Tresco Abbey Garden, Tresco, Isles of Scilly

Last Friday we set off for the Scilly Isles, which lie just off the south coast of Cornwall. It felt like a real adventure, which was due in no small measure to the little propeller plane in which we made the journey. Flying across the sea at an altitude of only a couple of thousand feet was amazing. We spent our time, squinting down at the rugged Cornish coastline, trying to spot familiar features.

Cornish Coast

The boys in our party (Emi and his Grandpa) were especially excited about our mode of transport. It was a short flight (half an hour) from Newquay to St. Mary's Airport on the big island of St. Mary's, and they enjoyed every last second of it. We were seated directly behind the pilot, so they had ring side seats from which they watched him closely.

Here we are coming in to land:

St. Mary's, Isles of Scilly

What can I say about the Isles of Scilly? Well on a balmy day in July with gentle sea breezes and warm sunshine they're pretty close to being a perfect island paradise. I must confess that they hadn't exactly featured large on my radar before our trip: I was vaguely aware that they existed from the bundles of lovely narcissi that they export to the mainland each year. It was my mother who suggested going there. She's a gardening buff and wanted to go to see the famous Tresco Abbey Garden for herself.

So, on arriving, we caught a ferry for Tresco, and sailed across the very calm inter-island sea.

St. Mary's, Isles of Scilly

The water was crystal clear with forests of waving seaweed that moved gently to and fro with the current as we passed by.

Sea Forest

Once again the next leg of the journey to our destination was an integral part of our adventure, but then as T.S. Eliot once said: the journey not the arrival matters. The scenery was simply stunning with deserted, sandy beaches that seemed to go on and on forever.

Tresco, Isles of Scilly

Before long I had developed a serious case of agapanthus envy. Everywhere you go on the islands you see these beautiful plants. No one seems to have planted them, or to be caring for them but they're flourishing all over the place, their wonderful blowsy flower heads nodding gently in the breeze. Just look at these chaps growing on some untended common land beside a pathway.

Agapanthus

Or these chaps growing in the sand dunes where we landed on Tresco.

Wild Agapanthus growing on Tresco

When we finally arrived at our destination the beautiful gardens did not disappoint. Over the years they have been exquisitely designed, landscaped and maintained. My parents were delighted with them.

Tresco Abbey Garden, Tresco, Isles of Scilly

In fact we found it hard to believe that we were still in the United Kingdom, such was the abundance of rare plants from warmer climes. 

 Exotics growing in Tresco Abbey Garden, Tresco, Isles of Scilly

There were formal gardens with gothic arches that framed the views beyond with verdant foliage.

Tresco Abbey Garden, Tresco, Isles of Scilly

And there was the most amazing shell house, which is just visible in the photo above. But, trust me, you really do need to take a closer look at this little beauty.

Tresco Abbey Garden, Tresco, Isles of Scilly

Isn't it amazing? So many shells collected from the beaches and painstakingly arranged to make mosaics of such wonderful colour and texture.

Tresco Abbey Garden, Tresco, Isles of Scilly

There were formal pathways that led off to immaculate lawns.

Tresco Abbey Garden, Tresco, Isles of Scilly

And wild terraces where everything seemed to belong in another latitude or perhaps in a totally different hemisphere.

Tresco Abbey Garden, Tresco, Isles of Scilly

This really doesn't look much like dear old Blighty, does it?

Tresco Abbey Garden, Tresco, Isles of Scilly

Now the other thing that has to be said is that the gardens are pretty huge. We set off with great plans of following a methodical course up and down and back and forth along the pathways. My father was our designated map-reader, but we quickly abandoned the idea and wandered around at will, oohing and aahing with delight at each wonderful new thing we saw.

Tresco Abbey Garden, Tresco, Isles of Scilly

You can meander up and down steps from one terrace to another.

Tresco Abbey Garden, Tresco, Isles of Scilly

You might even meet Neptune on your travels.

Tresco Abbey Garden, Tresco, Isles of Scilly

Or the children of Scilly, playing happily in the sunshine.

Tresco Abbey Garden, Tresco, Isles of Scilly

The gardens were laid out by a chap called Augustus Smith, who leased the Isles of Scilly from the Duchy of Cornwall in 1834 and created the (rather grand) title for himself of Lord Proprietor of the Isles of Scilly. He chose Tresco for his home, where he built a house, which he called Tresco Abbey. It looks over the grounds of St. Nicholas's, a ruined Benedictine priory on the landward side and across the inter-island sea to St. Mary's on the other side, and remains in private ownership.

