Not Jew's Ears, maybe Tittypines, and an absence of Tadpoles.

At this time of year I go to a particular woodland in search of the elusive Morel mushroom; which I CAN NEVER FIND. However, on my yesterdays' walk I found what I originally thought to be a couple of Jew's Ears.

Knowing that Jew's Ears usually grow on trees, I consulted my Roger Phillips book, and now think them more likely to be Paxina acetabulum, which, unlike it's doppelgänger, is actually poisonous. It just shows how cautious one has to be (not that I would have eaten Jew's Ears anyway).

We have no primroses here, but we do have an abundance of Cowslips.

There are plenty of alternative names for the humble Cowslip, some of which are Fairy cups, Palsywort, Plumrocks, and Tittypines. I shall leave you to take your pick!

Yesterday I'd wanted to take a photograph of all the Tadpoles in this small puddle (below), but all I found were footprints. If they'd been at home, I'd have said that they were made by Chickens; I wonder what they really belonged to?

Whatever it was has had a very good meal; there wasn't a single Tadpole left.!

Go on; have a scratch!

In the days when I was still a 'regular' at my local pub' (back in Blighty), there was nothing I liked better to accompany a few pints of beer than a packet of Pork Scratchings. Those little lumps of crispy, hairy, salted, pig skin and fat, tasted delicious, increased one's appetite for beer, and contained about 500 calories per tiny piece. They were wonderful.

Then one day I heard someone on French TV mention 'Grattons de Lyon' (Lyon scratchings); yes the French had their very own version of Pork Scratchings that they paraded as a gastronomic speciality coming from the town of Lyon (well they would, wouldn't they).

Since then I have spotted our own (newly re-discovered) local Occitan delicacy of 'Grattons de Canard' (Duck scratchings) appearing on supermarket shelves.

With Lady Magnon away for a while, I am able to treat myself to otherwise banned fatty, or salty, products.  

No Tongue Pie for two weeks, but plenty of delicious duck scratchings! They may not look too good, but I can assure you that duck fat/skin (with bits of added feather) never tasted better.

Memories: The House That Father Built.

Lane End, Lingfield, Surrey. UK.

The multi-roofed house in the middle-ish of the above picture is where the young Cro spent much of his formative years; roughly from the age of about 4 to 14.

Unlike the other houses in the road, ours was built in the middle of the garden; set well back from the road. Much more sensible.

My father designed the house on the back of an envelope, then called in a local architect (a Mrs Swann) to draw it up with straight lines, etc. I think the house was eventually built circa 1950. I do actually remember the building stage; I remember the scaffolding, and piercing my knee with a very large misplaced nail (I still have the huge scar).

In our day there were chickens, bantams, ducks, and geese at the far end of the garden. There was a good sized vegetable garden, a small hazel-nut orchard, and plenty of fruit trees dotted around; I notice that all this has now gone. It was very much a post-war home, where 'Digging for Victory' was still practised (albeit by our gardener, Fuller).

The house itself has been added-on-to a bit recently, and some of father's adherence to classic local design has been lost; but it still feels like 'home' to me, and (in my eyes) still a beautiful place to live.

I've had to boot-up an ancient computer to find this photo. I also had to photograph the image on-screen; hence the bad quality. This picture was taken from the pathway on the left of the house in the top picture.

When I look back at my time spent in Lingfield, I realise why I do so many of the things I now do myself; the life-style it offered was certainly worth copying. I wonder if any of my own children will end-up reflecting the life-style of their early years spent here in France?

Father never built another house; one was enough.

Forced Rhubarb.

This morning I was despairing at the state of Haddock's, when I noticed that the forcing pot over one of my Rhubarb crowns had lifted itself right off the ground.

When I took it off, this (above) is what I found. A dozen or so stunningly beautiful stems of fresh forced Rhubarb.

Unfortunately Lady Magnon is away playing with grandchildren at the moment, so I shall be deprived of a crumble for a while, but I shall certainly have a few stems just plain cooked with a splash of orange juice and half a teaspoon of sugar.

New season's cooked Rhubarb with a big blob of thick cream...... Oh MATRON!

Grrrrrrrr.

There was I, off to the shops to buy some simple gardening accessory; a wheelbarrow to be precise (Santa obviously didn't read my last two years' lists).

The kindly assistant showed me several models in various colours, styles, etc. I made my selection, and the kindly assistant gave me a pink slip of paper saying that it must be collected outside, behind the store, round by the overflowing dustbins. Yeah, right!

What he failed to tell me was that it comes IN BLOODY BITS, and yet again I'd have to act as some bloody unpaid factory skivvy in order for the wretched thing to look anything like a wheelbarrow.

Well, as per usual the instructions had been printed upside down, and several of the stages had to be completely undone and redone. It's amazing how they fail to mention that a piece you are trying to attach at Stage 4, should actually have gone on at Stage 1.

Anyway, after a couple of hours, I managed to put all the bits together so that it now resembles a wheelbarrow. It just remains to see if anything falls off.

At least I had no bits left over when I'd finished, and I do seem to have a serviceable wheelbarrow. A bloody miracle!

Precious things.

For the past couple of years my grandson, Harvey J, has kept a box of treasures marked 'Preshis thigs' (he was only 3 when he wrote it); it contains all sorts of interesting objects, and is his own present day equivalent of a Victorian 'Cabinet of Curiosities'.

Last year I contributed a horse's tooth to his collection, and this year we shall offer the above.

A roe deer antler (Monty's discovery), a piece of bleached coral, a fossilised scallop shell (my discovery), an egg shaped stone with some pyrites, a fossilised witches finger (Lady M's discovery), and a mouse's skull (Freddie's discovery).

Nifty eh?

Easter Monday Garden 2013.

This Clematis Armandii, growing against our pool 'pump house', is always splendid when in flower, but this year it has excelled. Evergreen climbers are rare, so we are doubly blessed. It is also delicately fragrant.

The Peach and Nectarine trees are all in flower, and provided that we don't see any late frost, we should have a bumper harvest. I love warm juicy Peaches, direct from the tree. 

These are Plums; plenty of these flowers around, as well as Pears and Cherries

Richard and Richard enjoying the warm afternoon sunshine. I let them loose whilst the dogs were securely in their kennel run. No egg so far today though, and it's Easter Monday too! Cod liver oil for you two!

And finally this is our first proper flowering bush of the year; Japonica. A few small branches from this one always come indoors for Easter day. Bootiful.

Pleeeeze.... no more frosts from now on. Last year we lost almost all our fruit, and I shall soon be getting scurvy.