tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10783570113971579192024-03-27T16:53:14.371-07:00Justine PicardieJustine Picardiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16957669049699860596noreply@blogger.comBlogger395125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1078357011397157919.post-5072995199203883212014-01-01T10:17:00.001-08:002014-01-01T10:17:09.560-08:00New Year's Day<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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So much has happened in the last year: the first anniversary of my second marriage; the monthly deadlines and daily decisions at work; and, in the week before Christmas, leaving a much-loved family house, after over a decade living there. As it happens (and doesn't it so often happen this way?), the builders hadn't finished the house we were supposed to be moving into, and so I put all the furniture into storage, and departed Crouch End with eight suitcases, in a sudden flood of tears.<br />
Since then, I have been hither and thither, until arriving in the Highlands for Christmas and the New Year, whereupon there has been feverish activity (unpacking suitcases, wrapping presents, last minute shopping in Ballater, and the discovery of a wonderful <a href="http://www.deesidebooks.com/">bookshop</a> there, which I highly recommend to anyone with a love of Scottish literature, gardens and history).<br />
And in between these bursts of energy come the inevitable moments of exhaustion, and the occasional yet piercing sense of homesickness. All of which has reminded me this afternoon of Freud's essay, 'The Uncanny', and his quotation therein of the saying, 'Love is homesickness'. In Freud's analysis -- or rather, in my reductive version of his more sophisticated approach -- a man's longing for home might represent a desire to return to his true place of origin, his mother's body. (Intriguingly, the link in Freud's essay between that which is eerie, and yet also uneasily familiar, comes from the German, <i>unheimlich</i> -- meaning uncanny or seemingly supernatural -- and <i>heim</i>, meaning home.)<br />
So where does that leave me, exactly? I have come to love Tillypronie, this house high in the Aberdeenshire hills, surrounded by heather-clad mountains and deep, peat-dark lochs. The first time I came here, in the summer of 2009, I felt an odd -- and yes, almost eerie -- sense of recognition, although perhaps that was because I was already falling in love with the man who brought me here, and who was to become my husband.<br />
Yet the house has always seemed like another woman to me; a maternal guardian, perhaps, to successive generations who love returning here, in every season of the year. All of them have their own memories and childhood associations with the fabric of home; each has a deep and abiding relationship with this peaceful, hidden place. Might that also be true of other houses where I have lived? Certainly, I feel comforted by knowing that my former home in London now belongs to another family with children who will play in the garden, just as mine did in the past; as did those of the previous owner (and doubtless others before them, too).<br />
I'm not quite sure where any of these musings might lead me to on New Year's Day, 2014 -- nowhere in particular, except for the knowledge, as I grow older, that in endings there are also beginnings; and apparently familiar stories can evolve into rather different, unexpected narratives. Here I sit, as winter darkness falls outside, safe within the shelter of ancient walls; where the scent of hyacinths is filling the room. And with that scent comes another remembered fragment -- not Freud, this time, but T.S Eliot:<br />
<i>Frisch weht der Wind <br /> Der Heimat zu, <br /> Mein Irisch Kind, <br /> Wo weilest du? </i> <br />“You gave me hyacinths first a year ago; <br />They called me the hyacinth girl.” <br />—Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden, <br />Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not <br />Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither <br />Living nor dead, and I knew nothing, <br />Looking into the heart of light, the silence. <br />
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The German lines in that passage of The Waste Land come from Wagner's Tristan and Isolde; the translation, so I am told, is: <i>Fresh blows the Wind/ To the homeland./ My Irish child,/ Where are you dwelling? </i>Like Freud's Uncanny, Eliot's Waste Land continues to confound me, with every passing year -- but somehow, both seem resonant on this, the first day of the year, when the past seems as close as the future, and the world keeps turning, even as we look back and yearn for safety, before moving onwards again...<br />
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<br />Justine Picardiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16957669049699860596noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1078357011397157919.post-52186427572096017052013-08-24T11:05:00.000-07:002013-08-26T15:04:55.625-07:00Tillypronie garden opening <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The Tillypronie garden is opening tomorrow afternoon (<a href="http://www.scotlandsgardens.org/gardens/garden/0d202cc7-3093-478c-995b-999801042ad5">Sunday 25th August, from 2 until 5pm</a>), so I'm hoping that the weather forecast is accurate, and that the skies will be clear. The garden is looking lovely: the heather is out, and scented like honey; the herbaceous borders are blooming and the water garden flourishing; while nestled beside the house, lavenders and jasmines are still flowering. Along the lane, wild raspberries are growing, and cornflowers wave between the harebells. Much baking is already underway for the teas (scones, flapjacks, and a great many cakes), and I have been gathering sweet-peas, which are heavenly this year.<br />
