MISS ELAINEOUS VISITS TRESCO ABBEY GARDENS...

Don't leave the Isles of Scilly without visiting Tresco Abbey Gardens- it really is something extremely special.

💜💙💛💚

Tresco is the second largest of the five inhabited isles of the Isles of Scilly, and is leased from the Duchy of Cornwall by the Dorrien-Smith family, who run it primarily as a holiday resort.

I've also created a You Tube vlog about the island, link:-

https://youtu.be/LyU9wlwhZkE

We took our 10.15am boat from St Mary's (the largest island in the archipelago, and our base for the week) and were deposited at New Grimsby Quay, and told we would be picked up at Carn Near Quay, which is to the south of the island.  That was actually very convenient- the choice of quays (there are three in total- Old Grimsby Quay is on the other side of the island) is dependent on the tides, and Tresco Abbey Gardens sits right in between our two quays.

New Grimsby Quay, overlooking New Grimsby Sound.

Our walk took us past these stone monuments- the variety of scenery is the result of deformation till deposits occurring after the last ice age; 115,000-11,700 years ago.

We couldn't help but notice that the temperature appeared to be 10° warmer than it had been on St Mary's...

...This is the effect of the Gulf Stream, which creates a frost free environment, and the fact that Tresco is tucked in between St Martin's and Bryher, and therefore sheltered.

The Great Pool is one of two lakes on the island, and the geography definitely changes from rocky, to sparse, to fecund...

The island is car-free and is easy to walk, being only two-and-a-half miles long by one mile wide.

What looks like some kind of drainage grate or irrigation system...

Tresco was definitely the most verdant of the islands we visited...

Tresco Abbey, and we weren't allowed to wander in here as the Dorrien-Smiths still reside here.

The garden was created early in the 19th century by Augustus Smith, after he had taken over the lease of the islands in 1834.  A man of independent means, he realised that the fantastic climate leant itself to the growing of an exotic garden that wouldn't be able to flourish on the British mainland.

It has been in the hands of this same family for five generations, with each generation making its contribution; be that corresponding with other influential gardeners from places such as Kew, or regeneration after events like the disastrous great storms of 1987 and 1990.

Abbey Pool...

The Valhalla Museum sits alongside the gardens and was purpose built in 1870 to house the collection of figureheads from the many wrecks around the islands.

Standing on the entrance bridge watching red squirrels feed.  Red squirrels were introduced to the island in 2012.

Red squirrels are much rarer than grey.  We saw evidence of many of the latter in the Morrab Gardens, Penzance.

They are not easy to photograph when they are darting around a tree trunk!😁

During our second visit to the gardens our little friends seemed much more abundant!

From this angle on the incline you can hardly see the Shell House, hidden behind this ornamental fountain.

A closer view and she looks quite serene!

The Shell House was designed by Lucy Dorrien-Smith, wife of Robert Dorrien-Smith, following the devastating great storm of 1987.

The hexagonal building contains native shells...

It brings to mind the shell grottoes in both Margate, Kent and A La Ronde, Exmouth.

Looking down past the Agave Fountain...

Looking through the greenery and out towards the sea...

You could be somewhere other than England, as plants from all over the temperate world feature within this space...

The elephant and fist represent the unusual family crest...

Front view of the little waterfall...

Stunning purple flowers, and this place really is a riot of colour and texture.

Middle Terrace nook...

Gazing up the Neptune Steps, and Neptune has sat here from 1841.

Neptune is actually the figurehead from SS Thames, a steamship wrecked in the area.

Arbour...

Black-eyed Susans forming a carpet in front of part of the Old Abbey, and it is around here that it's believed that Augustus Smith began his first careful planting.

Benedictine monks settled here between 1042 and 1066 and the priory is mentioned in an 1120 charter; at the time of Henry I (r.1100-1135).

This area was inaccessible, but  to the right of the photo is what they call the shelter belt- hardy, salt-tolerant, quick-growing pines which protect the garden from winter gales.

