life on the hill (X)

The beans are sprouting – European farm subsidies here I come.

the soundtrack of longish life

Hi hello wake from thy sleep
God has given your soul to keep
All of the power that burns in the flame
Ignites the light in a single name

Frederick name of care
Fast asleep in a room somewhere
Guardian angels [line a bed]
Shed their light on my sleepy head

I am a threshold yearning to sing
Down with the the dancers having one last fling
Here's to the moment when you said hello
Come on my spirit are you ready let's go

Hi hi hey hey
Maybe I will come back some day now
But tonight on the wings of a dove
Up above to the land of love

Now I lay me down to sleep
Pray the Lord my soul to keep
Kiss to kiss breath to breath
My soul surrenders astonished to death

Night of wonder for us to keep
Set our sails channel [out] deep
After the rapture two hearts meet
Mine entwined in a single beat

Frederick you're the one
As we journey from sun to sun
All the dreams I waited so long for
Fly tonight so long so long

Bye bye hey hey
Maybe we will come back some day now
But tonight on the wings of a dove
Up above to the land of love

Frederick name of care
High above in sky that's clear
All the things I've been dreamin' of
Are expressed in this name of love

Bye bye hey hey
Maybe we will come back some day now
But tonight on the wings of a dove
Up above . . .

Frederick, Patti Smith

How would you like to have a song named after you (in a manner of speaking) by the queen of NY punk? Respect.

life lesson that are priceless – the appeal of hills

"I suppose I have always rather fancied the idea of having to take to the hills […] when barbarian hordes overrun us […]. 
I think I should enjoy it."

The Shooting Party, Isabel Colegate

life on the hill (IX)

Few sights are more satisfying, I find, than a tractor putting some ordnung on a messy piece of land.

The soil on the Hill is mainly clay and stones – hard, fissured and dry in summer; boggy and slippery in winter, clinging to one’s boots in layers till they resemble a pair of sticky, leaden snowshoes.

A plant prospers there in the wild, the false-yellowhead (Dittrichia viscosa), along with thistles, giant reeds and all sorts of weeds. And the thing about weeds is that – like icebergs (and library mice, I am told) – there are hidden depths to them: extensive radicular systems which positively thrive on stress. In other words, the more you weed on the surface the stronger they get.

The solution is to keep at it – relentlessly. But also to work the land so the topsoil eventually becomes more inviting to sweeter more delicate grasses and flowers. This takes the form of a man in a tractor coming in twice a year, towing a tilling implement to break and scarify the soil, though in the beginning it did little more than keep throwing up stones – small, medium, large, huge. At one point, a backhoe even had to be engaged to remove the very largest ones.

But for the rest it was a case of Mr Villa Real, the aristocratically named tractor driver, driving and occasionally turning back in the seat, imperiously pointing down his nose at the more bothersome ones, for the Fool, trudging behind in a sea of mud, to pick up and pile on top of the others by the side of the field (did you say "gentleman farmer"? Yeah, right). The first couple of years it looked like there would be no end to it, and it nearly killed me – a brace of stents inserted in the nick of time kept the juices flowing, but it could just as easily have been game over.

But eight years and sixteen tractor drives into our tenure, there is light at the end of the tunnel. A couple of weeks ago Mr Villa Real and I (by now fast friends, united in a common endeavour) sowed the first crop on the Hill: just four rows of broad beans, as an experiment. We hope it will be the harbinger of great things to come (there is talk of sweet peas, potatoes, asparagus – and on another tack, if I manage to catch the Begum unawares, chickens and ducks and geese. And bees). So, here’s hoping!

Nature is all very fine and dandy, but never lovelier than after a bit of judicious tinkering by men in tractors and fools in boots.

the soundtrack of unrequited love

You are a splendid butterfly
It is your wings that make you beautiful
And I could make you fly away
But I could never make you stay
You said you were in love with me
Both of us know that that's impossible
And I could make you rue the day
But I could never make you stay

Not for all the tea in China
Not if I could sing like a bird
Not for all North Carolina
Not for all my little words
Not if I could write for you
The sweetest song you ever heard
It doesn't matter what I'll do
Not for all my little words

Now that you've made me want to die
You tell me that you're unboyfriendable
And I could make you pay in pain
But I could never make you stay

All My Little Words, Magnetic Fields

life on the hill (VIII)

All those who talk Spring up as the only season of birth and renewal, behold what the advent of Autumn and a few inches of rain do to the Hill. A beautiful pale green carpet sprouts overnight (and the pine needles turn a brilliant emerald from their usual drab grayish-green, and the box sprouts new shoots, and even the leaves on the deciduous trees recover some colour before going golden and being shed for the winter).

The wildlife becomes more active, too. Yesterday, as I was checking the coq au vin gently simmering in the oven and pouring a glass of Douro red for lunch, the call of a buzzard sounded much closer than usual, causing me to look up just in time to catch one streaking past my window not 50 feet from where I stood.

Later, as I left in the scooter for my German lesson, there it was, perched on the woodshed. Apparently a juvenile, clearly unused to humans and machinery, bobbing and weaving hesitatingly, unsure of whether we were friend or foe. In the end it defiantly stood its ground, letting me ride quietly by without taking to the air. When I looked back just before exiting the gate it was still there, poised and regal, proudly having conquered another new challenge in its young life.

Mega, as kids say.