Somebody said to me the other day that gardening is the closest thing to play for grownups, and though I'm sure many professional horticulturalists would disagree (any full-time job is hard work), I find it a beguiling mix of being soothing and absorbing. There's something about dead-heading roses or weeding the rockery that clears my mind of the infernal, internal chatter of workaday worries or stress. You can never finish a garden, which is one of the things I love about gardening -- and nature is a good antidote to the idea of control, or completion, or deadlines (in the words of Margaret Atwood, 'gardening is not a rational act'). In the four years that I've been coming to Tillypronie, the garden has taught me that it is futile to plant anything that rabbits and deers find delicious, and that the weather will always outfox us. Instead, I've learned to appreciate the joys of self-sewing plants (foxgloves, forget-me-nots, bluebells), and to bless the rugged rosa rugosa, that survives the hungriest rabbits and the deepest snows. <br />
Anyway, it was a great pleasure to meet so many people at the last garden opening, at the beginning of June -- including the visitors who had been evacuees to the school at Tillypronie during the Second World War -- and I'm looking forward to talking to other visitors soon.Justine Picardiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16957669049699860596noreply@blogger.com31tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1078357011397157919.post-47759232141555490112013-08-14T16:22:00.002-07:002013-08-14T16:22:35.104-07:00E. Nesbit's birthdayGlad to see that google has celebrated E. Nesbit's birthday today with a railway children inspired drawing on the home page -- but sorry that a google elf got her age wrong. She would not have been 89 today, having been born in 1858... Anyway, here's my own<a href="http://justine-picardie.blogspot.co.uk/2008/12/enesbit.html"> tribute </a>to the great writer.<br />
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<br />Justine Picardiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16957669049699860596noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1078357011397157919.post-16793649958366403732013-07-21T12:10:00.001-07:002013-07-27T12:24:49.885-07:00Tillypronie in summer<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Apologies for the long silence; it's mainly down to the demands of my day (and often night) job at Harper's Bazaar (you can read my editor's letter for the August issue <a href="http://www.harpersbazaar.co.uk/fashion/Editors-letter-august-13?click=main_sr">here</a>; Charlotte Bronte fans will, I hope, approve). And then when I did try to write a blog last weekend, I was inexplicably excluded from my own account. Anyway, having spent several frustrating hours attempting to be allowed back in again, here I am, at last.<br />
London life has been busy, busy, busy -- and tremendously hot in the recent heatwave. Not that I'm complaining about the sunshine, after several summers of rain, and such long and icy winters. The city now feels, to me, mostly centred around the world of work -- of rushing to the tube in the mornings; of always being behind on my list of deadlines; of coming home in the evenings, feeling almost too tired to walk. There are great pleasures -- dear family, close friends, the camaraderie of an office, the sense of achievement at completing a huge September issue; excursions to the opera (an amazing evening of Tosca at the Royal Opera House); a memorable outing to Buckingham Palace -- and there are small frustrations. The endless whirr of anxieties that come with editing Bazaar; the buzzing worries in my head about budget and circulation and advertising revenue... and then the moments of exhilaration, with a sense of creativity shared and unexpected successes (our August issue has been the best-selling of the year so far... although the second I write that, I fear that I am tempting the gods, and will be slapped down for even the slightest sign of hubris).<br />
Thank heavens, then, for the solace of Scotland, which offers such gentle peace at weekends. This has been the first summer that I have experienced long spells of sunshine at Tillypronie; previous years have been marked by wind and rain. So I have fallen in love with the place with even more passion... swimming in the cool, peaty water of the loch, then floating quietly, watching the swallows dart just above the surface, seeing their silvery feathers closer than ever before. And the garden has captured my heart entirely... the brave roses, finally emerging with green shoots after the rigours of snow-bound months; the heather, coming into flower again; a bed of self-sown forget-me-nots down beside the pond; the scent of mock-orange blossom and lavender; the bees buzzing amidst foxgloves and daisies; a wild-flower meadow filled with buttercups, cowslips, harebells and cornflowers. Each week, something new comes into bloom; fading petals replaced by fresh buds unfurling. Here, then, is a sense of blessings... of the year turning, quietly, untouched by the hurtling speed of the city. Soon there will be raspberries ripening, and the deepening purple of the heather-clad hills.<br />
And so I give thanks for the high, clear sky, the cry of the curlews, the lapwings as they soar through the mountain air... and the man I love, who brought me here, safe in the heart of the Highlands.<br />
<br />Justine Picardiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16957669049699860596noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1078357011397157919.post-38890267770014385102013-06-01T11:24:00.002-07:002013-06-01T11:26:39.347-07:00Tillypronie garden opening<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The garden is looking lovely in the evening sunlight, before tomorrow's <a href="http://www.scotlandsgardens.org/gardens/garden/0d202cc7-3093-478c-995b-999801042ad5">open afternoon</a> (from 2pm to 5pm, with tea and cakes, as always; all proceeds to <a href="http://www.scotlandsgardens.org/beneficiaries">charity</a>). Such is the lateness of spring that there are still some narcissus in bloom, and the bluebells are coming into flower beneath the rugosa roses. The rhododendrons are already opening, but the azaleas only just beginning to unfurl. The weather forecast is good, and baking well underway. (All my fingers crossed that the skies may stay clear...)<br />
Up here in the Highlands, the curlews are nesting, and oyster catchers are looking quite at home beside the stream. It's so peaceful, yet the world around us is busy, busy... baby birds to be fed (including the swallows beneath the eaves), and a host of young animals on the hillsides. Long days, short nights, and nature hurtling forwards, after that long frozen winter. Does a new season look more glorious with each passing year?<br />
