The Red House

I've decided not to volunteer at the Red House, disappointing though this is. The barely-discussed issue of Britten's relationships with young boys which verged on, if not actually was, paedophilia, was raised by one of my Snape colleagues, and the trustees clearly did not have a response prepared, even though the subject must come up from time to time. The house is filled with portraits of these young boys for whose voices much of his music was composed, and the intensity of his friendships with them has filled many with unease, and sometimes downright abhorrence, over the years. The brief conversation provoked last week seemed to show that his sexuality was being conflated with his paedophilia, when of course there is no connection between the two. I was left feeling dismayed, slightly sick, and aware that I didn't want to be involved in any of it. Snape, his masterpiece, is different. It's about music only, mercifully not much of it his. I want to continue loving being there, and to forget the connection with this genius who may also have been a thoroughly odious man.

Changing Places

I'm back from one of the best breaks I've had in yonks. Nothing was planned, but everything was perfect: sometimes it just works out like that, you get lucky. We checked into the plush St Pancras Renaissance Hotel on a well-earned freebie that included luxury suite and dinner for two, and arrived just in time for a late breakfast in the private club. Eyes popping like greedy children, we piled our plates and settled down to scoff the lot, served by solicitous staff who were never very far away. Properly refreshed, we took the tube to London Bridge, and walked along the Embankment past Southwark Cathedral, and the scents of Borough Market. On to Tate Modern where we sauntered through the permanent exhibitions, pausing to comment, appreciate or criticise when moved but always relaxed, open minded, and tolerant, naturally. Such a delightful way to spend a Sunday, we agreed, while outside in the cold and rain the London Marathon runners pushed themselves to their limits. When we'd had enough we returned to find our suite looked straight over the Eurostar concourse, a mix of sleek modern transport and beautiful Victorian architecture. What an outlook! We gloated for a bit, and then went down for tea which involved an awful lot of clotted cream. Replete again we took ourselves down to the spa to float in the jacuzzi and swim in the pool, our bodies unwinding and relaxing in the warmth. But we couldn't hang around, there was too much to do. Back for scalding baths in the vast bathroom, before tarting up for aperitifs and dinner. Our waitress made us laugh, and insisted on calling me Good Eyes for guessing she was Polish. Not Good Ears? After dinner we settled down to watch Night Crawler, a creepy, nasty, brilliant film we'd both wanted to see for ages. By midnight we had to accept that the day's entertainments must come to an end, and we surrendered to sleep.

Next morning the party began again with breakfast in the club, and we decided to walk along the Regent's Canal towpath to Camden Lock. The sun brought a welcome warmth after yesterday's chill, and the path was quiet and green, moving gradually from industrial to upmarket residential. At Camden we decided not to stop but to walk on to Little Venice and cut through the park at the zoo. The girls spent much of their teenage weekends around here, and Olivia was flooded with memories which she knew Kitty would share. The surroundings grew more beautiful with every turn of the canal, and soon we were by the lions' enclosure and heading into the park, jackets off but still sweltering in the sun. Before finally leaving the park, a good four miles later, we stopped for coffee. Two young men were sitting outside with that most perfect of all dogs, the Italian greyhound. "Italian greyhound?" I asked unnecessarily, sitting down while Olivia went in to order. We got talking, and I offered them the change from the £20 I gave her for the coffee to take the dog off their hands, but they said it wasn't enough. "How about if I throw my daughter in too?" I suggested. They were up for that, but said they'd keep the dog until they saw how Olivia worked out. And so it went on, backwards and forwards, while they told me they were in a play at http://www.finboroughtheatre.co.uk/productions.php called A New Play For the General Election which was reviewing for the Press that night. The dog's owner was the writer and director, and his friend an actor.  I was enchanted by them and the fun we were having, and when Olivia finally came back with the coffee and was told she would be going with them in a possible dog exchange, she kept it going too. We parted like old friends, and when they'd gone Olivia said "Did you see who that was?". We'd seen the director earlier boarding the most elegant boat on the canal. It was the perfect end to a perfect weekend, and we left in high spirits. I just hope her next freebie is as high quality as this one was.

