July in the strawberry patch

 

 

 

 

Models in line, waiting to pose and pout for the paintbrush.

 

I optimistically thought that if I can beat the slugs, discourage the field mice and net them from the black bird that watches me from the holly bush (because we’ve clipped back the cobnut now, so it’s too stumpy to work as an all seeing power seat for the true proprietor of my vegetable garden), then we (the humans) might just be in with a chance of actually enjoying our own strawberries this year.

Every time I went down I’d discover a new little hole carefully chewed through the netting by the field mouse, so I’d dutifully adjust it to hold him at bay awhile. I also discovered that overwatering was like waving a white flag at the slugs “I give in! Slide this way and fill you boots.” So I’ve watered far less.  No wayward stem has been allowed to stretch beyond the netting and wave a curly tendril daubed temptingly with glowing digits of red. These are religiously tucked back in their corral every time I spot an escapee. And so with all these little tweaks and tricks I’m learning along the way, we’ve done so much better this year.

There’ve been times that I’ve crept down at silly-hour in the morning, gathered up a generous t-shirt pouch of them and wandered back with enough for my family to enjoy on their cereal/yogurt/straight from the hand. Actual bowlfuls!

It’s been the same with the other berries too. But these seem to be permanently guarded by that blackbird and as I open the gate to these fruit beds, he’s there, ready with a shouty stream of pure vitriol. I’d not realised that blackbirds actually knew such language.

But there’s plenty for all here, really.

It’s just the strawberries I don’t feel so inclined to share.

So this morning I woke early, and slipping on a t shirt and wellies, I grabbed a colander and took a wet-let walk through the field, such a whisper of grasses now prematurely brittle and bone pale. This Summer has been longer than the usual week we fondly joke about and has in fact stretched out for more than a month of relentless sun. It’s lucky we don’t mither over the rather middle class obsession of owning a perfectly green, weed-free lawn. The stretch that could loosely be called such looks scorched as if someone’s being playing with a blowtorch. But miraculously, the soft fruits don’t seemed to have suffered at all.

Burrowing under the netting I could see that all the fat juicy ‘domestic’ strawberries have long gone, their season ended last month, but still the wild strawberries keep coming, and some of them are the size of a Gobstopper! Their flavour is so much more refined and perfumed than their rather comical counterpart, almost soapy, but not in the frothy, gag-inducing way; there’s just the gentlest most comforting suggestion of Doves’ Beauty Cream bar… depending how ripe they are. I love them, in fact I’ve become just a little obsessed with them.

So in honour of these seasonal beauties that taste like no other outside of these few months, I found the biggest one, held back from popping it straight in my mouth, and instead took it up to the studio, sliced it in half and got my paints out.

 

Strawberry, painted in egg tempera, onto handmade paper

 

I could go headfirst into a dizzy rant here, you know, about eating with the seasons. In fact I know of quite a few folk who’ve written very eloquently on this. And I know I’m one of the lucky ones that has the space to grow much of my own veg and fruit.

But I will say this: very little can surpass the flavour and texture of the food we choose to eat, when it’s been grown and eaten in the season it was meant to be. The strawberry is a perfect example of this ‘truth’.

 

 

 

 


Bees… A Winter of discontent

I’m not sure where to start… I suppose where I left off.

Ah yes. I was spinning honey, with the manual extractor bouncing around the kitchen, light dawning that you really can’t lick your own (honey-slicked) elbows.

Well, in between then and now a couple of seasons passed..

Settled at the bottom of the field overlooking a pond, nestled amongst trees that offered dappled light in Summer, my bees seemed the sweetest and happiest colony. We’d done a lot of learning together, some of it quite steep. But together we’d had a magical Summer. As Autumn rumbled along, the colony were nibbling at the edges of their stores. But as we shuffled into what was to be a pretty wet and unseasonably mild Winter, I could tell that the hive was far too light. Although a beginner, I still knew that this was not a good sign. The bees hadn’t slowed down. They were nipping in and out, scavenging for the last of the ivy nectar. And they were working their way through their precious stores.  After chatting with a couple of more knowledgeable beekeepers and reading whatever information I could find, I decided that I would take advice and supply them with an alternative food source before we hit October, hopefully enabling them to fill their stores some more. Sadly they weren’t that interested, and continued to try for Ivy nectar. And this may have been their downfall. Ivy nectar sets solid in cooler temperatures. And as such is very difficult to access when most needed.