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<br />Justine Picardiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16957669049699860596noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1078357011397157919.post-34032438018442185742013-05-27T05:01:00.002-07:002013-05-27T05:02:56.207-07:00Painting and decorating<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Up at Tillypronie, where the sun is shining at last, we have been dabbling with different paint samples, trying to find the right shade for the morning room (redecoration having been called for after the depredations of a cruel winter). I was determined to find an exact match for the beautifully faded chintz cushions; was their background Wimbourne White or Pointing, or could it be String or Clunch? Yes, we ventured down the Farrow & Ball path -- lured by Slipper Satin and Calamine -- but in the end, settled on Classic Cream, from Homebase House of Colour. (And if you ask me, it's just as subtle as F&B, and much less expensive.)<br />
Meanwhile, I have also been diverted by a picture in the study by Winifred Austen (a painter and engraver of birds and animals), which is a preparation for one of her delicate etchings. She sounds intriguing (you can read a little more about her <a href="http://www.oxforddnb.com/templates/article.jsp?articleid=39493&back=">here</a>); and even the briefest biography suggests the outline of a story worth telling at greater length. One of her teachers at the London County Council School of Arts and Crafts was named Cuthbert Swan; her first commissioned work was in 1898, when she was 22, for E. Nesbit's 'Book of Dogs'; her housekeeper in Suffolk, Mrs Field, was also known as Mouse (oh, and she had an early interest in psychical research). <br />
Much more to report -- including a trip to Braemar Castle, on the trail of a former editor of Harper's Bazaar; but first must quickly get outside for a walk in the heather, before returning south to London and the working week again...Justine Picardiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16957669049699860596noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1078357011397157919.post-57355772464509741872013-04-21T14:48:00.000-07:002013-04-21T14:57:42.633-07:00Magnolia blossoms for Charlotte Bronte's birthday<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Charlotte Bronte was born on this day in 1816, and I thought of her today, while walking in the park. Hampstead Heath is far less windswept and wild than the Yorkshire moors that inspired her, although spring has been a long time coming this year, and the blossom seems far later than usual.<br />
Anyway, I have been trying to write a piece about the brief blooming of magnolias, and the flowering of the Bronte sisters' talent, but every time I have tried to post it, my internet service provider (the inappropriately named Talk Talk) has silenced me (or rather, this blog). Which is probably a useful lesson in the impossibility of making plangent connections between petals and poetry. Better, by far, I have decided, simply to let Emily Bronte's beautiful poem, Love and Friendship, do the talking here...<br />
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Love is like the wild rose-briar;<br />
Friendship like the holly-tree.<br />
The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms,<br />
But which will bloom most constantly?<br />
The wild rose-briar is sweet in spring,<br />
Its summer blossoms scent the air;<br />
Yet wait till winter comes again,<br />
And who will call the wild-briar fair?<br />
Then, scorn the silly rose-wreath now,<br />
And deck thee with the holly’s sheen,<br />
That, when December blights thy brow,<br />
He still may leave thy garland green. <br />
<br />Justine Picardiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16957669049699860596noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1078357011397157919.post-22302375930737342062013-04-01T08:13:00.003-07:002013-04-01T10:19:48.456-07:00Thoughts on a lost dog<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Anybody who follows me on twitter (@JPicardie) will know that we have been searching for Bill since he went missing on Saturday afternoon. I had taken him for a walk -- although that seems the wrong phrase to use, given that it was Bill who taught me about the footpaths around Tillypronie; a loyal companion in the (nearly) four years since I first started coming here. Anyway, as I say, we went on a very familiar route -- down the top drive, cutting through the woods to the bottom drive, and then back up towards the house together. He rarely stayed at my heel, as was often the case -- like many cocker spaniels, Bill went off on his own adventures, chasing the scent of rabbits, disappearing through the snowy undergrowth and then reappearing as if by magic again; never gone for long, never less than joyful, always faithful. I crossed into the garden, and he was still within sight -- albeit on the other side of a fence, in a next door field, running fast, and then he vanished. Bound to run back up to the house, I thought, presuming Bill would be taking the swiftest route to return to his beloved master, my husband. But he was not there, and has not been seen since.<br />
I have retraced my steps so many times since then (and as you can imagine, I feel terribly guilty, as he was lost on my watch). Bill loves (can't yet use the past tense) my husband with every fibre of his body; and they have been the very best of companions for well over a decade. One of the reasons I love Bill is because he loves the man I love, with complete unselfishness; with such dogged devotion that he also accepted me.<br />
So, we walked and called and whistled and looked until after darkness fell on Easter Saturday, and then from dawn, just as the sun rose, on Sunday. The snow is still deep on the ground here in the Highlands, but it is no longer silent; we have heard the cry of birds, and the sheep as they shelter from the icy weather; we have seen the sun rays dazzling in the daylight, and the sky turn bright blue, then fading again, streaked with sunset pink; and then the dusk falling.<br />