Tim Pritchett

Chris New

Village Affairs

I spent the morning selling plants at the village plant fayre and coffee morning in a church hall in Framlingham. It's the stuff of rural life as any country dweller knows: the village church, precious beyond price, needs constant funds to keep its fabric going, and with a dwindling congregation to prop it up the money has to be found in a variety of ways. And so the cake makers brought several dozen gorgeous confections, the jam and marmalade producers and the beekeepers piled their jars high, and every friend of every one of the organisers donated things from their garden. It was an amazing display from such a small village, and I'm sure they'll have raised even more than last year's record £1,500. I thoroughly enjoyed myself, and met countless members of the county's backbone. And I came home with a pot of marmalade, one of blackberry jam,six different tomato varieties and lots of lovely plants. I won a prize in the raffle too, and when someone asked how much this rose cost, I flogged it too for £4.

None of this disguised my ongoing problems with my Rayburn. A recent service showed that a metal protection plate, newly installed last year, had buckled so badly in one corner that it looked like a twisted paper hanky. The replacement part was ordered and the engineer returned to install it, but when I tried to use the oven last night the kitchen filled with smoke and the acrid smell still lingers. For supper it was beans and eggs in the microwave. They're coming back on Tuesday to fix it, so it's lucky I'm away for the weekend; there's a limit to what you can do in the microwave.

At the fayre I asked Patrick how the first Italian class of the new term went, which I missed as I was in London, and he told me it was cancelled. Cary, our Cuban teacher, was beetling to the school when she crashed into a telegraph pole, bringing it toppling onto her car. Luckily she was unhurt, and he drove past seconds after it happened so was able to help her. Poor Cary. Last winter she took away a long stretch of someone's immaculate hedge with her car. When she first came from Cuba she marvelled at the English roads, but I don't think she likes them much now. 

Everything in its Rightful Place

Another hot day. I met a friend for coffee in a deserted Aldeburgh, not a common sight at this time of year, and we went on to the Red House to discuss working there as volunteers. The spirit of Benjie and Peter is evident in the house and the beautiful library which is packed full of music books, and also houses Britten's grand on which he composed his music. The gardens are lovely too, though probably not a patch on what they were like under a team of gardeners. Here they played tennis on the grass courts, and croquet on the lawn, with the great musical and society names of the day. How I'd love to have been one of them, but in reality would probably have been an under kitchen maid. The piece de resistance is the incredible art collection with which the house, library, studio and archive building are stuffed. It's these paintings I'd like to linger over, and would happily show people round as a volunteer in order to have access to them.

The Red House, Aldeburgh

The Library

Pears and Britten

Back in the heat to the garden, and more attacking of weeds down the bottom. Once I've cleared them I'm spreading a thick mulch everywhere, probably in the form of bark. Weeding like this is a mug's game, and I've got better things to do. I'm going to order several of those huge bags that are delivered by crane on the back of a lorry. Spreading that lot will give my back something else to think about. Val busied herself in the front, planting gladioli byzantium corms and lupins in the gaps. Sadly I think my strawberry tree - arbutus unedo - seems to have died. I hate it when something like this happens, it seems so tragic. But sitting outside the summer house with a cup of tea later, nearly intoxicated by the smell of the wallflowers, I could hear the bellringers across the fields at Framlingham Church having an early evening practise, and it was hard to be upset by anything.

Phew Again

It crept up like a sly thing, banishing the early cold and bursting into sunlight and warmth against the promise of the forecast. The weather. What would we talk about without its capricious ways? I got caught out in Woodbridge where I'd taken my poker because its pokey bit fell off in the fire. The heat was too hot ha ha ha! The hardware store that sold it to me are looking into it. I should think they were a bit embarrassed, though the large New Zealand girl who dealt with me was smiley and jolly. "Noy problim", she told me. By the time I got to the garden centre I was baking, regretting my cosy vyella shirt and corduroy trousers. At least it meant I couldn't linger and spend too much. I bought a cistus and three containers of 6inch-long sweet peas. In the filling station on the way home was a lady from Essex, I won't say how I know. She had just filled a massive, brand new Mercedes four-by-four with petrol, but something else had to be added she thought. The garage weren't sure. "Check your handbook," they advised. "I 'aven't got an 'andbook," she snapped. "They never told me nuffink when they sold it me, they just wants yer money, but me friend said summink about it, and I gotta sort it cos I'm goin' under the knife Friday." The attendant's jaw dropped as the woman turned on the heel of her very high boots and marched out, rhinestones on the butt of her oh-so-tight jeans twinkling in the sun. At least I wasn't the only over-dressed person in Woodbridge today.

Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

Winter returned today, a sadistic contrast to the previous several scorching days. One minute you're in shorts, the next long johns. A cruel, biting wind swept across the garden from the northeast, Putin territory, and it was so desolate I scurried back indoors as soon as I could. But by the afternoon the temperature had risen and the wind softened, so out I ventured again. I'm creating seed beds everywhere, because the garden is so big I can't just rely on shrubs and perennials to fill the spaces, but raking to a fine tilth is hard work. I have an abundance of 'hocks' from Ruth's garden, red and pink and nearly black, and all the seeds I bought last week. It's cheering to think of this kind of gardening, not one I'm used to. Put the little (or big if they're hollyhocks) chaps in the ground, and watch them grow from seemingly nothing. I planted Nigel's rhubarb at last too, which I'm ashamed to say has sat in a bowl wrapped in paper, sprouting all over the place, for weeks. The rhubarb sticks looked a bit tired so I may have blown it, but I packed well-rotted sheeps' manure with them, so I hope they won't let me down.

By 6 o'clock it was sunny and calm, so I decided to do a walk I haven't been on since last autumn. Up to Janet and John's house where a brand new footpath post signs you through their garden, then round the fields and back through the wood. Patrick has planted a few rows of hedging where it's a bit bare, but at the moment the view out over the Alde Valley and up the slopes beyond is stupendous, even better than mine. It's a terrific year for blossom, something to do with the balance of rain and sun, and the white blackthorn flowers stand out everywhere, glowing and shining without shame or embarrassment. In stark contrast to my last visit the fields have gone from golden to green, and they flow down the hills in every direction filling the senses with quiet satisfaction. I've long since stopped longing for someone to share this kind of thing with me. It's enough to enjoy it myself, and let it work its magic on my spirit. And it did. I came back along the lane as the sun slid down towards the horizon, flushing the sky red, and was glad I'd gone out.

Fortune Smiles

How often does that happen? You mow the lawn, and no sooner have you completed the last stripe than it begins to rain. Lucky eh? Kylie Minogue should record a song about that. I've made a new resolution too: to always open both garage doors before driving the car out. I know. Call me over-cautious, timid even, but it does make it easier to get the car out unscathed. I was lucky this time (Kylie?) and just touched the closed half of the door before realising my mistake. I'm still wincing from turning the steering wheel slightly as I drove out a few months ago, leaving the right wing stuck on the door jamb. Luckily (?) there's a very masculine mechanic called Carol across the lane who put it right for me with a bit of muscle and a tin of spray paint.

A team of young people trudged by a while ago. They were carrying heavy rucksacks, bedding rolls and water bottles, sweatshirts and high visibility waistcoats tied to their load. They really looked exhausted, but I thought it was wonderful that they preferred doing that - DofEA or something - instead of sitting around with electronic gadgets. I considered inviting them all in to cool off with a nice cold bottle of coke each but a) I didn't have any coke and b) there were about 20 of them so I didn't even have enough juice.

Occasionally I hear voices and look up immediately so unusual is this. It's generally cyclists, but just now a group of jolly silver hikers marched briskly by and they all hailed me with great gusto and merriment. "Good for you!" I wanted to call, but the last time I did that, congratulating an old cyclist as my young daughters and I sailed past up a hill on our bikes, he caught up with us, and only then did I notice his serious-looking bike and green tweed Alpine cycling suit complete with plus fours and covered in badges. He berated me for patronising him, and I shrank a little with embarrassment. I'm not making that mistake again, kindly meant though it was.