The cube sculpture is by Newlyn-born artist Tom Leaper.

The Old Abbey, with Abbey Hill beyond.

The priory would have been totally abolished during the Dissolution of the Monasteries (1536-41) by Henry VIII.

The Tresco Children bronze sculpture is symbolic of the freedom of the Isles of Scilly, is by David Wynne and was unveiled by Princess Diana in 1991.

The children are Adam, Frances and Michael; the children of Robert and Emma Dorrien-Smith (the owner of Tresco Abbey and his former wife).

We stumbled across the well only on our second visit...

If you enlarge this photo you can see the SuperDean's face peering down into its depths...

😀

Giant trees and beautiful lawns made for a lovely place to sit awhile...

Vegetable Garden, with some massive pumpkins popping up at the back...

Chickens tucked away beneath fruit bushes...

The Roman Altar was originally found on the Garrison on St Mary's in the 1860s.  The bowl on the top was added during Victorian times.

The Ancient Stone Seat...

We headed over to the Valhalla Museum- an open air collection of figureheads taken from shipwrecks.

The bronze gun is from the 1707 wreck of the Association.

Here we have an inquisitive SuperDean inspecting it!

This former cresset (a metal container used for illumination and containing lit oil, grease, coal or wood) was used at St Agnes Lighthouse.

Augustus Smith developed his collection of figureheads, which first sat on the Abbey terrace...

Figureheads are decorative carvings which sit on on the bows of ships.

The chap in the black jacket to the right is from the Palinurus, which was wrecked off St Martin's in 1848.  All of the 17-strong crew drowned.

Their meaning is unclear, but the fact that these come from wrecks is a sad reminder of lives lost, and the power of the sea.

There are 28 figureheads here, and they date from the latter half of the nineteenth century...

The colourful "segment" in the middle was my favourite...

The figureheads are both beautiful and evocative.

The lady with the green sash is the figurehead from the Serca, wrecked off St Mary's in 1893.

These beautiful, tropical flowers with heavy petals are called aeonium arboreum 'zwartkop' (the word means black head, in Dutch).  We also had little friends on our table outside the café.💜

Little birds fly around both inside and out all over the Isles of Scilly (there was one hopping around the indoor part of this café, and I saw more in the waiting room at St Mary's quay.)  I've no idea what they are- some species of sparrow, tit or martin, maybe?

Looking up through the Mediterranean Garden to the Shell House...

The Agave Fountain sculpture is another piece by Tom Leaper...

Gaia, Mother Earth is another David Wynne sculpture, and dates from 1990.

I loved the way lichen has taken over this seat...

Walking across the airfield and heliport...

About 150 people permanently live on Tresco, although that raises in the summer due to seasonal staff.

Looking out over the rugged-yet-picturesque vista...

Carn Near Quay slipway with St Martin's over the water...

Tresco Abbey Gardens, you were wonderful and I shall return...

Until then...

TTFN

The Miss Elaineous

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THE SECRETS BETWEEN US by JUDITH LENNOX

 THE SECRETS BETWEEN US

BY JUDITH LENNOX

THE BLURB:-

It's Christmas 1937 when Rowan and Thea travel from London to Scotland to visit their dying father. Having lost their mother in a tragic sailing accident when they were young, the sisters are accustomed to grief. But they have no idea that their father's death will expose a terrible deception...

For back in London is his wife Sophie and their two sons. Neither family knows of the other's existence, and when news reaches Sophie of her husband's death her whole world is turned upside down.

Meanwhile, Rowan's marriage is crumbling, and Thea reluctantly finds herself drawn into an act of betrayal. But, with the onslaught of World War II, their lives change forever and they must confront the secrets between them before they can seize their chance of happiness...