Today I went out again, following the path of our Good Friday walk; up through the snow-covered heather, to the hillside that Bill knew so well. We had walked along this track three days ago -- Bill running in front, my husband striding ahead, his footsteps making a path through the snow that I could follow, close behind. Half way along, we reached a stone known as the Laird's seat -- the place where Philip's father used to sit, looking at his favourite view across the mountains. We talked of the past, and of the future; of the trees that Philip's father had planted before his death, and how tall they had grown; of the trees that might need to be felled later this year, and of the planting that we had done, after our wedding here last summer.<br />
Then we continued, along a track I had never taken before -- cutting across the hillside, to avoid the snowdrifts, and back down the house again. Bill had been happy -- just as he always was. This was his land, as much as his master's; this was his territory, where he had grown up...<br />
A lost dog... such a plaintive, sad phrase. We have sought sightings of him, via twitter and email and the local radio station; registered his details with the police and elsewhere. Others have joined the search for Bill -- neighbours who were fond of him, and knew him well.<br />
Now we are in limbo -- still hoping for the best, but fearing the worst. As I have walked, I have seen his paw-prints everywhere; clear in the snow, seeming to offer clues, yet apparently leading nowhere. If we do not see him again, then perhaps he may see us, sensing his master, yet running free as the wind; up on the hill, higher even than the Laird's seat, at the summit, where a cairn was built as a memorial for my husband's father. Up there, it seems closer to heaven; the mountains all around, the moss soft between the heather, the sky high and clear, the curlews calling, the lapwings soaring... just the place for a lost dog to find peace. <br />
<br />Justine Picardiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16957669049699860596noreply@blogger.com30tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1078357011397157919.post-55033260797638579842013-03-29T09:40:00.003-07:002013-03-29T13:04:26.248-07:00Good Friday in the Highlands<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Deep snow-drifts on the hills today, and a beautiful light gleaming through the clouds, with glorious splashes of blue sky. While we walked, the sun was mostly shining, but then came a light scattering of snowflakes, which has grown heavier as the afternoon goes on. All is quiet, and like the beginning of a fairytale; the snow still falling, the silence unbroken.<br />
Inside the house, the hyacinths scent the air, which has reminded me of <a href="http://eliotswasteland.tripod.com/">The Waste Land</a> (and doesn't T.S. Eliot seem appropriate reading on Good Friday?):<br />
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"You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;<br />
They called me the hyacinth girl."<br />
-- Yet when we came back, late, from the hyacinth garden,<br />
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not<br />
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither<br />
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,<br />
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.Justine Picardiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16957669049699860596noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1078357011397157919.post-42140543010026383732013-03-16T06:04:00.001-07:002013-03-16T16:52:08.141-07:00While I was gone...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I am so happy to be back in the Highlands again, after a month of fashion shows and travelling (New York, London, Milan, Paris...) If any of you have been reading Harper's Bazaar, you'll know something of what I have been doing there as the editor (you can read more <a href="http://www.harpersbazaar.co.uk/latest-news/Editors-letter-April-13">here </a>and <a href="http://www.harpersbazaar.co.uk/latest-news/Editors-letter-March-13?click=main_sr">here</a>), and I have finally succumbed to twitter (<a href="https://twitter.com/JPicardie">@JPicardie</a>). But I suppose what might not be apparent in those mediums is all the other, more internal thoughts that have been skittering through my mind. Like: When will the daffodils finally emerge in Tillypronie? Did the mice eat all the crocus bulbs in the garden? Why is it still snowing in March? And where did Louis MacNeice write this poem about snow?<br />
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<i>The room was suddenly rich and the great bay-window was<br />Spawning snow and pink roses against it<br />Soundlessly collateral and incompatible:<br />World is suddener than we fancy it.<br /><br />World is crazier and more of it than we think,<br />Incorrigibly plural. I peel and portion<br />A tangerine and spit the pips and feel<br />The drunkenness of things being various.<br /><br />And the fire flames with a bubbling sound for world<br />Is more spiteful and gay than one supposes -<br />On the tongue on the eyes on the ears in the palms of one's hands -<br />There is more than glass between the snow and the huge roses.</i> <br />
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Is that not a wonderful poem? In the room where I am writing, there are no roses, but a bowl of sweet-scented blue hyacinths. The snow outside is silent, but I am going to light a fire, and curl up in front of it with the dog and my beloved...<br />
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<br />Justine Picardiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16957669049699860596noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1078357011397157919.post-74619165848888927702013-02-13T18:35:00.002-08:002013-02-13T18:35:41.431-08:00Snowmen...I've been in New York since Sunday, arriving in the wake of the snowstorm otherwise known as Nemo, with the streets piled high with frozen drifts. The snow has been slowly melting for the last couple of days, slush collapsing in great heaps, although a few snowmen survived at the Lincoln Centre, which is the hub of New York Fashion Week. Anyway, I've been meaning to post these pictures that I took in my local park in north London a couple of weeks ago, during the last heavy snowfall. There's something magical about snowmen -- occasionally eerie, sometimes sad, or wistfully touching, perhaps in their suggestion of otherworldliness... and the knowledge that they will disappear (as we do, too). I love the inventiveness of whoever made the snow-dog, and the snowman in the tree. And since then, I've been thinking about snowmen and fashion; which might sound pretentious, but I hope not... there's no theory or philosophy attached to these thoughts, just bits and pieces, meandering and drifting in the midst of the babble of Fashion Week, about how that which seems frozen is also fragile.<br />