Tresco Abbey Garden, Tresco, Isles of Scilly

He used the old priory walls to shelter his garden, and also planted lots of tall trees such as Monterey Pines and Monterey Cypresses from California in groups on the upper seaward slopes to serve as wind breaks creating a sheltered eco-climate within his south-facing gardens.

Tresco Abbey Garden, Tresco, Isles of Scilly

And, as you'd expect from any decent garden design, the ruins of the old Priory have been elegantly worked into the landscape to create the most sublime suite of gardens.

Tresco Abbey Garden, Tresco, Isles of Scilly

I loved the ancient stone walls, covered with the most luxuriant lichen I have ever beheld. Check out the old stones with the ultimate in designer stubble:

 St. Nicholas's Priory was built in about the twelfth century. In 1114 King Henry I granted a charter, through the Bishop of Exeter, to the Monks of Tavistock charging them with taking over the simple religious buildings on Scilly and establishing a priory on Tresco.

Tresco Abbey Garden, Tresco, Isles of Scilly

This they duly did, importing some of the stone used to build their religious house from as far away as France. The priory operated until the late fifteenth century when it fell into disuse and disrepair, having been abandoned by the community under the pressure of recurring attacks by sea pirates. 

Tresco Abbey Garden, Tresco, Isles of Scilly

The islanders still held the grounds of the priory in great affection, and persisted in burying their dead there until the nineteenth century when the new cemetery at Old Grimsby was opened. 

Tresco Abbey Garden, Tresco, Isles of Scilly

In about 1840, once he'd got himself nicely settled in at his new estate, and grown used to his rather grand title, Augustus Smith started to collect figureheads from the many ships that were ship-wrecked around the islands each year. There were rich pickings because the islands rise gently out of the sea, are surrounded by treacherous rocks that may not be visible at high tide and are frequently buffeted by gale-force winds and enshrouded in winter fogs making it difficult for sailors to spot the dangers until it's too late. In fact there are more shipwrecks around the Isles of Scilly than anywhere else in the world. 

Valhalla, Tresco Abbey Garden, Tresco, Isles of Scilly

Augustus Smith had the mastheads cleaned and restored. Then he built a special gallery to display them, which he called the Masthead Valhalla. After his death in 1872 his family carried on the collection, adding further mastheads from ships that ran aground over the ensuing years.

Valhalla, Tresco Abbey Garden, Tresco, Isles of Scilly

And at the other end of the spectrum there's also a rather more domestic kitchen and cutting garden, which is lovely in its own right even if it lacks the drama of other parts of the gardens.

Tresco Abbey Garden, Tresco, Isles of Scilly

Whilst the Tresco Abbey Garden was epic, I don't mean to suggest that it's the only attraction on the islands. The miles of lovely sandy beaches are well worth a visit too.

Tresco, Isles of Scilly

 And there's a lot of fun to be had just messing about in boats, or diving to find some of those shipwrecks.

Tresco, Isles of Scilly

The islands were bitterly fought over during the English Civil War being held at different times by the Royalists and the Parliamentarians. As a result there are a few bits and pieces from that era to visit as well. The tower in the picture below was built as a garrison by the Parliamentarians and is known as Cromwell's Castle. 

Cromwell's Castle, Tresco, Isles of Scilly

The islands are a brilliant place to kick back, slow down and relax, and we had a great time doing just that. We pottered around at our own (rather slow) pace, ate very well and enjoyed one another's company. I'd definitely recommend them as a chilled out destination for a great family holiday.

All the best for now,

Bonny x

As shared on Friday Finds

Legends of Dartmoor

Dartmoor is one of my favourite places down here in the sunny South West of England. I love its wildness, its romance and its legends. I love the Dartmoor ponies who've been up here since forever and just carry on with what they're doing regardless of whether you're around or not.

Dartmoor ponies

I love the rocky tors sitting in the midst of the rolling uplands, surrounded by bracken and wild heather.

Haytor, Dartmoor

This is Haytor. They've cut steps into the rock face all the way to the top so, when you climb it, it's a bit like going up the stairs at home, although the view is a great deal more impressive. Even though the ascent is all a bit easy-peasy pedestrian you still get an irrational feeling of achievement when you reach the top and look out across the untamed wilderness of the moor.

Haytor, Dartmoor

And then, on the way down, you can admire the lovely Dartmoor heather, which is looking very pink and rosy round about now.

This bleak and wonderful place (photographed below), just around the corner from Haytor is Hound Tor, which according to the legend is all that remains of a bothersome pack of hounds who were cursed by a local witch and turned to stone. 

Hound Tor, Dartmoor

It's said to have been the inspiration for Arthur Conan Doyle's Hound of the Baskervilles.

And if you follow down the avenue of stones, and over the brow of the hill into the valley on the other side you'll come across the abandoned village of Hundatora. It consists of four thirteenth century Dartmoor long houses with a number of barns and smaller shelters. 

