Pots

We only called in to the supermarket to buy some bread but I couldn't resist adding the tiny, pathetic potted Acer into my shopping trolley when I saw it shivering in the wind outside the store.  "I thought we said we weren't going to buy anymore pot plants," Paul admonished me.

Our terrace runs the whole length of the bungalow.  When we first arrived six years ago it was completely overgrown but once we had pulled out all the weeds we were left with a huge, stark expanse of stone slabs.  I asked Paul to remove some of the slabs to break up the hard surface but the ground was solid underneath and it was difficult to plant the ornamental grasses we had bought.  And so began my quest to have potted shrubs in various groups across the terrace.

In France our courtyard was filled with pots of brightly coloured geranium and lavender that looked stunning against the honey coloured stone of the property.  Here in Lincolnshire I wanted a more subdued palette using architectural plants.  My choice of plants has been limited due to the cool climate on the east coast but the spikey Cordylines and lush Fatsia Japonica plants have done well.  The terrace faces south so we have to be careful that the hostas and ferns don't get too much bright sunshine.  The Callistemon (Bottle Brush plant) comes into the garden room during the winter and many of the less hardy plants get moved into the garage so the pots have to be of a size that Paul can manhandle.  I would love to have giant Ali Baba pots but I get a stern "No!"

I went outside between showers this morning to take some pics...

baby fern needs a new pot

parsley and chives

tiny acer almost invisible in front of the hostas

Rick hiding in the bamboo

Another sunny day, another ride

No punctures this morning and we had a uneventful 34 km ride out through the Lincolnshire countryside.  After all that exercise I felt it was okay to stretch out on my sun lounger and reward myself with an ice cold gin and tonic and a few nibbles.  

Bike Ride

 

It was a beautiful morning when I took Rick out for his walk, still a bit misty with the sun just starting to break through. I planned to go for a leisurely bike ride after giving Rick his breakfast and Paul said he would cut his gym ride short and come with me.  I felt quite energetic as we set off and managed to get a personal best time climbing the steep Ahoy There! Hill out of the village. I did it in 55 seconds (Kat does it in 30!).

The cycling felt more like pleasure than exercise, although we had to to be careful to dodge potholes and loose gravel. It was still early so there wasn't much traffic about. Plenty of birdsong and crazy pheasants running around; we saw two hares in a field, they must have been mature males going by the size of them.  All was going well until, about 13 kms into the ride just north of Brandy Wharf, Paul got a puncture. “No problem,” he said, “I've got a spare tube with me.” But unfortunately he had forgotten his bicycle pump so that most definitely was a problem. 

missing bicycle pump

I left Paul at the roadside while I continued the ride towards home alone, another 13 kms or so, to collect the car so I could return and rescue him. Rick was delighted to see me so I decided to put him in his crate so that he could come for a ride in the car. It was only as I approached Brandy Wharf that I realised there wouldn't be enough room in the back of the car for both the bike and the crate!

No matter, the crate is collapsible and Rick was more than happy to sit in the footwell at the front of the car on the return journey. What a palaver!