May 28, 2013

The Annual Mottisfont Post


Except it isn’t, because the roses aren’t out yet.  It was really interesting to be there when it’s not covered in roses.  COVERED.  IN.  ROSES.  I mean, is there any other reason to go to Mottisfont?*  Ahem.

But my cousin is here** and . . . and . . . and we had to do something.  I did think Mottisfont’s roses would be beginning to come out—mine are—but it’s been such a cold, wet, nasty, uninviting spring and things are still kind of hunkered down waiting to be encouraged to grow.***  And Wolfgang knows the way to Mottisfont.  There are other big romantic National Trust properties technically within my driving range, but the only one I go to with anything like regularity is Mottisfont, and when in the ME is being unkind† I want to keep my adventures small and manageable.

And they’ve opened an old book shop next to the standard National Trust shop††.  Which contains not a single knitting book.  Not even one.†††



Mottisfont on a May bank holiday weekend on, furthermore, a NICE day. Sunlight. Blue skies. Chirping birds.



Oh WordPress you angel, you adorable one.  You’ve eaten the caption.  It said something like:  A ROSE!!!!  Probably hugonis.  But I’m not sure about the foliage and I forgot to check while I was there.

I don’t think I even knew Mottisfont had tulips–although gardens in England do tend to have tulips–because they’re over by the time I’m there for the ROSES.


Iris. I love iris. And can’t grow them for nuffing. Arrrgh.


Spring border. Also it’s so TIDY. By late midsummer when the roses have been out for a few weeks everything is getting a little out of control. Which is reassuring.



A BANK of purple iris. Siiiiiiiiigh



This is one of those famous Mottisfont scenes, with roses growing around the door. Except there are no roses.

Aaaaaaaaaaand . . . that one took almost ten minutes to load because WordPress ingests long-dead gopher guts and craps yellow.  I’M TIRED AND I WANT TO GO TO BED.  I’ll post the last few photos some other day.

* * *  National collection of old roses.  And some other stuff.

** News flash:  McKinley has relatives.    Yes, but not very many.   My cousin is an only child, I’m an only child, my mother had only the one brother, my father had one brother whom I never met.  My cousin married another only child . . . both of whose parents were one of twelve.  And I thought the Dickinsons were a terrifying clan.

*** Although I did get my broad beans planted before they actually fell over.  I even got them staked. I know you don’t believe me.  I wouldn’t believe me either.  I’ll try to take a photo before they grow up past the string and fall over anyway.

And I’m stressed out of my freaking mind with the domestic wildlife.  Hellhounds didn’t eat for two days . . . they’ve eaten a little today, with expressions clearly indicating that they are only doing this because I am a big mean hysterical bully.  I have the joy of trying to feed them again as soon as I get this post organized.  La la la la la la.  One of the reasons I keep getting to bed so late lately is the putting off of the miserable depressing business of trying to feed hellhounds.  Hellterror has had another wild bout of geysering, which she is getting over—again—but it’ll be back.  At least she eats.  Oh, dear heaven, may the lab find something.  And may they find it TOMORROW.

Meanwhile, I wonder how much hellterror’s heat is aggravating everything else, including her bowels and the hellhounds’ extreme disinterest in food.  And while this is the least of all these issues, I’m also kind of tired of mopping the floor every time she’s been out of her crate, washing the floor of her crate every time she’s out sprinting around causing more mopping elsewhere, and washing frelling bloody bedding.  I’ve just ordered half a dozen more cheapest-I-can-find fleece blankets so I don’t run out, although fortunately el cheapo acrylic fleece dries really fast once you’ve banged it through the washing machine the second time this week..  And this coming in season thing happens EVERY SIX MONTHS?  Maybe I’ll be lucky and she’ll only do it once a year.

Hellhounds are obviously a little wired by this performance but the situation is still supportable.  Just about.  I could put up with almost anything else if hellhounds would eat.

†† And on the other side of the giftee shoppe is an excellent ice cream shop—so I’m told, my ice cream days being behind me—but today I discovered that they also sell excellent chocolate biscuits.  The kind that are both gooey-chewy and crunchy.

††† F&SF is almost as bad, there being a Brian Jacques, a Tad Williams, and three Stephen Kings.  Sigh.



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