Hundatora, Dartmoor

History doesn't record exactly when it was abandoned or, perhaps more intriguingly, why everyone scampered. When it was excavated the archeologists found a single coin from the reign of Henry III (1216 to 1272). They believe that the people had gone by 1350. Perhaps they were wiped out by the Black Death when it reached England in 1348, or maybe they simply migrated to find a more profitable living elsewhere in the aftermath of the plague. It was a time of great social upheaval:labour was scarce, wages rose and those who survived were able to move around and command a decent day's pay.

Hundatora, Dartmoor

It's an eery place that I wouldn't care to linger in on my own late at night. We stopped by one day last week when the thunder from a summer storm was rumbling around the hills in the distance. Fearing the rain everyone else had (sensibly) vanished off the moor, and we were left totally alone with the wind and the bracken and the menace of the storm clouds overhead.

Dartmoor

If you return to the road and wander on in the direction of Moretonhampstead, to a cross roads where the main road intersects a moorland track, you'll find the grave of Kitty Jay.

Kitty Jay's grave, Dartmoor

Kitty had been abandoned as a baby in the 1790s and brought up in the poor house at Newton Abbot. When she was taken in the authorities had given her the name Mary Jay, but somehow, for reasons that are lost to history, she became known as Kitty Jay. Kitty endured a hard and loveless life in the poor house, and when she was in her early teens she was sent out as an apprentice to a farmer and his wife at Canna Farm, near Manaton. Now in those days in that part of the world an apprentice was really a polite name for a skivvy, or a maid-of-all-work, who was in reality a badly paid dogsbody.

Kitty Jay's grave, Dartmoor

By this time young Kitty had, however, grown into a pretty girl, and before long she caught the eye of the farmer's son. He seduced her and left her in the  family way. And then, being a bounder, he refused to do the honourable thing. Poor Kitty was thrown out by the farmer and his wife who roundly blamed her, rather than their precious son, for her condition. The name Jay, which she'd been given as a baby in the poor house was, after all, a slang name in those parts for a prostitute. Kitty desperately didn't want to return in disgrace to the joyless existence of the poor house, but she realised that as a fallen woman no other respectable family would take her in and give her employment. Seeing no way out of her predicament she hung herself in one of the barns at Canna.

Back in Kitty's day it was regarded as a serious sin to take your own life, and the folk thereabouts feared the restless soul of the suicide. It was forbidden by Church law to bury her body in consecrated ground, so it is understood that they buried her at the cross-roads in the dead of night, believing that her tormented soul would be disorientated should it return to haunt the living. Oftentimes they also drove a stake through the suicide's heart at the time of burial to hold them in their grave for good measure.

It was said that the pixies attended to Kitty's grave, looking after her final resting place through all eternity by way of some small compensation for the miserable life she'd led. For many years fresh flowers appeared mysteriously every day on the grave. I have to say that every time I've visited there have only been plastic flowers, but before my time there appears to have been a mystery mourner who tended her grave.

On moonlit nights travellers have reported seeing a cloaked figure kneeling over the grave with its face buried in its hands. Given its great hooded cloak no one could tell for certain whether it was male or female, but the rumour grew that it was the spirit of the feckless boy who'd betrayed Kitty's trust and been sent to stand vigil at her grave by way of penance for how he'd wronged her.

Years ago someone opened the grave and found human remains, which were duly reinterred. Given the site of the burial it seems overwhelmingly likely that the deceased was indeed a suicide. Admittedly no one can say for sure whether the remains were really those of Kitty Jay, but if they were I hope that she's resting in peace and that she has some sense in the afterlife of how her story has touched so many people who come to pay their respects at her grave. Kitty's no longer an unloved nobody: these days she's a proper Dartmoor legend.

All the best,

Bonny x

As shared on the Alphabet Project

The Mid Devon Show

Last Saturday morning we all piled into the jeep and set off for the Mid Devon Show. Now I have to confess that I love county shows; I guess deep down I'm still a country girl at heart. There were three generations of us on board: my husband and me, Emi, and my parents and we were all pretty excited about our big day out.

In country circles the local show is one of the high points of the year. I have happy memories of my grandma and my mum entering their Victoria Sandwich Cakes, jams and flower arrangements at our own local Clogher Valley Show back in Ulster. One of my father's cousins still goes along with her best Aberdeen Angus cows every year.

And the Mid Devon Show certainly didn't disappoint. It was brilliant. The sun shone, the cider flowed and everyone had a ball.

The boys made a beeline for the tractors. We're not in the market for a new tractor, but they just like to tyre-kick. I can't say I blame them; some of the modern tractors are such leviathans. Just look how tall the small front wheel of this monster is: Emi could fit comfortably under the mudguard.