THE REALITY:-

This was a slow burner for me, but one that clearly touched me as I don't feel ready to part with it just yet, so it will remain in my bookcase for a while. I think it's because it's partially set in the remote islands of western Scotland, and I read it at a time just before and just after I was in the Isles of Scilly (I didn't have much time to read when I was there!), so could relate to the remoteness; the contrast in landscapes; the ancient history and the menhirs.

Judith Lennox has touched on some of the themes displayed here before; such as a bigamist husband and a mysterious father appearing right at the end. I've mentioned this before about her work, and that is, if you've written as many novels as she has then you're bound to repeat some storylines. But... In a way it's a shame. I'm sure she could think up something new... I did kind of work out that the book should end with Thea reuniting with her natural father, but did wonder when it was actually going to happen- seven pages before the end is the answer to that question. The novel did seem to wander a bit, so it was a bit of a relief to finally reach some kind of conclusion, and not be left hanging.

As with all family sagas, we go through many different social ages and explore different aspects of changing relationships and people falling in and out of love with one another. I enjoyed reading about all of the characters in this story, and found the one I related to the most was Thea; what with her love of history and dissatisfaction with life as a homemaker. Rowan was the most glamorous though, and it's good that she, like every other character was well-rounded, and had to endure her fair share of sadness and toil. I adored the passion of Sigrid and her love of brutal nature (which contributed to her death) and also loved the way different landscapes regarding sections of the UK were described.

A great read, but it did seem a bit without direction as you progressed- maybe Lorcan (Thea's father) could have been introduced earlier?

THE BLOODHEAD TRAIL

YES, YES, YES, YES, YES!!!!! 

My story, entitled The Bloodhead Trail, has won the Anansi Archive Spring 2022 Short Fiction Competition!

Here's my proudly displayed certificate of excellence...

😁

The story describes a girl's close relationship with the other family outcast that is her grandmother; a woman who's had an interesting life which included four husbands.

Here it is, and I hope you like it.

THE BLOODHEAD TRAIL

It was prophetic, calling their bald afterthought Ruby simply because they liked the name. She began sprouting wavy vermilion hair, and her mousy-haired mother would turn to her similar-hued husband and exclaim: 'She's not like us, is she?'

She wasn't. One massive bone of contention was Ruby's family's sporting prowess. Her father pulled on his trainers for a daily jog in all weathers, playing tennis frequently. Her mother attended aerobics and gymnastics, and frequently boasted of how she'd been chosen for the town sports in her youth, a feat both Ruby's brothers (also rodent-haired and quite a bit older than her) achieved each year. But Ruby was hopeless at sport. Unable to throw, catch or hit a ball (she'd never even tried kicking one) she was slung out of P.E. at school for being useless, and came last in all her races on sports day, even when she tried. Sundays were awful. They'd cycle out as a family to the local field (another bone of contention- Ruby took over three years to learn how to balance atop her bicycle; a feat her brothers had achieved in a matter of weeks) to play games which Ruby would inevitably ruin, what with her propensity to automatically wallop a ball away if it was thrown at her to catch (although it was pot luck as to whether she'd manage to achieve hitting it). Their yearly holiday camp sojourn was the worst. Her father would sign the whole clan up for activities like quad biking, volleyball or badminton, resulting in crochety wailing from a reluctant Ruby, usually scabbed and bruised from whatever she'd managed to fail at the day before. But here she stuck her heels in. She wanted to attend the art workshop and was damned if she was going to let these idiots stop her in favour of an hour falling over on roller skates, kicking up such a stink when they told her no that they had to reverse their decision. Her brothers (who were really now too old for family excursions) scowled and allowed their differences to grate. 'Bloodhead,' they insulted Ruby, throwing the ball at her head as she sat down to make a daisy chain, stubbornly interrupting their game. But Ruby smiled as she rubbed her skull, liking the moniker.