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<br />Justine Picardiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16957669049699860596noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1078357011397157919.post-14852917188709553382013-01-20T15:26:00.002-08:002013-01-20T15:26:36.807-08:00The February issue<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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In a flurry of packing for a trip to Paris tomorrow, to see the couture shows, but crossing my fingers that I get there. Eurostar has just cancelled my train in the morning -- snow on snow on snow -- so I'm hoping to squeeze onto the next one, because it would be very sad to miss Dior couture. Meanwhile, here is the <a href="http://www.harpersbazaar.co.uk/magazine/">February issue</a>; hope you enjoy it... (and if you do, please <a href="http://www.harpersbazaar.co.uk/magazine/">consider subscribing</a>; though I know some of my lovely blogosphere friends have already done so, for which many thanks!).Justine Picardiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16957669049699860596noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1078357011397157919.post-46684402350576131222013-01-07T17:37:00.004-08:002013-01-09T14:56:44.819-08:00Hawks and the Little Owl in Manhattan<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I'm just about to board a flight home to London from New York, but just had to post about the wondrous sight of red-tailed hawks from our room at the Pierre hotel, overlooking Central Park. The picture at the top comes from a website devoted to the Manhattan hawks (named after <a href="http://palemale-store.stores.yahoo.net/">Pale Male</a>, the original founder of this extraordinary urban colony), and until I saw the hawks for myself, at dawn on Saturday morning, I'd never known of their existence. Since then, I've been watching them from my eyrie at the Pierre, in between meetings at the Hearst Tower (although that's another story; first, I feel I need to read more about Citizen Hearst Himself).<br />
Oops, flight has just been announced, so had better rush, but before I go, I must also mention the loveliest downtown restaurant, the Little Owl, of which more later...<br />
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Apologies for the abrupt departure; home again in London now, and drooping somewhat with jet-lag and a long day at the office. Anyway, back to <a href="http://thelittleowlnyc.com/">the Little Owl</a>, a Greenwich Village neighbourhood restaurant that serves the most delicious food, in an atmosphere of friendly good cheer. I went a couple of years ago, and wondered if it could be as good again on this trip, but it was... so I'm already looking forward to a return visit next month during New York Fashion Week. (Roasted cod with squash risotto or crispy chicken with lemon, sherry and dijon? Yum yum...) Which may be why I've suddenly been overcome with a craving for chocolate, but there is none in the house, so will have to make do with Horlicks instead. Night night.<br />
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<br />Justine Picardiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16957669049699860596noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1078357011397157919.post-77562968550026315172012-12-27T03:59:00.002-08:002012-12-27T04:00:50.785-08:00Happy Christmas<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The skies have been blue over Tillypronie, and a pale frost hard on the ground. Today there is the lightest dusting of snow, like icing sugar, but the dark earth is still visible below. Yesterday I walked down to the river, which runs deep and swift, filled with last week's torrents of rain; and then to the frozen loch, where last summer's lilies lie beneath the ice, their leaves motionless, as if held in time like Sleeping Beauty in a glass casket; and in the garden the berries are bright as a fairy tale...<br />
Up here in the hills, it is good to feel one's small place in a vast landscape; to feel a true sense of perspective, where mountains are so much greater than ourselves.Justine Picardiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16957669049699860596noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1078357011397157919.post-4302730963598826212012-12-16T07:13:00.001-08:002012-12-16T07:13:49.214-08:00A Christmas nativity at Migvie<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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There's nothing like a carol concert to make you feel Christmas-y, and yesterday was one of the best; the children from Logie Coldstone school came up the icy path to Migvie church to sing and dance and make merry. It's six months since we got married there, when the long summer days made December nights seem very distant; and the weeks have sped along too quickly since then, turning all at once into dark midwinter. But inside the church, there was much good cheer, with a warm message from the minister who married us (lovely Mr Ribbons), followed by mince pies, Scottish shortbread, and mulled winter Pimms for the grownups.<br />
I'm now contemplating the return to London, and the rush to finish the March issue before Christmas Eve. Meanwhile, here's a link to the online piece I wrote for Bazaar about <a href="http://www.harpersbazaar.co.uk/fashion/catwalk/chanel-prefall-scotland-review-051212">the Chanel show in Edinburgh </a>earlier this month. Justine Picardiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16957669049699860596noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1078357011397157919.post-14680082236994716102012-12-02T11:35:00.001-08:002012-12-02T11:35:33.570-08:00The January issue of Harper's Bazaar...... is out tomorrow. It feels scary, as well as exciting, like having the first draft of a new book published... which I hope you might find intriguing, as an insight into developing ideas. Regular readers of this blog may very well recognize themes and motifs from previous preoccupations and pieces of work (Chanel, Vreeland, Dior, et al; the landscape of art and fashion, and an exploration of how understanding the past is a way to move forwards). Anyway, here's a peek from <a href="http://www.harpersbazaar.co.uk/latest-news/bazaar-meets-sienna-miller-january-cover-2013-281112">behind the scenes of the cover shoot</a>. And there's lots more inside the magazine, including a Titian detective story by Hannah Rothschild, and a wonderful memoir by Tanya Gold. Please do let me know what you think...<br />
