The Teddington Gardener

NOT in rich glebe and ripe green garden only Does Summer weave her sweet resistless spells, But in high hills, and moorlands waste and lonely, The vast enchantment of her presence dwells. Wide sky, and sky-wide waste of thyme and heather, Perpetual sleepy hum of golden bees…

DSCF5028DSCF4979DSCF4860DSCF4904DSCF4976

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DSCF4810DSCF4791DSCF4793DSCF5095DSCF5033DSCF5079DSCF4910DSCF4866DSCF4774DSCF4674DSCF4984DSCF5099the cycling references are for Le Tour de France, which recently triumphed through Yorkshire

DSCF4764and finally, mad cow, no, though a little eccentric…

DSCF4819A break from the strictly horticultural life and out amongst Natural Beauty, this time in the Yorkshire Dales and here, Swaledale in particular.

A walk starting in Reeth, taking in Marrick Priory, woodland and rough pasture, riverside and with outstanding views across the heather-clad moors. Mostly an opportunity to stretch my legs and admire a part of the country previously unexplored. The weather could not have been better – bright but cool (particularly for the ascents) and also dry.

Alright, this is not a strictly natural landscape, there is much management here,  but I think we can agree it is beautiful and for a townie, food for this particular soul.

The title is an extract from a poem by Edith Nesbit

The Moors

NOT in rich glebe and ripe green garden only
Does Summer weave her sweet resistless spells,
But in high hills, and moorlands waste and lonely,
The vast enchantment of her presence dwells.
Wide sky, and sky-wide waste of thyme and heather,
Perpetual sleepy hum of golden bees–
If you and I were only there together,
Free from the weight of all your garden’s trees!

The north is mine; though bred by elm and meadow,
Pines, torrents, rocks, and moors my heart loves best;
I love the plover’s wail, the cleft hill’s shadow,
The sun-browned grass that is the skylark’s nest.
Ah, yes! you too I love, dear wistful pleader,
You most I love, dear southern rose, half-blown,
And rather lounge with you beneath your cedar,
Than greet the moor’s wide heaven-on-earth alone.

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