Ruby wasn't just a lover of drawing. Her dad had an old pictorial atlas- one with countries she knew were now re-named, such as Ceylon, Persia and Rhodesia- and she spent hours examining it, tracing her fingers over exotic photos of the Sahara Desert, wondering what it was like to live there. As she got older she imagined herself like Scheherazade; riding barefoot across undulating sands on a camel, veiled and mysterious, or wandering into the pyramids then sailing down the Nile like a cursed heiress from an Agatha Christie plot.

They frequently visited her mother's extended family on their council estate, but there was a family member they rarely saw. 'Been married four times!' Judgemental Barbara shook her head; cocooned within her backward morals.

Once she was cycling, Ruby's father took her to the outskirts of town to meet her paternal granny for his duty visit. Ruby found this statuesque, patrician woman fascinating. Her granny always wore black- often a severe dress, although trousers when tending her garden- but still drove; her little white Mini Metro parked alongside her cute, picture-postcard cottage. Local folklore dictated that she was a witch; a reputation which no doubt sprang from her ownership of a black cat, a rustic broom and a cauldron for cooking her fragrant, self-grown vegetable soups. She had titian hair as well; although hers now had huge white streaks running through it, like road lines.

By the age of eleven independent Ruby frequently took off to see her granny, usually finding her outside in the garden which veered down towards the confluence of the rivers, intrigued as to why her parents hardly ever saw her.

'Call me Gwen. Short for Gwendolyne. Granny makes me sound old!' she insisted, in plummy vowels unlike her mother's but similar in tone to her father's.

'Doesn't that name come from Guinevere?' Ruby said, always eager to impress adults with her superior knowledge. Pretentious, her mother had labelled her, but Gwen laughed and raised a pencilled eyebrow, rather liking the rebellious nature of this little outcast.

'Drinkie?' Gwen possessed a huge physical globe on a stand, which had attracted Ruby's attention from the offset. She stared in amazement as Gwen manoeuvred the lid to reveal a myriad of bottles nestled inside, like soldiers. She nodded, getting the impression that it was not orange squash she was being offered, and Gwen poured, squinting and adding a few drips of something which turned the concoction pink.

Ruby sipped her gin and tonic, the crisp alcohol giving her a lovely, soft fuzzy head. 'Mum and Dad don't drink. Ever.'

Gwen scowled, exasperated. 'That's Boring Barbara's influence.' Then she looked contrite. 'I'm sorry. I know she's your mother. But she's so... modulated. She could have represented her country in gymnastics- freestyle, floor acrobatics. But did she? No, because she thought it best to leave school and work in a factory shelling peas, like her small-town, narrow-minded family wanted.'

'It's where Mum and Dad met.'

'Humph. I know.' Gwen slotted a pastel coloured cigarette into a holder, lighting it with a chunky pewter lighter. 'All that money wasted on a private education for him to work as a bookkeeper. In a factory. Ambitionless Aubrey. That's what she turned him into.'

Gwen later elaborated, smirking ironically as Ruby shared her ambitions of travelling. 'I didn't want children, you know,' she gave Ruby a concentrated stare.

Ruby reddened, but she was well-read enough to understand and preened, inordinately pleased that Gwen saw her fit to confide in.

'There were ways and means, even back in the thirties. I used the Dutch cap. Until my first husband-' Gwen never mentioned him by name '-found it and beat me. I wasn't going to put up with that so I left him, much to the scandal of my family, who temporarily disowned me. Come,' she took Ruby up neat spiral stairs, pulling open a heavy wardrobe on the landing, presenting a glittering rainbow of dresses, feather boas and heels; clearly old-fashioned but extremely well-preserved. Gwen laughed, and for a second the timbre of her voice took on a high-pitched nuance, like that of a much younger woman as she recited the designers of her clothing. 'Vionnet. Paquin. Schiaparelli. Coco Chanel. I rented a flat with another girl and took a job as a nightclub singer, travelling up to London on the Tube- we're at the end of the line, as you know. I sometimes stayed out all night...' she winked at Ruby, who got the gist and grinned conspiratorially. 'Then...' she looked wistful, 'the war started. I remarried- of course it was lust. My contraception failed, I had your father. He never met his father- he died fighting. Well, I drove ambulances, for the ATS,' she shrugged. 'By then Mama was widowed and she looked after Aubrey.'