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<br />Justine Picardiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16957669049699860596noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1078357011397157919.post-16616383173467526342012-11-18T10:28:00.002-08:002012-11-18T10:45:35.814-08:00Today we walked up to Alexandra Palace<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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A sunny Sunday, and my son and I set off to admire the view over the city, all the way south to the Kent hills. On the way home, we bought fresh fish at the Farmer's Market, a bunch of green parsley, and a good handful of courgettes (a recipe for a happy Sunday evening: supper then Homeland = bliss). In the afternoon, I swept autumn leaves from the garden and planted dozens of bulbs. The squirrels will eat some, inevitably, but I'm hoping that the alliums will survive and flourish next spring...Justine Picardiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16957669049699860596noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1078357011397157919.post-5800323749315730462012-11-11T08:43:00.002-08:002012-11-11T16:36:52.216-08:00Remembrance Sunday<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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A beautiful autumn Sunday in the Highlands, where the leaves have not yet fallen from the trees, and the heather is still in bloom, as are the last roses in the garden. To Logie Coldstone for a Remembrance Sunday service, where there were soldiers from the Second World War, alongside several returning from Afghanistan. Very humbling... and then so touching to hear the silence broken by the sound of the bagpipes, playing a lament entitled <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rfsasAlICo8">Flowers of the Forest</a>.<br />
Yesterday, we were talking about the whys and wherefores of poppies growing in a wild flower meadow at Tillypronie, and the mystery of how they seed in some places, but not others. All of which has reminded me to re-read John McCrae's famous poem, In Flanders Fields, <a href="http://www.greatwar.co.uk/poems/john-mccrae-in-flanders-fields-inspiration.htm">written in May 1915</a>.<br />
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In Flanders fields the poppies blow<br />
Between the crosses, row on row,<br />
That mark our place; and in the sky<br />
The larks, still bravely singing, fly<br />
Scarce heard amid the guns below.<br />
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We are the Dead. Short days ago<br />
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,<br />
Loved and were loved, and now we lie<br />
In Flanders fields...<br />
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<br />Justine Picardiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16957669049699860596noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1078357011397157919.post-75921119497531396092012-10-24T16:14:00.000-07:002012-10-24T16:36:54.597-07:00Please forgive me while I was gone...I am so sorry for the long absence, but have been in a whirlwind of work at Harper's Bazaar, going to bed too late and getting up horribly early; though all the while -- usually at 4 in the morning -- thinking, <i>I must update my blog!</i> I haven't forgotten you -- in fact, I often think to myself, what would Kairu and Enid like to read in Bazaar? Or Lilac in May, or Jaywalker, or the Scrivener, and everyone else whose taste and ideas have been so important to these pages. <br />
Meanwhile, I escaped to Tillypronie last weekend, where the garden is looking so beautiful this season -- the autumnal leaves and heathers are gorgeous to behold... and there is even a splash of blue amongst the scarlet and golden palette. <br />
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<br />Justine Picardiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16957669049699860596noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1078357011397157919.post-264227337165525932012-10-06T13:38:00.000-07:002012-10-07T15:30:25.645-07:00Snaps: Paris Fashion Week<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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J-Lo Front Row at Valentino: the great man himself in conversation with herself.<br />
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Bedazzled at Louis Vuitton: short and sharp, yet also sweet.<br />
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Chanel on a vast scale at the Grand Palais: a triumphantly confident show, against a backdrop of white windmills.<br />
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<br />Justine Picardiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16957669049699860596noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1078357011397157919.post-46273353660905475002012-10-06T13:27:00.003-07:002012-10-06T13:27:38.334-07:00Liberty LondonI was scurrying from the tube yesterday to the Bazaar office, feeling rushed and slightly over-wrought after delays on the Victoria line and a claustrophobic tube carriage, when I looked up from the grey pavement to the blue sky, and noticed a golden ship on top of Liberty... All these years of living in London, and I'd never seen that beautiful boat before.<br />
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Justine Picardiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16957669049699860596noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1078357011397157919.post-69441174315136667652012-09-13T14:48:00.000-07:002012-09-13T14:48:07.576-07:00New job, new office...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Day four at Harper's Bazaar, and a whirlwind of ideas, emails, phone calls, appointments, meetings, and the pleasure of being part of a team. My new office is filled with the scent of beautiful flowers from very sweet people, and a glorious bunch of silver balloons sent by Stella McCartney, which reminds me of Diana Vreeland... ('Why don't you tie an enormous bunch of silver balloons on the foot of your child's bed on Christmas Eve?'). Thank you Stella, thank you everyone... and here's to future flights of imagination.<br />