My Life with Plants

It's been a very productive few days. Last night I ushered at Snape for the English Touring Opera's La Boheme, and to be honest I wasn't wild about the prospect. Puccini is not my favourite composer, though I am very fond of Tosca (I nearly wrote Tesco which I don't love!) and quite like Madame Butterfly. But it was fabulous, a really interesting production with excellent staging and, oh, the music! I was sitting at the front of the hall at right angles to the audience, and had to flick away the tears as casually as possibly so as not to be too obvious. I wasn't the only one. Earlier I'd arranged to meet a friend to play duplicate bridge in Nigel's absence, but she got the time wrong and I bumped into her emerging from the Co-op with a grin of gleeful anticipation on her face. It turned to bitter disappointment when she realised her mistake. Never mind Caroline, we'll try again soon. I was happy to get back into the garden where I'd left Val transplanting Japanese anenomies, and the day too lovely for bridge anyway.

A bit more colour in the RWNN

The sun beat down again today despite the gloomy weather forecast, though a sharp easterly was best avoided. Tony came early and fitted some bookshelves for me, so the room with no name is beginning to take on a bit of character. Then Patrick arrived with some raffle tickets for me to sell in aid of the church, and Caroline rang asking me to help her on the plant stall at the fayre next Saturday. It's all go in the country. As the day wore on I paid another visit to the plant man, Adrian, and filled the car up with more of his perennials, ground cover this time, geraniums with blue flowers (pronounced the Suffolk way, flars). I stopped off on the way there to get some cash, and when I got home it was still in my pocket. I hadn't paid him! It's OK though: he's happy to wait for my next visit. I got home exhausted after another day with the hoe and the rake, but it's a happy kind of tired. I did the only possible thing under the circs: opened a bottle of Peroni. Now that's better.

Phew, What a Scorcher

What a ridiculous day it was yesterday. My car recorded 26 degrees as I drove to one of my favourite places, the Walled Garden in Benhall, and I nearly passed out from the intense heat inside. Luckily there was some shade, though not much, and I kept darting under the odd tree for some respite. Why on earth didn't I bring my hat? I'm leaving one in the car permanently from now on, though two of my best ones, including a tasteful logo-less pale blue baseball cap from Port Angeles that I don't think makes me look like white trash, are playing hide and seek. Maybe the heat went to my head, but I left with little change from £80. Sarah Raven, unknown to me until a few weeks ago, markets such beautiful little packets of seeds that I bought some more escholzia on the basis that you can really never have too much of a good thing, at least in the garden. And so I now have six shrubs and some gorgeous bright red lobelia, variety Queen Victoria. Some of the shrubs are for the front, but I'll leave them for now.

Today, despite a forecast of 10 degrees maximum, it was already 16 by 11am and I was in shirt sleeves.. A man rang me as I drank coffee in the garden. "Good morning, and how are you today?" he brightly asked me. "Fine thanks," I muttered, "and what can I do for you?" "This is just a short, a very short call to tell you about sky ....." "It'll be much shorter than you expected," I told him, and hung up. Does anyone listen to this stuff, and even buy? How they irritate me. Nothing daunted, I lined up my perennials again, retrieving them from where they sheltered yesterday from a fierce wind and equally ardent sun, and proceeded to dig 18 holes. By late afternoon they were all planted apart from the phlox and the two mysteries. I even did my hallmark edging along the grass to make the bed stand out. I won't mention my neck, or my shoulders, or even my knees, but suffice it to say that I've just opened another tube of Ibuleve.

I put my tools away and limped indoors, and when the phone rang blow me if it wasn't the cold caller again: same voice, same breeziness, same chat-up line. "Oh please," I said, "you called me this morning. Just take me off your list will you?" And when I hung up he rang back immediately. The audacity! I'd just about recovered from my labours when my second pond quote person arrived. Julian is long and lean, youngish but with grey hair cut in a spiky style. I first met him last year and found his friendly, smiley attitude very engaging. He loves the idea of a rill and would enjoy installing one. I bet he would. His eyes grew large when he said it wouldn't be cheap. My friend Patrick down the lane built a tower in his grounds when he retired. Is a rill rilly asking too much?