At home Ruby's frequent visits were questioned outright, so she raised the issue in Gwen's refreshingly light and modern sitting room, prompting her to elaborate. 'They said I'm after your money...'

'Ha! Gwen said, walking outside and passing a trowel over to Ruby. 'They think I'm loaded, coming from the upper class- impoverished though it was.'

'They reckon you've got more jewels than the Queen...'

Later, when they'd finished planting and rinsed the pungent smell of rosemary off their hands, Gwen padded upstairs and returned holding a thick photo album, continuing the conversation. 'They're stupid. How d'you think I paid for Aubrey's upbringing? His education? How do you think I paid for this place? I sold 'em.'

'They said it was your fourth husband's house, and that you married him for it.' Ruby smiled, vaguely remembering kind Ted, who'd continually sucked on Murray mints; removing a half-eaten sweet and secreting it in his handkerchief whenever he was called to the dinner table.

Gwen shook her head sadly. 'Rot! It's always been my house, and I married him for companionship.'

'They reckon you've buried all your jewellery in your garden...'

Gwen laughed incredulously. 'One day they caught me unawares, burying my furs. 'I came to realise that killing animals for their coats is wrong, so I started wearing fake. And I thought the dead animals deserved a proper burial so I buried 'em outside, in the same way I buried Winston, Queenie and Tabitha.' Ruby refrained from referring to the chewy roast beef sandwiches they'd devoured for lunch, but as if on cue Tiberius came up for a snuggle, rubbing his soft fur against Ruby's legs.

'They said they're going to dig up the garden once they inherit your cottage...'

'Good luck to them!' Ruby never mentioned what was discussed at the cottage with her parents, although they mined her for information.

'They say you like...' Ruby was unsure how to word this, '...men of colour.'

Gwen's eyes grew wistful and she turned sharply. 'Saĩd,' her voice was very low. 'They mean Saĩd. The true love of my life.'

Gwen then flapped her arms, surprising Ruby by asking her to leave; something she'd not done before. Although stung by the rejection, on the way home Ruby rolled the foreign name around her tongue, for effect. Saĩd...

It was some months before Gwen talked about her love again. 'It was not his real name. And, like Heathcliff, he tended to use only the one name serving as both Christian and surname.' She quizzed Ruby,' Do you know what an Emir is?'

Ruby shook her head so Gwen told her. 'It means prince. Saĩd was a Saudi Arabian prince.'

Ruby was obviously impressed, but noted how Gwen's whole demeanour became guarded as she embarked upon this subject. 'He had to leave after the territorial merger of 1932. There were problems with family affiliations,' Gwen said carefully, picking at unseen cottons hanging from her dress, 'so his mother granted him access to their bank vaults. He cleared it of money and jewellery and left. I met him at the end of the war- I still popped down to London whenever I could. I remember him just sitting alone in a jazz bar, exhaling cigarette rings into the air like a magician.' She looked at Ruby intensely. 'I can't explain how I felt that first time we locked eyes- it was like spiralling down into a vortex. It'd never happened before and it's never, ever happened since,' Gwen said candidly. 'We were married five weeks later.' She winked at Ruby. 'Of course, it didn't hurt that he was devastatingly, hypnotically attractive but yes, he was an Arab. He was a “man of colour” as your mother so succinctly puts it. He'd claimed asylum here and had returned his debt to the British government by undertaking very important top secret work during the war. But he couldn't tell me about it, or his previous name, so I remained ignorant of the details. But I did know that he was Saudi royalty. As do Boring Barbara and Ambitionless Aubrey. Or, maybe I should rename him Avaricious Aubrey. We put Aubrey in,' she smiled thinly, 'a very expensive boarding school and set about travelling the world. First class.'

