the perfect path for taking a turn

it’s been a good day and much has been achieved - bread baked, cookies for school lunches baked, a couple of hours of hand quilting enjoyed - and by 5pm, the curtains were drawn, the lamps were lit and the supper asimmering upon the stove.

It’s the perfect evening to slip through the garden gate and see what Monkton, the castle gardener, has been up to - aaahh yes, we were venturing down the brick path that weaves its way, back and forth, amongst the roses.

Like all good paths, this one is laid on the diagonal - which thwarted the bricklayer for an afternoon or so - but now it is finished and the family are most pleased.

The young daughters of the castle are thrilled to finally have the perfect place for skipping - round and around they go, faster and faster, their footfalls echoing throughout the garden, their shrieks disturbing the small animals and birds that flit quietly through the trees and flowers.

The older boys have no use for it - give them the wilds of the wood and stream for their adventures any day. But Nanny can be found briskly strolling along it with the babe in his perambulator each time he awakens from a nap.

(Oh, how I love chain piecing - such an efficient use of time and thread!)

Of course, it was her ladyship’s idea - she so desired a delightful place in the garden for taking a turn. No more pacing the drawing room or library when she is weary of petty gossip or tedious stitching. Nor would she have to clamber through the long grass so favoured by her husband’s old-fashioned grandparents. She’d seen just the path on her recent tour of Italy with his Lordship - an ornate brick path, edged with beautiful flowers.

Monkton had to be persuaded - he had no appreciation for anything new - but after spending a morning together - with her drawing and describing her path with great passion, and he standing silent and stubborn - they finally reached an agreement.

Within a fortnight the last brick was laid and after careful studying of the catalogues from Devon, the roses were selected and planted. And no small, struggling plants but bushy, mature specimens, already smothered with gloriously scented blooms. Only the best would do.

Now Monkton certainly did not have anything against roses - but as for those strange clay pots her Ladyship insisted on wedging into each corner of the path with their strange foreign plants - well it wouldn’t be his fault when they died. Pelargoniums, she called them - ugly, he said to everyone in the kitchen each night. They looked as common as, quite spoilt the beauty of the roses. But her Ladyship insisted she only had to catch sight of their vivid, stubby flowers, and smell their pungent leaves and she could feel the Italian sunlight on her face. What foolish fancies these ladies of leisure have!

All very well to have to put up with foreign flowers when you travel, but to bring them home! Suddenly Monkton hit upon a grand solution - he would continue tending the roses and the path himself, but he’d leave the pelargoniums in the hands of Philip - they’d be sure to suffer.

(jumping ahead of myself again with the stream and rocks)

As the spring days lengthened and his work grew hotter, Monkton could hear the woods and its stream calling. But there was much work to do before he could steal an afternoon amongst its mossy rocks, checking upon his Lordship’s stock of trout, of course. The kitchen garden was a riot of seedlings and weeds, the maze would need trimming before the weekend parties began, and the orchard was a never ending chore.

As for me, now that I’ve chopped the last of my mossy rock fabric up into useless 1 1/4 inch strips, I’m going to bed. There should be an alarm that rings when you have thought all you can think, and your imagination - let alone brain - needs to reset. Think of all the fabric we’d save!