Unable to enter the hive for fear of disturbing the colony, I had to guess what was going on. By January, still with the occasional bee buzzing around, I felt pretty sure that they needed help, and so slit open a pack of bee fondant for them to feed on. This offered some temporary reprieve and with fingers crossed and praying to the mighty Mellonia, I waited for signs of Spring and bee activity.

Then one warmer day in March, heart in mouth, I lifted the roof and took a peak into the hive.

Such the saddest and most tragic sight to take in. The bees were all dead.  It was like a seen from Pompeii. A slight breeze ruffled the wings of these silent thousands, giving the apparency of momentary life. Bees, seemingly frozen mid feed, clung in clumps to the frames. Some were buried so deep within the cells, it was as if they were trying to hide. They were in fact, trying to access the last bits of their ivy stores. Around the cells lay remnants of desiccated ivy nectar. But the worst was yet to come.

Two empty frames a long and there was a full stash of liquid, lifesaving honey. It would’ve been enough to sustain the colony until the first blossom of Spring appeared. They simply hadn’t managed to get to it.

I don’t think I’ve ever cried like that before. I felt wholly responsible, and so eaten up with a fury at my own ignorance and incompetence; such confusion.

I learnt a lot at that point… a lot about bee behaviour… a lot about me. I’d massively messed up on many levels, and really hadn’t known it. But the harsh reality is, that if you take on the guardianship of bees, it can’t be treated as a hobby. It’s a beautiful, huge and challenging role, one that you have to willing to learn, and one that you have to be willing to fail at in order to learn a bit more. Possibly a bit like parenting!

 


All arms...

Earlier this year, I decided to do something out of my comfort zone.  It’s not unusual for me to do silly stuff, but it usually involves either climbing boots/running shoes or my beloved Sidis.

I decided to create a competition for those who follow me on Twitter. I asked for people to throw me ideas of what they’d like to see on a canvas.  One of these suggestions would be picked out of my hat and I would paint it!

The suggestions made were so varied, ranging from the aesthetically stunning (monkfish, wild garlic, oyster on samphire) to the unusual but visually gripping (a heart in the literal sense), with some suggestions so far out there they may still be orbiting  (egg and bacon in a white bap.. tabasco on the side).

All of these ideas (yes really) went into the hat and I duly picked one out:

 

Having never illustrated an octopus before, this was new territory for me. I’m very lucky to have a great fishmonger near by.  Great, because whenever I need to come and photograph, examine and marvel at fish they’re incredibly accommodating. Handling this beautiful creature was a genuine revelation; the exquisitely detailed suckers that gather along the length of each outstretched tentacle; the huge sapient eyes, sheathed behind the pretence of a ‘lid’. With every pose I arranged, it lay with such grace and liquid agility.

In between “proper” work, I sketched, painted and became metaphorically entangled with this charming octopus that began to appear on my canvas.  It’s been a challenge to portray it’s fluid form. One that I’ve relished.

Here’s how the work progressed…

During this project it’s been great to get feedback from people. It seems that the octopus resonates with many.. it being quite an enigma about whom folklore and horror stories have fuelled a history of misunderstanding laced with a little dread.  The truth is it’s a beautiful, elegant and shockingly bright creature that deserves many more canvases…

Apparently it tastes good too! *

Now the varnish is drying, and on Monday 26th November I’ll be placing the names of all those who entered into my hat.  The one I pull out wins the canvas..and if they live near enough, I might even deliver it in person!

*I’ve not had the pleasure of anything beyond the rubbery “boing” of sadly overcooked polpo as yet!

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