Lavender & Sage

On Tuesday evening 20 December at about 11.30 this most beautiful of souls passed on. He was snuggly cuddled up in his favourite blankies,  in his sitting room bed, with his teddy bear, all safe and at home. My dear, dear friend (and Jerry’s vet) Rosario and her boyfriend Nick came out as soon as they could after I rang to say that Jerry had collapsed again. The first time was last Saturday, and I hoped against hope that we could stem the tide, but it was not to be. The evening of 20 December during our last walk he collapsed again, his legs simply no longer able to obey his mind. My dear neighbour Phil helped me carry him into the warmth and safety of his own home, and his own beddie.
Jerry had become very tired especially this past week, and eating had become a great problem. He himself absolutely did not wish to go, did not wish to leave me. And so he battled and battled, but with the snow and the cold it was simply impossible. We both tried so hard.

Waiting for my guests

It has sometimes been said that taking in two elderly dogs was such a great thing of me to do. The fact is, however, that Meg & Jerry did much more for me that I could ever, in a thousand lifetimes, do for them. When they came into my life I was still in full mourning for Jess, and from the first second they just kept pouring their love into me, into every little corner of me, until I began to feel a little lighter. Then Christer died, and it is no exaggeration to say that, had it not been for Meg & Jerry, I would certainly have died too. Then Meggie passed on, and Jerry and I helped each other through that very difficult period. And then Jerry and I had 11 months together. And they turned out to be very important ones for both of us, for the love and trust between us to continue growing and growing until it enveloped us, cocooned us, wholly. Jerry looked after me, 24/7, every second of every day. Whenever I got up to leave the room, he would get up on his wobbly, arthritic legs, and follow me. Just to make sure I was ok. The only time he fully rested was at night, when I was in bed, and he was certain that I wouldn’t be making any unexpected moves. Of course this meant that during the day I moved around as little as possible, or as quietly as possible so as not to wake him – to make sure he got enough rest.

Jerry was beautiful, inside and out. His heart had a limitless capacity for huge love, and all who met him were warmed by it, as though they were stretching out their hands to a friendly crackling fire. His eyes were the most beautiful I have ever seen in my life, full of deepest warmth, full of peace, and of wisdom. So many people who met him recognized that. He taught me how to tell apart people who have open loving hearts, from those whose hearts are still more closed. He taught me patience. He taught me so many things that I could write a book about them.

I cannot yet believe that he is gone. Part of me expects his beautiful face to lift up from his nest, look at me, and I’ll see the smile in his eyes when he sees me sitting here. What am I going to do without him? I am so happy for him that his legs no longer trouble him, and his tired body is now once again full of strength and youth. I picture him playing and running and full of joy. I know that he will now be with me always, in all ways.
But the poor, old, simple human part of me has a broken heart, and cannot stop crying, cannot stop saying ‘I adore him. I’m so lonely without him. Please send him back.’

Perhaps he will come back. I know that Jessie will stay with Christer, but perhaps Meg and Jerry will both come back – and they will come to me as puppies and share their whole long life with me.

Please think of loving, beautiful, funny, warm, honest, wise Jerry – and send your best love up to him?

With love and gratitude,

Happy times - the 3 of us on/in front of Jessie's Bench (photo taken by Christer)

It is ironic that I should choose a rainy and grey morning to finally post the photos of Jerry’s new garden – after having spent so many sunny and mild summer months enjoying it to the hilt!

When Jerry and I moved into our new house in January, snow was thick on the ground and I quickly discovered that my old Saab 93 was not going to be of much use on the track to our house, nor on our steep drive. In fact, trying to move in occasioned several sessions of digging the Saab out of snow banks and pushing it back to the main road. Such fun, my dears – not. In short, with just days to spare before the final move, the poor old Saab was traded in for a second-hand Subaru Forester, which makes minced meat out of the track and the steep drive, no matter how slippy it all becomes.

Jerry’s garden may be the size of 2 postage stamps, but what it threw up in the way of challenges would have fit a 4-acre plot very nicely. It’s on a slope, it was filled with concrete (much more so than the photos suggest), including lots of concrete steps, and there was not a speck of decent soil in sight. Putting your spade into the ground here, visions of the white cliffs of Dover abound. Chalk, chalk and more chalk.

The RAMP

The steps were impossible for arthritic Jerry to negotiate, which was a huge problem, as the garden lies between the house and the car, and there is no other way to get from one to the other. Hence a friend of mine took a sledgehammer to some of the ‘flower beds’ (read: concrete troughs filled with chalk and gravel, and a lonely but clearly intrepid primula) in the last few days before we moved in, and constructed a temporary ramp for Jerry. See photo.

