Potatoes of hope

Right now, we have both friends and family members in hospital. It takes a lot to cheer me up. But my school friend Jennie managed it. With potatoes.  

Jennie had come by a sack of very large potatoes (a long and elaborate tale in itself).

Having finally gained the potatoes, she felt their dimensions recommended them for a more interesting destiny than the pot. She would play a prank on her elderly friend Viv. 

She took her mother and Viv out to lunch. Then during the meal, slipped away back to Viv's house. 

Jennie went round the back to the conservatory and from her capacious handbag took several of the massive potatoes. But they were now transformed. Using a kids' craft kit, Jennie had given them little faces and arms. 

She ranged them on the ledge around the outside of Viv's conservatory, as if peering in the window. 

However, it was a blustery day and they blew right over.

She rearranged them. They blew over again. 

Finally she had all the potato people in place. 

She stepped back to admire her handiwork. 

 And fell five feet off Viv's patio. The drop was long enough for her to imagine dying. 

However, her guardian angel was on the alert that day and she fell neatly into the arms of a garden recliner chair.  Bruises there were aplenty, but breakages none.

At this point many would have given up, but Jen limped back up the steps to the house. The potatoes had fallen over again. 

Instead, Jennie placed them looking in through Viv's porch window. 

I would love to say that hilarity ensued. But in fact Viv failed to notice the potatoes looking in at her.

The following day, Jennie had to ring up and drop increasingly unsubtle hints to get Viv to spot her veggie-visitors. 

Finally, Viv saw them: 'Ha, ha, ha, ha!'

And for Jennie, that was enough. 

Mission accomplished. 

Beware the split-level patio

Carolyn and David travelled from the North East, Nigel and I from the South East, and we met up in the Peak District. As usual the agenda for the weekend was long walks, pubs, a bit of culture and a trawl of charity shops.

However, this time our attention was grabbed by the landlord of our accommodation.

Carolyn had very kindly made the booking, and soon began to receive very long emails with detailed instructions for the house.  Amid the many paragraphs were concealed vital information like the postcode, keycode and wifi password.  It was like a very inconvenient wordsearch puzzle.

When we entered the (very pleasant) house, the folder which was left out for visitors did not disappoint.

There was a lengthy screed on how to raise and lower the (perfectly normal) blinds.

The patio was on two levels and there was a whole page about not tripping or falling down the four-inch-high step, and outside, an outsize yellow traffic cone to mark the hazard.

The section on using the wood-burning stove was positively Dickensian in its detail.

After all this, I saw Nigel hesitating in the hallway, a frown on his face.

‘Anything the matter?’

‘Yes.  I couldn’t find the instructions for how to walk up the stairs.’

 

patioed out

In Andalusia, houses tend to arrange themselves around little courtyards, rather than next to a garden. These patios/courtyards were open to the sky, provided light wells and ventilation and insulated the inhabitants from the heat, noise and dust of the street. In the Arab tradition, it also allowed domesticity to remain private.

In one day we visited over twenty patios. In the morning we took part in an open patios scheme where a single ticket admitted us to the houses of eight people, and, accidentally, one man who wasn't part of the scheme but said we could take a look anyway. 

Each patio would contain a well and a large trough with washboard for doing the laundry. And every inch of wall was filled with pots of geraniums, clivia, herbs and ferns.

In the afternoon we promenaded the twelve patios of the Palacio Viana.  Geometric and ornate, these were parterres centred on fountains and framed by topiary.

Both kinds of patio filled us with admiration, each in their own way.

But then Tamara sent a pic of our own patio at home, heavy rain pinging off pots of herbs which had barely started to grow yet.

And even despite the contrast, it made me feel a little homesick.  Which is probably a good thing.

Not a proper patio

When I hear the word 'patio' I picture the paved area in our backyard.  Essentially it is hardstanding for our picnic table and pots of herbs.

I was therefore intrigued to hear that Seville had especially beautiful patios. Just what did that mean?  Did they perhaps have integral barbecues? Or a discreet pebble fountain au Titchmarsh?

What I found was that here a patio is a whole courtyard, fragrant with jasmine or orange trees, brightened by tiles with geometric designs (azulejos) and centered on a rippling fountain.

Andalusia was under Moorish control until the twelfth century. Even after that, the Spaniards were reluctant to relinquish the very beautiful architectural style (Mudejar), one of the things which had attracted Nigel to this area. 

To plunge through the crowded narrow streets and then come on one of these outdoor sitting rooms is to encounter an oasis.  Here, people take a moment to read a book or play with their children.

The thing however that did link these Seville patios to our own was the presence of doves. We have never visited a city where there were so many white doves, and it made it feel like home. 

Even if there was no integral barbecue.