There are 15 jars of jam from the summerhouse blackcurrant bushes. Half a day’s work. There has never been so much fruit here. A large bowl of redcurrants waits on Henri’s decision on what best to do with them. More jam most likely.
Henri’s mother, Ina, was the queen of blackcurrant jam, sharp and just sweet enough – the preserve not her. We bought another bush in her memory. How to mark the passing of a mother. Jam-making as meditation.
The new flower seed bed is a mass of bloom. A tower of borage is alive with bees. Poppies, calendula, nasturtium, swaying ox-eye daisies, assorted others from a box of wild meadow mix. Greenfinches flutter in and out. Moths and butterflies, too.
A pair of thrushes plunder cherries from the large tree at the back of the plot. The hare lopes down the road as we arrive. The red squirrel retreats from a difference of opinion with a startled blackbird.
It is high Scandinavian summer here. The hedges have closed in. The two larch reach. The rowan hangs heavy with orange berry. Most of our meals are eaten outside, though we’re sometimes waiting for the rain to stop.
The rugosa have recovered. The large pale rose hangs heavy with bloom. Everywhere, there is fern and pink campion. Everywhere, echoes, too, of a West Country childhood.
The apple tree, branches last year full of fruit, is empty. The pear, though, thrives. Baby oaks are sprouting everywhere after autumn’s anxious acorn drop.
We potter, we mooch, we stand and stare. We soak it gratefully in. The sea breeze dries the washing.
We take a walkabout every morning, first thing. Memories abound. New ones are made. The day’s differences are noted. There is peace to be found where the wild things are. We stroll by the sea, listen to the soundtrack of waves. We breakfast on fresh rolls and blackcurrant jam.
Now, what do you grow or make to remind you of loved ones or your childhood?