Gwen filled in the details in stages over the years, always referring to her special, leather-bound photo album.' 'The best twelve years of my life.' Each time she pointed a square fingernail at a photo- rough, gardener's hands, that didn't seem to go with her beautifully made-up face and her classic perfume. 'We resided in hotels, mostly, when we weren't on cruise ships. Every time we ran out of money, Saĩd would call his contact in London. A piece of jewellery would be sent. I'd wear it then we'd sell it, using the proceeds on which to live.

'Buenos Aires, and we stayed at the Governor's house...' Gwen jabbed at a lovely photo taken by a cerulean blue pool. She was wearing an amethyst tiara.

'Barbados, and we stayed at the Chancellor's home...' This time Gwen was in some kind of tropical garden, decorated in elaborate diamond and pearl earrings.

'New York, and we stayed at the Algonquin...' Gwen said, as Ruby viewed a lovely photo of a happy Gwen sitting by a bookcase, showing off a stunning sapphire necklace.

'Hong Kong, and we rented an apartment for a year...' Gwen was in an emerald choker, her earrings reaching her shoulders.

'Sydney. Before the days of the opera house...' Gwen was photographed wearing what looked like a mesh of moonstones set in a complex neck confection.

'Delhi. Then down to Kandy...' Photos of yet more diamonds and deliquescent aquamarines shone out at Ruby. She could understand why her parents might get covetous, and said so. She was not averse to finery herself, having developed a rather eclectic, teenage way way of dressing.

'I'm thinking about becoming an archaeologist.'

'Then you'll want to visit Egypt. I did- I insisted.' Gwen pulled out another photo, and this time she was bedecked in a pearl tiara with colossal cluster earrings. 'But that's when Saĩd started to get ill. I've always felt guilty...' Gwen rubbed her forehead (she seemed to flag easily these days) shooing Ruby away, and the conversation was aborted until their next meeting.

'I think it was passing up the Red Sea. He knew he could never return to Saudi Arabia. If he had his mother would have been killed, and that thought destroyed him inside. Then they had all that Suez Canal business going on, so we had to backtrack. I've stood on all six continents, you know,' Gwen changed the subject. 'Do your mother and father know I've definitely sold the jewellery- have you told them?'

'No.' Ruby rather liked imagining them digging furiously in the garden, like dogs seeking out a previously-secreted bone.

'Good girl.'

'After that we sailed down to Zanzibar. Then we moved on. We docked in Cape Town, but weren't allowed to disembark; there was an outbreak of yellow fever on-board. But the authorities did put on a boxing match for our entertainment on the Victoria and Alfred Waterfront. Then we sailed around the bulge and into Morocco. By then most of the money had run out. Saĩd knew he was dying- lung cancer- he smoked those wretched Senior Service cigarettes. Not just the odd Sobranie Cocktail, like me.' As if on cue, Gwen coughed and lighted one of these, positioning it in her holder. 'He gave me the permissions to his safe deposit box. He died on a horrid, muggy June day, in our apartment. I had him cremated and scattered the ashes into the Strait of Gibraltar as I took passage.'

Gwen showed Ruby a photo of her wearing her favourite necklace; a series of small rubies in a fantastic gold mesh, with a central star and teardrop strands hanging down. 'Bloodhead, he called me. He loved the way this necklace matched me.'

Ruby was incredulous. 'That's what my brothers used to call me! It was meant as an insult, but I actually quite like it...'

'From Saĩd's lips it was a compliment. I haven't parted with that one necklace. 'Of course, I made my way up through Europe, but it was such a blur. I couldn't see the countries for my teardrops. I loved him so much... I was so very numb...' Gwen ticked them off on her fingertips; 'South of France, Italy, Portugal. Even pretty Holland; one blur. I busied myself caring for my dying mama, lived with Aubrey for a while before he went to university- waste of money that was- and married Ted.'