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<br />Justine Picardiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16957669049699860596noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1078357011397157919.post-43829032921942759072012-09-09T11:59:00.002-07:002012-09-09T11:59:18.068-07:00David Downton and his Masters of Fashion IllustrationAllow me to introduce you to <a href="http://www.daviddownton.com/">David Downton</a>, artist in residence at Claridges (lucky, lucky man -- although well-deserved), and a wonderful fashion illustrator. I've been a long-term fan of his work, and very much recommend his <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Masters-Fashion-Illustration-David-Downton/dp/1856698394/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1347216262&sr=1-2">new book</a>.<br />
Last month we had tea together at his v.chic suite in Claridges, and here's the piece I've just written about him (and the great illustrators he so admires) for the <a href="http://fashion.telegraph.co.uk/columns/justine-picardie/TMG9519830/David-Downton-on-the-magic-of-putting-pen-and-ink-to-paper.html">Sunday Telegraph</a>, or you can read it below...<br />
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">‘What can fashion
illustration do that photography can’t?’ asks David Downton; a question that he
is more qualified than most to answer, given his reputation as one of the best
contemporary illustrators at work today; and now the author of a handsome new book
which includes a portfolio of his own work, alongside that of his favourite artists
from the past. ‘It can tell an alternative story in fashion, and hold a mirror
up to the times.’ </span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Downton himself has
drawn everyone from Dita Von Teese to Cate Blanchett, and covered fashion shows
since his first commission to illustrate Paris couture in July 1996; but
despite his privileged position in the front row and backstage (and an enviable
role as artist-in-residence at Claridges), he is working in an era where
photography has tended to push illustrations out of glossy magazines. Gone are
the days when Harper’s Bazaar or Vogue featured the most creative of artists on
their front covers: </span><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Verdana; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Erté, for example, (born
Romain de Tirtoff in St Petersburg in 1892), who contributed original fashion
illustrations to Bazaar from 1915 to 1936. As Downton observes, Erté’s Bazaar
covers ‘are masterpieces of Art Deco design’, and his singular vision the
catalyst for fashion in its broadest sense, from Paul Poiret’s couture to Ballets
Russes costumes. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Verdana; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The broad sweep of
Downton’s choice of artists in his book (‘Masters of Fashion Illustration’) is
an indication of the genre’s capacity for innovation and ambition. Here are
Giovanni Boldini’s bravura portraits of the Belle Époque, including his painting
of a darkly glamorous Marchesa Casati in a Poiret gown; and Boldini’s natural
successor, Etienne Drian, who was introduced to the pages of Harper’s Bazar in
1921 (the magazine’s second ‘a’ was not added until 1929), thereafter sketching
the Duchess of Windsor, amongst other society beauties. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Verdana; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Equally striking were the
images produced for Vogue in the 1930s by Carl Erickson, universally known as
Eric, who recorded what Downton describes as ‘the theatre of high fashion – the
Paris collections, a Broadway opening, or cocktails at the Ritz – with an
effortless ease and assurance.’ At its most daring, Eric’s work inhabits a
similar territory to art – the remarkable economy of line in a May 1935 cover
for Vogue has echoes of Matisse – and always retained its charm, even after his
descent into alcoholism. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Verdana; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">But it was the arrival of
Carmel Snow as editor at Harper’s Bazaar in 1933 that provided a wider canvas
for illustrators; she commissioned Jean Cocteau, Christian Berard, and Marcel </span><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Vertès, a Hungarian artist
who also collaborated with Elsa Schiaparelli, designing her striking perfume
bottles and advertising. When Snow appointed the modernist graphic designer
Alexey Brodovitch as art director of Bazaar in 1934, the magazine became ever more
ambitious; soon afterwards introducing the surrealist work of Salvador Dali.
(His first feature, entitled ‘Imaginative Suggestions for This Summer in
Florida’, included drawings of evening gowns made of coral and roses.)</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Not that Harper’s Bazaar had the monopoly on a golden age of
illustration, as Downton’s compilation makes abundantly clear. Consider Bernard
Blossac’s work for Jacques Fath and Christian Dior (‘no one ever painted the
curve of a woman’s back with such languid grace’, says Downton, admiringly),
and also for the French magazine, L’Officiel, where Blossac’s sketches recorded
the comings and goings of fashionable Paris with a deftly elegant toch. Then
there was Tom Keogh’s brilliantly colourful illustrations for French Vogue in
the late Forties and early Fifties, with his iridescent palette of citrus
yellow, vivid orange, emerald green, shocking pink, that look no less airily
modern now than they did at the time.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">But for all their élan and brio, the work of fashion illustrators was
soon to be squeezed out by the predominance of a new generation of
photographers – led by Richard Avedon and Irving Penn – as the publishers of
Vogue and Bazaar noted that news stand sales tended to increase when a
photograph, rather than a drawing, ran on the front cover. Carmel Snow battled
