I have decided to close down my website and domain hence the move to the wordpress site, we’ll see how this works out. Well it’s been a couple of months since I last posted and the summer has practically passed by.
It has been a bumper year this year for most of the plot, the big disappointment was the berries and currants. This is mainly due to the very dry weather an extreme heat. However everything else really took off, but watering became a mammoth task, with me having to water on a daily basis. The house is overflowing with pickles, rhubarb gin and this year I have had a go at making hard cider, thanks to the abundance of apples grown this year. We also had enough onions for me to string them and store them in the shed, and right now I have about 15 butternut squashes hardening up. All in all it has been a good summer on the plot.
My favourite poem is Wessex Heights and some time ago I decided to try and visit the places mentioned in the poem. I was at a loose end on a day off back towards the end of July so jumped in the car with the camera and did the two and a half hour journey to Inkpen. The place is a long way from the beaten path, probably 30-40 minutes from the M4. I arrived there at about 11:30 and made my way to the gibbet. I think if Hardy was to turn up today he would recognise the spot. It was very difficult to find anything modern on the horizon except for the radio mast at Membury a way off in the distance. I had a very peaceful afternoon and met some nice people. Definitely worth a visit again.
Wessex Heights by Thomas Hardy
There are some heights in Wessex, shaped as if by a kindly hand
For thinking, dreaming, dying on, and at crises when I stand,
Say, on Ingpen Beacon eastward, or on Wylls-Neck westwardly,
I seem where I was before my birth, and after death may be.
In the lowlands I have no comrade, not even the lone man’s friend –
Her who suffereth long and is kind; accepts what he is too weak to
Down there they are dubious and askance; there nobody thinks as I,
But mind-chains do not clank where one’s next neighbour is the sky.
In the towns I am tracked by phantoms having weird detective ways –
Shadows of beings who fellowed with myself of earlier days:
They hang about at places, and they say harsh heavy things –
Men with a frigid sneer, and women with tart disparagings.
Down there I seem to be false to myself, my simple self that was,
And is not now, and I see him watching, wondering what crass cause
Can have merged him into such a strange continuator as this,
Who yet has something in common with himself, my chrysalis.
I cannot go to the great grey Plain; there’s a figure against the
Nobody sees it but I, and it makes my breast beat out of tune;
I cannot go to the tall-spired town, being barred by the forms now
For everybody but me, in whose long vision they stand there fast.
There’s a ghost at Yell’ham Bottom chiding loud at the fall of the
There’s a ghost in Froom-side Vale, thin lipped and vague, in a
shroud of white,
There is one in the railway-train whenever I do not want it near,
I see its profile against the pane, saying what I would not hear.
As for one rare fair woman, I am now but a thought of hers,
I enter her mind and another thought succeeds me that she prefers;
Yet my love for her in its fulness she herself even did not know;
Well, time cures hearts of tenderness, and now I can let her go.
So I am found on Ingpen Beacon, or on Wylls-Neck to the west,
Or else on homely Bulbarrow, or little Pilsdon Crest,
Where men have never cared to haunt, nor women have walked with me,
And ghosts then keep their distance; and I know some liberty.