is to experience a mystical exultation; flying over grass is nothing, over houses nothing, over water a mere incident, but over trees is a mysterious delight - a riddle that a Sphinx might propound but no Oedipus ever satisfactorily answer.

Another half-circle and the machine heads back towards the sheds, and then the pilot, momentarily turning his face, shouts two words which the passenger fails to hear, but assumes, and rightly, to be "Hold tight!" The nose of the machine suddenly dips sharply downwards, and immediately the noise of the motor ceases, for the pilot has switched off for a glide. The passenger grips the upright spar on his right very tightly, thrusting his legs very firmly against the foot-rest. He misses the noise of the motor now it has stopped, though previously he had been hardly conscious of it. He hears the wind singing against the planes and wires, and sees between his feet the ground rushing up to meet him. High up, the ground, by a simple optical delusion, seems to move very slowly, but increases its apparent motion the nearer one is to it. Faster and faster flows the ground, and then, obeying a slight movement of the lever, just as the passenger imagines a collision with the earth is inevitable, the machine gradually straightens out; there is an almost imperceptible shock at the moment the wheels touch; the machine runs along the ground, losing speed rapidly, and finally stops; and the passenger, his mind still in a whirl with his novel experiences, finds himself at the door of the shed. There is no noise, no rushing wind, only a few spectators standing in front of the machine asking him casual questions which he cannot, for the life of him, answer. He wants to sit still and think, but he is hustled out of his seat, and becomes, to his growing disgust, a mere crawling pedestrian once more.

Fantastic. This description is followed by an even more dramatic description of what it is like to make your first solo flight. Amy Johnson too, a few years later in Sky Roads of The World, is eloquent about the excitement and sheer joy of flying:

As dawn breaks you are treated to such a vision of beauty that you find it difficult to concentrate on the prosaic tasks of fuelling your plane and preparing for the take-off. Brilliant stars in black velvet sky have gently faded away, gracefully giving first place to the rising splendour of the sun. Knowing full well our poor eyes could not stand the sudden sight of an African sun in all its glory, it first sends out faint warning rays of pearly grey, shading to lemon, then pale rose and dim gold, growing ever deeper and more intense till suddenly, as though losing patience, it bursts with dazzling radiance on the uncaring world.

Breathing the dry, tonic air, you jump aboard your plane, longing to be away in the light blue sky, already feeling the fascination of the desert.

First you will be flying over the oasis belt. Tiny groups of mud huts shining whitely in the glowing sun nestle amongst clumps of towering green palms. Some of the ground between is stony and rocky, much of it covered with a fine film of sand. South of the oasis of Tarhit, to my mind most beautiful of them all, stretch three hundred miles of golden sand dunes, wave after enormous wave, as though some god had stretched his arm over a restless sea, petrifying its restlessness into waves of stone.

Amy was the first to see many parts of the world from the air. What a privilege to be the first to appreciate our beautiful planet in a completely new way.

Escaping gravity was the desperate dream of so many people for centuries. It took so long for them to work out the science of flying but that didn’t stop them trying. It was only when the Wright brothers grasped the scientific method – proper experimentation (and without killing yourself in the process) – that the answer finally revealed itself. The Wright brothers’ experiments in flight is covered in some detail in The Boys’ Book of Aeroplanes. What is so delightful about the two descriptions above is that they demonstrate that those centuries of effort proved to be worth it – flying was a wonderful experience, particularly for those flying in an open cockpit, ‘close to the wind’.

Our final extract extolling the thrill of flying is a poem called High Flight, written by Pilot Officer John Magee RCAF (1922-1941) who died aged only 19 during World War II.

Oh I have slipped the surly bonds of earth,

And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;

Sunwards I’ve climbed and joined the tumbling mirth

Of sun-spilt clouds – and done a thousand things

You have not dreamed of – wheeled and soared and swung

High in the sunlit silence, hovering there,

I’ve chased the shouting wind along and flung

My eager craft through footless halls of air,

Up, up the long delirious burning blue

I’ve topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace,

Where never lark, or even eagle flew;

And, while with silent, lifting mind I’ve trod

The high untrespassed sanctity of space,

Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

Kite-flying is as close as many of us can, or wish to, come to the experience of physically controlling an air-borne object. It does require patience and a certain amount of determination. One day someone will create a kite that you can get into the air on your own, without needing a bored parent or sibling to launch it for you. Also, a kite whose control lines didn’t get tangled would be a great innovation. Sadly, kite-flying has been out of fashion for some time and many children prefer the artificial thrill of simulated flying on their tablet or computer. Perhaps adults who remember the Peter Powell stunt kite can take a lead, get out into the fresh air and show their children or grandchildren what they are missing.