Saturday 16 May 2015

ENTRY THIRTY EIGHT - THE TOWN MOUSE AND THE COUNTRY MOUSE

Does having a communal garden make neighbours friendlier? This question has occupied my thoughts since moving to our new place in Teddington which has a lovely shared garden. From the outset we have been bowled over by the friendliness of the other residents of our ‘Court’, a seventies block that houses eight separate flats. On moving day we made the acquaintance of Fred and Joan, a spritely older couple who immediately introduced themselves and went out of their way to offer assistance. Several cups of tea later we are already at the stage of borrowing hoovers and taking in each others washing from the line when rain threatens. They cast an indulgent eye over Felix who plays happily in the garden while I prepare lunch, offering welcome advice on local playgrounds, schools and cycle routes. All in under a week.

As a Londoner born and bred I have found such openness startling. Imagine my surprise when the lady who lives above us appeared wielding a garden table and chairs when we were sat out on a balmy evening having a humble barbeque. ‘Thought you might like to use these’, she said, noting our camp chairs and distinct lack of table; ‘They’re communal’. The Oxford English Dictionary defines communal as something ‘shared by all members of a community; for common use’. What fascinates me is the implication that the act of sharing something fosters a sense of community between those who use it, and in my short and very pleasant experience I have found this to be very true. The garden is a space for all; even the bins and washing lines are shared, forcing us together for the acts that make up daily life, and I love it.

In the garden are two wonderful old oak trees which offer a delightfully dappled light all day long. Bluebells cluster at the base of the trunks and around the perimeters of the lawn, while blackbirds, blue tits, sparrows, starlings, magpies and squirrels skip from branch to branch, making me feel like I’m living in an episode of Springwatch. One night I listened as a nightingale gave voice to its song, transfixed by the bewitching beauty of the melody. On fine days I sit Felix at the communal table for lunch, an
experience that I can only describe as sublime. No worrying about dropped crumbs, no wiping and no mess, only the pleasant rustling of leaves and the certainty that eating al fresco must be close to heaven. And oh, the evenings! No longer are we trapped indoors whilst others enjoy summer nights; as soon as Felix goes to bed out comes the barbeque and the camp chairs and we appoint ourselves in our favourite spot with a beer or cider to hand while our dinner chargrills over the coals, the fragrant smoke wafting over our clothes and into our hair so that as I drift off to sleep I am surrounded by the evocative scents of a campfire. I have started to feel like I am on a permanent holiday, what with Felix happily installed in his own room and space aplenty to roam, not to mention the much longed for delights of lying in bed and reading before sleeping more soundly than I have in a long time.


As I board the train at Teddington train bound for Waterloo on my way to work we pass through what feels like miles of woodland.  Trees and greens are everywhere, at the delightfully named Strawberry Hill, Twickenham, St Margaret’s and Richmond, then the two stations at Barnes, all abound with nature, and it is only as we pass through Putney into the markedly more urban environs of Wandsworth Town that I even feel I am in London. It is like going from the village to the town, and when it is time to retrace the route it is with a deep sense of satisfaction that I roll back into Teddington; a (nearly) country mouse come home to roost. 

Thursday 7 May 2015

ENTRY THIRTY SEVEN - APRIL SHOWERS AND MAY FLOWERS




May is surely the sweetest month of all, the gateway to summer and the promise of long sultry days and balmy nights. The first flowers of spring have put on their display and faded, leaving the stage set for the main act. Summer hovers in the wings, making the final adjustments to her costume, warming her breath and stretching her limbs ready to leap out and dazzle the waiting audience. Frothy bursts of cow parsley line every path; trees and shrubs are gilded with the brilliance of new leaves. There is no green as vivid, as achingly alive, as those first leaves, and as the spring sun shines through the delicate new canopy the world below is painted with peridot radiance


Felix, now somewhere between nineteen and twenty months, is in thrall to this spectacular transformation. Trees that had been bare and skeletal throughout the long winter are changing before his very eyes, and our daily walks and cycles are a kaleidoscopic trip through an ever changing picture. 'Wow' is his new favourite word, uttered with a long drawn out inflection which somehow perfectly sums up his feelings about the pleasant bombardment of stimulation on his eager senses, and how like a sponge he absorbs it all and is immediately thirsty for more. I am more aware than ever of the incredible importance of a positive and stimulating environment for a toddlers tender spirit. No more a baby, this tiny person notices and absorbs everything that you do. They are like a searchlight, shining remorselessly into every nook and cranny - ready or no - and you better believe they see it all. 

Just in the nick of time we are moving to the leafy environs of Teddington, to a flat with a second bedroom and a shared garden. It is time at last for Felix to have his own bedroom and for us to reclaim the privacy of our own bedroom, yet a part of me is sad to bid farewell to this period of extended intimacy, all three of us sleeping soundly within a single chamber. Of course the larger part is clamouring for escape, for the unimaginable luxury of space and privacy our new home will offer. It is a time of farewell, and I have been busy not only with the endless packing and sorting but also with doing my round of farewells. Being an incurable sentimentalist I have visited each and every favourite spot in order to give thanks for the pleasures it has brought me, knowing I will see them all again but in the awareness that it will be as a visitor. No longer will we cycle down the river path to Dukes Meadows, for a new bend of river will be ours to explore. New pastures beckon, but old pastures hold a place in the heart that can never be erased, and sometimes it seems that every blade of grass holds a memory; that spot is where I lay while Felix napped, that tree where I first took him from the pram to see last springs apple blossom. Layer upon layer of memory colours my vision of places so familiar they have become stitched into the very fabric of my soul. 

The final day of April was composed of two halves. That morning the rain came down heavy and enveloping, and we had to content ourselves with a quick trip to the sodden playground where Felix could stamp his frustrations out in the freshly formed puddles. By afternoon the sun had found his hat and was shining with renewed vigour, and off we went for a cycle. As we passed the Chiswick Pier Felix started making sounds of excitement. The pontoon is one of his favourite places, and he never seems to bore of walking along the wooden boards, stopping to study the river rushing directly below his feet. As he went about his examinations I noticed an elderly, spritely figure watching us in amusement from aboard a house boat. Complete with grizzled beard and deeply sun lined face he looked the spit of an old sea dog, and imagine my surprise and delight when the pier master - for it was he - invited us aboard his boat for a little look. Well such chances don't come every day so I seized Felix by the hand and stepped on deck. 'Woooow' came the little voice as he contemplated the view from aboard. 'Loves the river your little feller' the river dog stated and I nodded. 'Like mother like son' I replied with a smile, and my heart could have burst for love of my little feller, his blonde hair blowing about in the lively breeze. 'Thank you very much' I said to the pier master as we disembarked and waved to him from the pontoon. 'My pleasure' he replied 'Mind how you go'.