with her legendary proprietor, William Randolph Hearst, to keep illustration in
Harper’s Bazaar (and Vertès continued to contribute some remarkable covers),
but in general, artists were challenged to prove that they could offer something
very different to the potency of photography. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Amongst the most versatile was R</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">ené Bouché, who navigated his
way between advertising and editorial, fashion and reportage, society
portraiture and travel assignments. His status as a Vogue fashion illustrator
remained sufficiently high for him to be accorded a suite at the Crillon when
he was covering the Paris collections, but it is as a portraitist that Downton
most admires Bouché; particularly for the ‘lightening veracity’ of his charcoal
sketches of Marella Agnelli, Jacqueline Kennedy, and Marlene Dietrich. The
latter rated Bouché’s portrait so highly that she used it to advertise her
concert appearances until her retirement; evidence, perhaps, of the graceful appeal
of a line drawing, over and above the harsher eye of a camera. As Downton
remarks, ‘I love the fact that one of the most photographed women of the 20<sup>th</sup>
century should choose to be represented by an illustration.’</span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">He also focuses on the work of Kenneth Paul Block, a
forty-year veteran at Women’s Wear Daily (on staff as an illustrator until
1992), as expressive in black and white newsprint as glossy colour, and more compelling
than much of the photographic competition. ‘Compare Block’s gestural, dynamic
view of fashion shows in Paris or New York with the pedestrian catwalk
photography of the time and the difference is telling,’ says Downton. ‘The
photographs give you the detail; Block puts you in the front row.’ He also
celebrates the exuberant work of Antonio Lopez, whose work embodied the spirit
of Sixties pop culture and Op Art, as surely as Rene Gruau defined Dior’s New
Look two decades before; and onwards to Tony Viramontes, whose dynamic
illustrations of Eighties fashion are every bit as evocative of the era as a
song by David Bowie.</span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Finally, to Downton’s contemporary portraits, which possess
the grace often lacking from overly manipulated modern photography. Like all
the best masters of this curiously hybrid genre, his work prompts yet another
question: is it true art or mere illustration? Certainly, he is able to capture
the very essence of fashion – so often regarded as the most elusive of art
forms – and as such deserves to stand the test of time in an otherwise
ephemeral age.</span></div>
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Justine Picardiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16957669049699860596noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1078357011397157919.post-49850960676744589972012-09-02T06:59:00.000-07:002012-09-02T06:59:22.214-07:00Diana Vreeland<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwQhpg9BiH3u8G-6IpRWRx3iHefqwn1jJLlfam_AwuwsljPdXAATfqTvI78Clk5FmHLNGy5QcBfncligAOGhiq5aLceJ-DI0bpdEcWFRyWiZ4FDjwccD6-hnJ_S5MfD52-5sY7Bv4LtQQ/s1600/dv2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwQhpg9BiH3u8G-6IpRWRx3iHefqwn1jJLlfam_AwuwsljPdXAATfqTvI78Clk5FmHLNGy5QcBfncligAOGhiq5aLceJ-DI0bpdEcWFRyWiZ4FDjwccD6-hnJ_S5MfD52-5sY7Bv4LtQQ/s320/dv2.jpg" width="258" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnObGz74vrrFAc4JjxDyKkK5k1JKKl54DM-38qwbBP4kOhqHVnGlmgjPmIJreAzBVdMzpuxqnhzZ8HMaUAkPcfcOecLHN0h3gbheT7p3NBKCaUM2sWrHzI8iSZE3DIBkuQYV9K8djNF8U/s1600/diana-vreeland---the-eye-has-to-travel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnObGz74vrrFAc4JjxDyKkK5k1JKKl54DM-38qwbBP4kOhqHVnGlmgjPmIJreAzBVdMzpuxqnhzZ8HMaUAkPcfcOecLHN0h3gbheT7p3NBKCaUM2sWrHzI8iSZE3DIBkuQYV9K8djNF8U/s320/diana-vreeland---the-eye-has-to-travel.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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I've been immersed in all things <a href="http://www.dianavreeland.com/">Vreeland</a>, as you might imagine, with my new job (though actually, she is a long-time heroine of mine, as regular blog readers will know). This month sees the release of a wonderful new film about her, that I do recommend, by Lisa Immordino Vreeland -- 'The Eye Has To Travel' (and I also urge anyone interested in fashion to read Lisa's book of the same name). Meanwhile, here is a piece that I wrote for today's <a href="http://fashion.telegraph.co.uk/columns/justine-picardie/TMG9503968/Scarlet-woman-the-legendary-editor-Diana-Vreeland.html">Sunday Telegraph...</a> Justine Picardiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16957669049699860596noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1078357011397157919.post-57649408261557682692012-08-25T11:59:00.002-07:002012-08-25T11:59:25.290-07:00Tillypronie garden openingMuch preparation here for tomorrow's garden opening at Tillypronie: cakes being baked, signs gathered, paths raked, grass mown, borders weeded. The hedgerows are looking particularly lovely, filled with wild flowers that have blossomed in the last couple of days, and the roses are blooming, just in time (they've been later than usual this summer, after a rainy June).<br />
Meanwhile, we went to the <a href="http://www.lonach.org/">Lonach Gathering and Games</a> today, to cheer the marchers and pipers and drummers and dancers and the terrifically strong men who toss cabers and hammers from one side of the ring to the other. This is the fourth time that I've watched the clansmen marching in, and they seem to become even more stirring each year. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMIaNo7tOVaQbKnykWja_pCrrehUdLBLbTDgOGP-i7sXet34vP7jhExAd8AVNH0cmD_pFXggfNNnbVvW86eNzOWkDurKScJ7SsX-peWcHMurPhyphenhyphenHywfenHkztJsAJ0r-xEZxaA1dfE7_w/s1600/photo+copy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMIaNo7tOVaQbKnykWja_pCrrehUdLBLbTDgOGP-i7sXet34vP7jhExAd8AVNH0cmD_pFXggfNNnbVvW86eNzOWkDurKScJ7SsX-peWcHMurPhyphenhyphenHywfenHkztJsAJ0r-xEZxaA1dfE7_w/s320/photo+copy.JPG" width="239" /></a></div>
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<span id="goog_1377698818"></span><span id="goog_1377698819"></span><br />Justine Picardiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16957669049699860596noreply@blogger.com8