Garden gate with a view of the South Downs

Work was started in April and, though you will scarcely credit it considering the size of the garden, went on well into June…. Everything came up, was changed, reinstated or discarded, carted off to the tip, used elsewhere on the farm. The chalk was dug out and replaced with well-rotted horse poo, an endless supply of new railway sleepers went in, flagstone path laid, patio extended, new little terrace laid outside shed, new fencing, new rose arch, etc. etc. etc. In fact, if you’d make me choose between redesigning a small or a large space (no matter whether it’s indoors or out), I’ll always opt for the small space. Somehow it’s just always so much more fun to do, and to try and fit everything in, while still creating the sense of space and airiness. I love it.  Of all the houses I restored, my all-time favourite has to be the absolutely tiny 2 up 2 down in Chinnor, Bucks, with the itty-bitty little garden. And the pint-sized kitchen there I still dream about. Such incredible fun to fit in every appliance known to man, as well as sufficient storage & work space, yet still managing to end up with a mini-version of a perfect country kitchen, and light and airy besides. Anyhoo, this is going off on a tangent!

Of course Jerry’s garden isn’t finished yet. We’re waiting for a peach and a plum tree, some soft fruit bushes and 3 types of raspberry, as well as all the bulbs – which will all  go in before the winter. And as you’ll see from the photos, this is all clearly the first year. Come back next year and the fences will have started to be covered over by the various climbers growing up against them, the rose arch will hopefully show a few more of our Blush Noisette roses, and we’ll have made a start at covering the indoor tennis court next door!

Jerry loves his new garden and spends many happy hours lying on the lawn, snoozing peacefully, the sunshine warming his bones. Now that it’s less warm, I drag out his ‘outdoor’ bed (a great invention of the Orvis company) from under my bed on to the lawn, and he lies on that, in his wax coat – and when the weather gets chillier, I’ll add fleece blankets as required. This way he can still enjoy the sunshine and the lying outside, both of which he adores – as well as keeping a beady eye on the lowly plodding gardener tending his paradise (guess who…).

We hope you have enjoyed this tour of Jerry’s garden!

With love from,

& Jerry

Digging up the garden

Catching a few rays in amongst the rubble

Snoozing on the soft lawn

We're up in the trees, hence the name 'Squirrel Cottage'

When I think of France, my mind plays a very nifty trick: instead of showing me images of recent trips or even of the years I lived there, it skips back to the France of my childhood; to the scents, the sounds, the sights. That strange combination of wide-eyed wonderment at all these new experiences, and at the same time the easy acceptance of them that comes free and gratis with being little.

From when I was 4 years old (now 47 years ago) my father, mother, big brother and I used to spend up to 2 1/2 months a year in France, travelling and staying all over the country. There weren’t many motorways then and, in any case, travelling on ‘white’ and ‘yellow’ roads was our speciality.

My brother and I on our balcony in Cassis

I remember France so well from those days. When villages were mostly uncared for, but were simply lived in, and worked from, and come home to. When farms and cottages more often than not looked like hovels, with machinery parked willy-nilly, or just left anywhere. When the little country back roads were not covered in picture-perfect asphalt, but were still an adventure, and there were no signposts, and your guess was as good as anybody else’s.

When you could just go into any farmer’s field to have a picnic, and he would just smile and doff his cap when he found you there. When you would get asked in, and you all sat around the big old kitchen table, and something deliciously alcoholic, from some obscure bottle retrieved from an impossibly big dresser, would be poured, and even the children would get a sip. And then you would eat, and eat, and eat, and eat.

When spotting a foreign car in our little village of Cassis was something that made you run home on your little legs, to excitedly tell your mum and dad about. When the beach was still only used by the villagers, and there was always plenty of room to play with your little French friends (whom perhaps you didn’t always understand, but when you’re all little people, sharing lilos/snorkels/dogs/sandwiches, nobody cares).

My trusted lilo and I on Bestouian plage

When my big brother and I would go into the boulangerie, hold up two/three/four fingers, and the baker’s wife with her beautiful thick dark hair ever piled high on her head, would laugh and wrap up two/three/four baguettes into a square of white paper for us.

These pictures are like old black & white images, grainy, soft, and slightly out of focus – and oh, so dear to me. Today’s France is so neat and tidy by comparison, with flowers in every garden, fresh paintwork on the shutters, mowed lawns and almost every chicken coop renovated fit to feature on the pages of Country Living.

It’s beautiful, of course, and probably much better in every way. But how I long for the France of the old days.

Our friend Paul, a fisherman, who used to take us with him

When I set up Lavender & Sage and started putting together our first collection, this is the France I found myself going back to. Not the overly bright colours that have somehow made it on to the Provencal palette in the past 20 years, but the original old, faded shades. Not the modern design that is borrowed from the Italian neighbours, but the traditional French country look that has endured and endured. Not even the ‘updated’ French look that you see a lot nowadays.

No, our products are what I think of – and know to be – the real, lovely, old France. The France that will exist unchanging, for ever more. I know you love it, as I do.

Click on this link to hear Charles Trenet sing ‘Douce France’: http://video.muzika.fr/clip/095265

Douce France,

Cher pays de mon enfance,

Bercee de tendre insouciance,

Je t’ai gardee dans mon coeur.

Mon village aux maisons sages,

Ou enfants de mon age,

Ont partage mon bonheur.

Oui, je t’aime,

Et je te donne ce poeme -

Oui, je t’aime

Dans la joie ou la douleur.