Visitor Information

Search

Gallery

fordeabbey

The Polar Bears outpaced even the Atlantic Giants

The Polar Bears outpaced even the Atlantic Giants one year with a growth spurt that overtook any month-on-month observation passed in the direction of the grandchildren. But uniform is never measured out equally in the scramble of the kitchen garden, and this years candidate for best in show goes to...

A damp sponge type of morning, soon to be wrung bo

A damp sponge type of morning, soon to be wrung bone dry going by the forecast.

Morning with the sun on its face.

Morning with the sun on its face.

Foxtail barley. Pink at the edges in some light, f

Foxtail barley. Pink at the edges in some light, flat on its face in others. Yesterday being one of those days. But regardless of the elements and it’s degree of tilt during Summer, there’s always a landscape of pod and wisp still yet to come. And while much of the enjoyment is at the bud and bloom stage, there’s as much to bank in excitement for gathering up the seeds and holding them in store for another year of colour. Except when someone gets there first, and the patch in which you spent the best part of May is now precisely lopped and shorn of its poppy seed heads and with it, next years promise of pink fizz. The same for Tulipa Sprengeri. The whole lot shorn of next years bounty. It’s sad and confusing why, at such a time when friendship, trust and kindness should resonate more loudly than any of the newsprint and screaming headlines, that someone would help themselves to not just one or two seed heads but the whole lot. And by harvesting everything for themselves, denying others the pleasure of even a single seed head gathering momentum and mingling freely. A canvas stripped of its colour because one pair of hands wanting it just for themselves. One of those things maybe, but shouldn’t be. Surely by sharing botanical squares of beauty, we’re joining together in a virtual space to roam freely. It’s a sociable wander, but one that needs seeds to bring that space to life.

Sweet peas need undiluted attention and picking, o

Sweet peas need undiluted attention and picking, otherwise the rattle of a brown paper bag is never far behind. A pot luck seed pick-and-mix without the name and date of collection scrawled alongside the scrunch, as a mental post it note committed to memory is never quite enough to straddle the seasons from one to the next.

The eighth full moon of the year was still serenel

The eighth full moon of the year was still serenely perched on the lower rung of early morning. Ironic given that it ushers in a wired kinetic energy that is anything but.

The tipping point in the year is not in June but i

The tipping point in the year is not in June but in August, when Summer has pegged out its pitch and is ready to settle in. Which can be cruel given nature’s inclination at roughly the same moment to sit down on its haunches and start winding things in. But maybe in a mood to compromise, the green has yet to lack lustre and the evenings still gently melding into night.

Where we are in the year is better measured by the

Where we are in the year is better measured by the seasons. At the tail end of strawberries, in the middling of raspberries and somewhere in the lofty heights of daisies and dahlias.

For countryside tv in Summer, and you need nothing

For countryside tv in Summer, and you need nothing more than a hillside perch and the wind to cajole the crops into motion. But with the sunshine and mood to ‘make hay’ the tractors have been at flat out lumbering pace. Divvying up the fields and with it, the would be rollers and cresting waves of crops. The foxtail barley is a pocket sized equivalent. Energised by even a whisper of breeze.

By 6.30am, and it’s already simmering. Picking u

By 6.30am, and it’s already simmering. Picking up in pace to a rapid boil, if it’s anything like yesterday. Heat of a type that shimmers and pushes out the edges of the day. Bypassing evening and slowly melding into night.

A disproportionate amount of time was spent worryi

A disproportionate amount of time was spent worrying about bandwidth yesterday, but an equally disproportionate amount was spent sniffing sweet peas. That, and ruffling Amaranth Hot Biscuits. Rustiness without the mildew.

Morning lapping at the edges.

Morning lapping at the edges.

Patted and plumped by yesterday’s downpour.

Patted and plumped by yesterday’s downpour.

Still doing the rounds after a seed packet or two

Still doing the rounds after a seed packet or two was sown a few years ago. A baton relay of Olympic torches that started their slow jog around about Rio, and will still be in motion come Tokyo.

July. When pipe cleaners are closely stacked along

July. When pipe cleaners are closely stacked alongside dinner plates, and variously covered with cloths of gold.

Maybe it’s in the need to push the edges of Summ

Maybe it’s in the need to push the edges of Summer even further. Wanting it to stand up on it’s own, even after its theoretically sat down on its haunches. The warp and weft of Summer, persuaded to hold out a little longer - either as a structural wraith to catch the frost in December, or bunched and upended and for when the garden comes inside for Christmas (or ‘that time of year’ if It’s too soon to even mention). Foxtail barley swishing in the breeze.

Verbascum nudging salvias nudging persicarias nudg

Verbascum nudging salvias nudging persicarias nudging drumsticks. A tightly knitted mesh of waxing and waning.

The achillea and ammi have knitted together, and i

The achillea and ammi have knitted together, and it’s in the thicket of July that the heron enjoys his biggest breakfasts. Any preemptive swoop camouflaged by the froth and the fillers.

There’s an instinctiveness to July. Sweet peas,

There’s an instinctiveness to July. Sweet peas, to involuntarily sniff, the back hard wired to bend or stoop whatever the angle. And snapdragons, to animate. A childish urge to reach down and gently squeeze them into conversation.

Lord Nelson rubbing shoulders with Romeo, keeping

Lord Nelson rubbing shoulders with Romeo, keeping company with Dorothy Eckford and mingling with King Edward and Our Harry. The social life of Sweet peas in all its Technicolor glory.

Load More… Follow on Instagram

Historic Houses