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Posts Tagged ‘bosky’

It has came to my attention that some of my fans are becoming rather too interested in the Marmers side of things: purrhaps I has bin a bit too generous with allowing his purrson to appear in my blog.

I am remedying this purrlous state of affairs forthwith! Time to redress the balance in favour of the handsomer one of us.

That’s me, just in case you felt like asking, “Who?” and risking a wallop around the chops in the purrocess…

There was a sunny day recently. No really, don’t laugh.

So I thought, why not have a quick wash and brush-up and give the Sun something to smile about.

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at last!
a pond skater
spring’s sprung!
three glass balls
elin isaksson
traps the light
white hellebores, hoods a-glow
nodding in the shade
“we bring light” they seem to say
sky-blue-sky
smiles brightly down on
sky-blue squill
electric lungwort
aahs over mossy paviors
at purple primmy
tiny buddos bursting out
two montanas a-
shinning up the pergola

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‘Hear and attend and listen; for this befell and behappened and became…the wildest of all the wild animals was the Cat. He walked by himself, and all places were alike to him.’ As that very Great of writers, Mr Rudyard Kipling, said.

But…sometimes, what with centuries of domestication and a Purrticular Attachment, you will find a Cat that Walks Together, as it were, oh Dearly Belovèd. And that Cat is me.

One sunny Friday – it may well have been yesterday for all days these days are alike to me – the fpu bethought herself to take the mpu for a short walk along and beside the rushing burn.

‘Nenni,’ said I, ‘I am the Cat that walks by himself, and all places are alike to me. But…I will go all the same.’

I’m not quite sure about this, but I really really want to be with you two…

…but I just need a little reassurance that all will be well in this Strange Place, so I will roll over and expose my fluffy tum.

Feeling a bit more confident with this Not Walking Alone, I flew over the rushy water into the nearest Wet Wild Tree and squeakled madly like one does. The parental units strolled on…

…it takes a moment to fly back out of a Wet Wild Tree, so I got a bit behind…

…but caught up when mpu had a wee sit-down, not for always and always, but for long enough…

…just to reassure him that it was safe beside the rushing burn…

…then we came upon the Bridge Over Rushy Burn and they one to the other said, “He’ll never follow us over the bridge,” so, of course, I did, for I am the Cat That Walks Together and all places are alike to me…

…though by this time I was quite hoping we might be turning back…

“May we purrlease turn back now,” I mewed; politely of course, for I am nothing if not a polite kitty.

And so we did, Dearly Belovèd. We turned back, I waving my wild tail, but not walking by my wild lone, for I am the Cat That Walks Together.

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Look at these poor suffering prisoners! Immured at Cambo House near Crail, their lot in Liff is Hard Labour day in, day out. Their poor snouts are worn to the gristle with digging roots shoots and leaves. Their never-ending task – to clear weed-knotted ground of brambles, dockens, hogweed, creeping buttercup, bishop weed (or ground elder, depending on your foot orientation) and other nasties.

They need your support and sympathy!

Free The Tamworth Two!

mpu is sixty-two

happy birthday mpu

DISCLAIMER: No resemblance between an mpu and a pig is intended or implied in any way whatsoever.

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Exhaustion is settin’ in…my wee paws are tippy-tappied into calluses with all this bloggin’. I think I may be suffering from blogghorrea. If there is a cure, someone tell me quick, or it may be a one-way ticket to Liff for KC!

So, anyway…let me take you down/’cause I’m going to/Falkland in Fife/everything’s real and nothing to get hung about/Falkland in Fife forever…

Scotland’s Garden Scheme – Open Gardens is hastening towards the end of its year, and a jolly good one it has been too, though we had to miss Crail in July because of a Very Special Occasion, involving royal blue silk, red envelopes and cupcakes. Only one or two to go…

Last weekend was Falkland’s turn to open its garden gates for charity  and we managed to visit 10/11 before flagging in the heat.

Nobly avoiding the temptations of the Bruce’s beer garden…

This is how Open Gardens welcome in the visitors (and stop people getting lost) – you get a map too, but don’t for heaven’s sake, let fpu loose with a map. Round, like a circle in a spiral/Like a wheel within a wheel/Never ending or beginning. You get the picture. Mpu gets the map.

My favourite three coincidentally involved resident cats, two happy and one in a bit of a huff, “because people have been bringing dogs into her garden” and quite right too. I know how that feels! Poor Poppy…

This is she and that’s her garden…

Steeply terraced, Poppy’s garden has everything, from a hammock, to a Shady Grove, to a Mediterranean sit-ootery, cleverly made from a ruined cottage.

Then there was Ginger’s garden (I’m awfully sorry that no-one thought to ask Ginger’s name, as usual, I blame the Staff)…there’s ‘Ginger’ posing like a pro…

and this is his (or pussibly, her, though you know what they say about ginger kitties and look at my mate Marmers) outdoor residence…

It’s not real you know. They don’t usually wear shades…

You can see why Ginger was so relaxed – nae Dugs Aloud:-)

Purrobably the most favourite was B&W Kitty’s happy home, as it was so colourful, varied and made such good use of every available nook and cranny. It also supplied endless entertainment for a feline, as you will see…

Henaria Callas gien it laldy

Dinner-dipper, admirably placed to allow cataccess.