But then I guess they've always been keen on bigging up the horsepower for work around the farm.  Just look at this fine chap, all decked out and ready for action:

It must have taken a day and a half to get him brushed and cleaned and into his finery. And I'd really rather not have the job of polishing all his horse brasses.

My father remembers having a gentle giant like this on my grandfather's farm. Back in Ulster each small-holder would have kept a dray horse, and then at ploughing time they did a horse-share with their neighbour, bringing their horse to the neighbour's farm to make up a pair to pull the plough.

There were lots of other horses on display as well. I was particularly taken with the carriage driving competition.

I especially liked the old London rag and bone wagon with its wonderful prancing horse, and the bucket on behind to pick up the poop to bring home for the roses.

I also admired this very elegant lady in her carriage with a groom on behind to open the gates as she drove along.

Emi and his dad were much more in awe of the stunt motor bike riders. I watched them with bated breath, thinking all the while about how one miscalculation could cost them their lives.

I much preferred the relaxed domesticity of the fowl enclosure. For many a long while I've hankered after a few chooks of my own that I could keep in the back garden, but the thriving London fox population and my gypsy lifestyle have held me back from getting any. Don't you think Mr Rooster and his hen are just about the most handsome couple in the chicken coop?

Or how about a couple of crested ducks? They'd be sure to prettify any duck pond that they graced with their presence.

There were any number of exotic, pristine birds, many of whom were for sale - so very tempting ... .

Then we went to take a look at the cattle enclosure. Now I have to say that I'm a really big fan of the moo cows. Those big bulls are the top animals in any farmyard so far as I'm concerned. Maybe it's my Irish background, and all the old stories from the Táin about Queen Maeve of Connacht's attempt to capture the great Brown Bull of Cooley to match her husband's White Bull of Connacht and her battle with Conchobar mac Nessa, King of Ulster, and his champion warrior Cú Chulainn. Whatever the way of it the bull is my undisputed king of the farmyard for whom I have total respect.

Now who would pick a fight with this majestic Limousin bull? Isn't he amazing?

Or how about this wonderful Angus bull? He seemed to be eye-balling me when I dared to take his photo. He's not a lad to be messed with, that's for sure.

I love the little Dexters who come originally from County Cork. Aren't they the sweetest little fellas?

Or how about the Red Devon? What a beautiful family: Mr and Mrs out for the day with junior in tow.

At the risk of being very boring I could spend all day showing you photos of my favourite cows, but how about those lovely calves that were led out by the children?

This sweet little girl was only 8, and she led her beef calf into the arena like a total pro.

This little girl was a very grown-up 10. You could tell that she'd been doing this for a few years.

And this handsome young farmer-of-the-future was a canny 12.

They were all amazing, and I'm sure their parents were really proud of how well they all performed.

After the amazing cattle Emi decided that he'd have a go on the bucking bronco. Everything went well ... for a while.

He won a rosette, which Maxi wore proudly for the rest of the day.

And then we went to have a look at the WI flower arranging, just to change the tempo and shake things up a bit. And being country ladies they used country props for their arrangements. Check out the bailor:

Inside they had a selection of amazing competition winners. This was the best Victoria Sandwich cake.

And here are the winning entries from the flower arrangement competitions:

Next we took a quick turn in the bunny tent, where lots of very cute noses were twitching nervously at a very excited Maxi,who had never met a rabbit before. We decided not to hang around too long in case he out-stayed his welcome.

We left him outside with the boys who wanted to take another turn around the tractors and went to check out the goats and the pigs.

It was really hot down with the pigs, who were suffering just to stay alive in the heat. But the rather grand dame below looked like she could have been cast as the Empress from Blandings - or, well, she could have been if she'd been a black Berkshire.

The goats, on the other hand, seemed to be coping just fine with the hot weather.

And this little chap actively wanted a chat with us. He came right over and bleated on for several minutes about whatever was on his mind.

Outside Emi had a go at a few rural pursuits. Here he is working hard on a handle for someone's scythe.

There were lots of wonderful country crafts on display from bee-keeping to Honiton lace-making, ironwork and knitting to field work with hunting dogs. Sadly the ferret racing was called off owing to the heat, which was a shame as I was especially looking forward to that one.

As you've probably gathered we had a brilliant time. There was something to entertain all three generations. These shows have a timeless formula, which is a real winner. If you'd like to have a great day out, see the animals and get a window into country living, they're the real deal. There are a raft of them taking place up and down the country over the remainder of the summer. You can find the calendar for forthcoming events here: Country Shows.

All the best for now,


Bonny x