Of Mists and Mellow Fruitfulness

by Deborah Watkins. Posted on November 25, 2015

25 Nov

Photography by Mark Furniss

I’ve been away from this blog for a while, caught up in catching up since my exhibition in September. Fortunately I have the Connemara Journal to bring me back to writing and this piece is in the the current November edition. It reflects what we have been seeing here in Connemara for the past few weeks, although we have had some wintry moments since. Today I’m looking out at clear skies and cool sun and I’m glad of it. I will post about my painting soon. Continue reading →

September’s Bounty

by Deborah Watkins. Posted on September 14, 2014

14 Sep

Two weeks after my last post and still I find myself singing September’s praise. At the same time, I feel guilty because I haven’t yet found the time to paint as I have been trying to corner all of the dull but essential work that has gathered like old dust over the summer. I find it impossible to be creative with the burden of unfinished chores hanging around, but the end is almost in sight. In spite of this, the month of september has been extraordinary in so many ways. It slunk in surreptitiously after August with a wave of unexpected warmth, some truly breathtaking sunsets and an enormous silvery harvest moon that doesn’t seem to want to leave. This and a small boon of growth in my very own back garden.

Our hen coop festooned with Winter Jasmine

My hen house is looking especially fetching and I fancy that the hens are wondering why so much of nature’s extravagance has been bestowed upon them. One side of the coop is covered in ‘Winter Jasmine’ and the other is laden down with ripening apples. The apple tree came to us in a small pot several years ago from my granny and the jasmine came from Lidl and began it’s life here as a sad little twig. My Dad revealed to me the source of all of this growth when I mentioned it – the hen shit, it’s the hen shit of course!

Our hens enjoying the weather and the jasmine

Here’s a few close ups.

Apples almost ready to pick

Jasmine against a blue sky

Let’s hope the good weather and all it’s bounty lasts a little longer, the signs are good so far..

Apple-Ripe September

by Total WP Support Inc.. Posted on September 5, 2012

05 Sep

Ripe apples, back to school, my birthday, blackberries, evening classes, woolen scarves, crispy air and pink skies. These are just some of the things I like about September.

We’ve been collecting apples from our trees for the last few days. We have just two – a crab and an apple blossom. The crab is still young so not enough fruits yet for jelly, but their colour brightens up the garden (below), a last hurrah before the Autumn settles in.

G likes to stew the apple right down to a pulp, then he adds molasses and pours it over yogurt. I like it barely cooked with porridge, a set-me-up for the day, delicious and all the sweeter because it’s our own. It was warm and bright this morning so I took some photos to capture them before they disappear into the kitchen.

All this talk of September and apples brought the much loved Irish poet Patrick Kavanagh to mind. His poem ‘On An Apple-Ripe September Morning’ with its imagery of early Autumn and the threshing recalls another time. Men folk gathered together to get the crops in, neighbours and friends lending a hand or paying their dues and all the loose chatter and gossip in between. Nature soaks through the lines – mist-chill fields, wet leaves of the cocksfoot and glistening bog-holes. The last verse ends on a note of awe and admiration towards all this beauty ‘I knew as I had entered that I had come through fields that were part of no earthly estate.’

On An Apple-Ripe September Morning

On an apple-ripe September morning

Through the mist-chill fields I went

With a pitch-fork on my shoulder

Less for use than for devilment.

The threshing mill was set-up, I knew,

In Cassidy’s haggard last night,

And we owed them a day at the threshing

Since last year. O it was delight

To be paying bills of laughter

And chaffy gossip in kind

With work thrown in to ballast

The fantasy-soaring mind.

As I crossed the wooden bridge I wondered

As I looked into the drain

If ever a summer morning should find me

Shovelling up eels again.

And I thought of the wasp’s nest in the bank

And how I got chased one day

Leaving the drag and the scraw-knife behind,

How I covered my face with hay.

The wet leaves of the cocksfoot

Polished my boots as I

Went round by the glistening bog-holes

Lost in unthinking joy.

I’ll be carrying bags to-day, I mused,

The best job at the mill

With plenty of time to talk of our loves

As we wait for the bags to fill.

Maybe Mary might call round…

And then I came to the haggard gate,

And I knew as I entered that I had come

Through fields that were part of no earthly estate.

Patrick Kavanagh

(1904 – 1967)