Is it edible? Can I muster the henergy to give it a nibble?

Nah, cannie be ersed, I’ll just do ubercute instead.

I may have conflated a couple of gardens in the interests of artistic licence, but never let the truth get in the way of a good story line, I say.

There was a visit to Wormistoune House earlier in the summer, but it missed the bloggin’ boat, so here’s a Slide Show. It may be a bit repetitious in places as I got scunnered with the down/uploading and editing thingie after several eons. Just regard it as moving wallpaper. I know I do…

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That Jeelie, she’s just moitherin‘ me to put her Pride&Joy into my blog again, and it a mere dug too! Well, don’t say I’m not good to you is all. Bloody dugs comin’ in here and takin’ up purrecious space…mutter, mutter, mutt…

So anyway, there he goes, off into Butterfly Heaven, trot-trot-trot, through the Meadowsweet, without a care in the world…

But not for long, because he wants to know what the rest of us are doing (well to be strickly honest like I always am, I wasn’t actually there, but they told me all about it afterwards, like)

“Well come on then,” sez he, “Let’s get a move on – things to see, smells to smell and so on…”

So they did. And so did he…

Sometimes he was just a blur…unless you’d rather blame Her-in-Charge of Catcam, but I wouldn’t if I were you…

Now, me’n’Marmers really really get this bit. This is Interestin’ Smells of Somethin’ or Other. It might be a Woozle…

Then again, it might just be a dug’s mammy and nuncle…

Me’n’Marmers had to stifle a bit of a snortygiggle at this one…poor poor Paddy, hobbled by Sticky Willie! (Paddy’s mammy would like you to know that white bit in the middle is a front paw and not one of those distant memories that some of us have…it’d be quite impurrressive if it was:-)

Freed from bondage, Paddy trots off towards the light and more butterfly clouds…

That without which a walk is but a poor poor thing indeed…

Back in CookieCutterCott and inexplicably attached to mpu’s slippered foot. We purrefer laps ourselves, but it is a dug after all….

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…brought to us by the St Andrews Preservation Trust Limited – Hidden Gardens of St Andrews 2010. The pu’s, accompanied by Ancient Australian Friend, followed the Trust’s map around 11 of 12 gardens on Sunday, in purrfect weather.

No thanks to the Tourist Office, who, having run out of tickets, were unhelpful in the extreme, sending their hapless victims (without clear directions) to one of the gardens (in Guthrie Place) which was not selling tickets; but many thanks to the denizens of the year-round Christmas Shop, who had run out of street maps, but sent our dogged trio to MacGregor’s “Where we get sandwiches at lunchtime”, who had also run out of street maps, but whose very helpful waitress went out into South Street to point out the whereabouts of said Place. On arriving, and discovering lack of ticket availability, a very kind couple gave up one of their maps and Trio got well-ticketed at the Museum…at last!

10/10 to people of St Andrews, 0/10 to paid peeps at Tourism. I hope I have made that very very clear…

So. To start at the St Andrew’s Preservation Trust (I feel a Kate Rusby song coming on) Museum, here we are in the D’Arcy Wentworth Thomson garden, which had tea and biscuits, a plant stall and a book stall, and where AAF found a copy of Rebecca, which she rather wanted to read, in order to refresh her memory after having just finished Susan Hill’s sequel .

There was a Storyteller too, but she was on a break, and there was only a pile of colourful cushions to show where she had been. To be honest, Going Around Gardens isn’t really a Small Person’s Thing…

Onwards to a smallish-but-purrfectly-formed garden, where AAF posed for the camera…

…closely followed by mpu

Now, it has to be said that, for as long as 46 South Street continues to open its deeply secret self to the public once a year, there will never be any dispute as to the winner of The Most Marvelous Secret Garden Ever In The History of Secret Gardens Contest. Entering through the front door of the house, in a busy town street, going through the hall and finding yourself in a really nice garden…

…and thinking that was it, you then walk into another bit…

…which is wild, with mown paths and old fruit trees…

…followed by more cultivation (by which time you think purrhaps you have entered a horticultural Tardis)

…followed by a glorious sitootery with rose-festooned arches and stone paths overflowing with floriferousness

Eventually it was time to leave ‘this long garden dating from the original Mediaeval Town Plan of St Andrews’ to go and admire other smaller delights.

Just look at the utterly purrfect pinkness of these peonies, in a garden recently revitalised under the guidance of Colin MacBeath of Quercus Nursery, a magical plantsman’s paradise luring in the depths of the Rankeillor Estate – where not one single smelly candle, garden gnome, nor any other piece of faffery gets in the way of plants plants plants.

Sorry, got a bit carried away…

Thence to a terraced garden with ponds, fountain and rill…and cascading roses

And, finally, The Burgher Kirk, 136 South Street – another gem of the Preservation Trust and the teeniest garden of them all.

mpu exits onto South Street, almost back where they had begun, footsore and hot, but with a remembered riot of colour to recall when winter’s icy grasp gets us by the short-and-curlies once again…but not yet…

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