Shorn wisteria, but still flowering profusely

Getting On

I've been away on and off since Easter, and it's taken a while to get back into the groove. It's funny how home centred this blog is. But it's the garden that has focussed me as usual, and what changes I've both made and planned! The warm weather has caused the weeds to flourish, and it's been back-breaking work trying to subdue them. Val has returned, and true to her name she valiantly attacked one bed with the fork, refusing to give up until she made it to the end. In her absence I've done the rest, and I'm really beginning to feel my age. I've still managed to keep it up all day, but I sit down more than I used to. Mowing the lawn after a day's hoeing was a killer in the hot sun, especially struggling up the slope when the box was full of grass cuttings. This morning Ruth and I went off to see a chap who grows fields of perennials and sells them for £1.50 each. Beautiful specimens they are too, so I loaded the car with delphiniums, lupins and phlox, plus two of something I can't identify. The trouble is that Adrian is dyslexic and so doesn't write anything on the pots. A few years ago he showed me how to identify colours by the leaves, but I'm not that good at it and he wasn't there. His mum is lovely, but she doesn't know either. So it's all a bit pot luck, no pun intended. With the beds cleared they can all go in at last, and so my garden will continue to take shape. I have 15 dahlias to plant when the risk of frost has gone, and seeds to sow when I've created a seed bed. I want it all to happen now, but really there's no rush.

Monty Don pot with layered tulips, irises and daffodils

My new project is to be a pond, and maybe a rill! The pond will be quite large, and planted to encourage wildlife. The rill idea is a way of breaking up the huge expanse of lawn. It would start in a small pool outside the French windows, and meander down to the bottom. Wide and shallow, it would be lined with big stones, and a pump would feed the water around. I think it would need to be in three stages so that the water wouldn't just empty out. I'm having a few quotes done, but I know it will cost a fortune. So maybe just a pond, we'll see.

Mowing the lawn makes such a difference

The blue and white perennial bed, waiting to be planted

Another view

Front garden

Front weeded and levelled at last

Who'd a thought this was on such a steep hill?

This evening I settled down in the summerhouse with a beer while the sun poured in, unhampered now the hedge is so much lower. With the lawn mown, the beds clear and the birds singing their heads off all around me, it was surprisingly lovely despite the lack of flowers. I just imagine how pretty it will in a few months, and my heart sings with the birds.

Blown Away

The gales have finally blown themselves out, and the relative calm is uncanny. My property wasn't left unscathed either: I sat reading in the sunny summerhouse a few days ago while the wind ripped around me with terrifying force, when I noticed banging outside. I saw that part of the shingled roof had torn away and was flapping wildly, so brought some bricks over and carefully laid them on the shingles, trying to stop more damage from happening. It worked, up to a point. The bricks kept sliding off, but I replaced them and they held until the wind dropped. Luckily the summerhouse is under guarantee and will be repaired. The other gale-related issue was more worrying, but in the end that was solved too. A single slate banged with ferocious insistence against the roof of the house for three days, but I couldn't see where it was. Yesterday the builders who have been working across the lane for several months came and had a look, and they clocked it straight away. They brought their tallest ladder over, and the big one said to the smaller one: "You go up first, and if it's OK I'll come up too." "What if it's not OK?" I asked. "Do I look stupid?" he asked back. Such a sense of humour they had, bantering backwards and forwards. The big one told me about doing some work on the Old Rectory years ago when he came across a baby owl on the ground. Seeing the nest high up on the house, he climbed up and put the tiny ball of fluff back. Moments later it was on the ground again. This time he looked inside the nest and there was the baby's brutal sibling, eyes gleaming with hatred, ready to chuck its rival out again. "You should have switched them round," I said. But that's just nature, he pointed out. The toughest one will do anything to ensure it survives, and the parents are usually complicit.

He told me he used to cycle out here when he was a boy and play in Sarah's house which was a working farm. Apparently there's an old boy who runs the garage in Fram who used to live in my house, and they were playmates. "How much for that work?" I asked. £10 would be good, he said. I only have a £20 note, I told him: that's even better, he said, but he went and got me change. I've said it before but I love Suffolk men, at least the ones who come and do work for me. The other kind are lovely too, but they're generally blow-ins from London and the Home Counties, like me. But it was only after these two had gone that I realised my flies were undone.