English gardens . . .

Sitting waiting at Gatwick for our flight back to home — a two day journey, spending tonight in Boston, catching the bus for Portland on Wednesday where we will pick up the car and head for Port Clyde after a nice meal in Portland.

“The kids” made us so welcome and took such good care of us it is bittersweet to leave, but time to be home to dig into a reluctant Maine spring, and time for them to have a their home back to themselves. We will miss them all including Nixi, temporarily known as “cone head” after having a little thing removed from her head. She has been keeping her people up in the night and soaking up the love. We Keep asking C… if she will raise and train one just like Nixi for us — NOPE!

I have spent the last two weeks simply beside myself with delight at being in springtime England, despite the fact that we drew a chilly, gray spate with only occasional, and all the more splendid, stretches of sun among the clouds — much like what has been going on in Port Clyde in our absence. There ends any similarity.

London’s great parks billow with OLD, gigantic and rare tree species in full flush and form, with acres of room to spread their roots and branches, stretching their legs in long allays, and expressing their tree spirits.

Humble byways and gardens in suburbs, towns and countryside, explode in early bloom and leaf. Even the train tracks spawn irrepressible growth. It’s almost ridiculous!

(Note: We identified a new, and potentially serious, affliction for gardeners denied a chance to dig in dirt, namely DDD or Dirt Deficit Disorder, from which W was suffering until C… took her to a nursery to buy annuals to plant! — JKM)

Under the management of the National Trust, a truly great conservator of places and gardens.

Whilst in the Cotswolds, K… went out of his way to make sure his mummy got to see this iconic garden, one among a group to set the standard and lead the way into a classic English form — the “garden room” surrounded by hedges with boxed in floral features near the manor houses, opening onto vistas with focused views and loosening to open meadows, long allays and sheep, of course.

A 300 acres “must see,” treasure trove of the rare and ordinary trees and plants. We had the good sense to start off by taking the little trolley that wove its way around the property to give us an overview, and then circle back to take in what intrigued us most. We could only scratch the surface of the many wonders in the few hours our feet and aged joint would allow us . . .

some in early bloom and others yet to appear

I must admit to being unmoved by most installation art, but this one, on a grand architectural scale, visually, viscerally and sonically connected to the vibration of a fellow creature, was deeply moving both from outside and inside the structure. The first thing that draws me is the eerie and compelling sound . . .

Another singular experience, not for the faint hearted, with the platforms breathing and swaying under ones feet.

Even though, I haven’t even taken you to Bath or Docklands, and am almost home, I’m thinkin’ that’s enough for now, as John and I now glide over the vast Atlantic, cloud fields of evening, chasing the sun home.

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