Somewhere along the line Ruby's plans changed. She still wanted to travel, but now wanted to be a cartographer. 'Mum and Dad want me to work in a factory, like my brothers. And get married and have kids. But I don't want that.'

'Wise choice,' Gwen said.

Gwen's drinks cabinet was starting to look as faded as her, so Ruby designed a new map, which Gwen had transformed into a new globe bar. She died just before Ruby graduated. 'Promise me you'll do what you have to do...' she kept reiterating in the hospice, which Ruby found odd.

Her parents were relieved when they took ownership of the cottage; glad that it hadn't gone to their whipper-snapper daughter. They set about digging up the garden, and Ruby imagined Gwen laughing at them from beyond her grave. 'That garden floods- I doubt even my pets' skeletons are left!'

Ruby inherited Gwen's globe and her clothing. 'I haven't parted with that one necklace,' Gwen had said, and it was right under her parents' noses. She made a decision and contacted the V&A Museum; there was going to be a small exhibition telling Gwen's story and including her personal artefacts. 'Promise me you'll do what you have to do...' Ruby didn't know if she could ever part with her globe, but she did know that she now had the means to get on with her life in the way she wanted.

On Gwen's globe bar, overlooked by Ruby's teetotal parents, was her bloodhead trail, mapped out in small, red stones. The little rubies were like spots of blood flowing like pinpricks from a needle, mounted in gold and celebrating Gwen's love journey, the star centrepiece of the necklace now marking the spot where Saĩd had died; the teardrops representing the remaining, broken-hearted steps home. It was all there, hidden in plain sight- the journey her parents knew nothing about as they hadn't bothered to get to know Gwen well enough to understand its significance.

On the exhibition opening evening Ruby gave her speech and viewed the globe, running her fingertips over the cold glass cabinet. She raised her red glass of gin and bitters to the heavens, smiling respectfully.

Copyright©Elaine Rockett

MISS ELAINEOUS VISITS LEIGH-ON-SEA...

It was an odd, yet nice, day when we visited Leigh-on-Sea.  "Mercurial" is the only way to describe the weather, and rain did indeed stop play, so we left earlier than we thought we would.  But we still had a fantastic time, and did everything we wanted to do.

I've also created a YouTube vlog, link:-

https://youtu.be/_I7U4gqqQGs

On arrival the day was both sunny and cloudy, and here we are walking over Belton Bridge.  The town sits on the mudflats of the Thames Estuary, and this is very much an industrial area.

Leigh-on-Sea is commonly referred to simply as Leigh, and has taken part in the fishing industry for nearly 1000 years.  On a daily basis local merchants catch, land, process and trade mainly shellfish and whitebait.

Overlooking the water, and the mass topping the sea to the left of the water is the world's longest pier, in neighbouring Southend.  The mass over to the right is Kent.

Cod, haddock, mackerel, seabass, lobster, crab, shrimps, whelks, mussels and oysters all pass through here, and are on sale in local shops and restaurants.  As a seafood lover, it's such a shame I wasn't in the least bit hungry during my visit!

Walking down into the town, with it's smattering of seaside pubs/ restaurants, with interesting names such as The Crooked Billet.  I thought this made for a pretty picture, and particularly like the green "Old Leigh Buoy."

The water looked quite clear as we hugged the seafront- being careful not to fall in, as not every section had barriers...

On a safer section, looking back the way we'd walked, and there was plenty of evidence that these are still working docks...

...Such as this landing deck looming up out of the water...

Historically, many of the fishing trawlers were bawleys- boomless cutter rigs which were possibly named for having an amidships boiler for cooking shrimp.

I don't think I saw any boats resembling a bawley, but it's hard to tell when the sails haven't been hoisted.  

The Peterboat pub/ restaurant to the left and Alley Dock to the right.

We walked up onto the High Street, which runs parallel to the seafront, and Old Leigh Studios is a commercial art gallery with artists' studios.

These paintings are spectacular, and are by Ian Smith and Sheila Appleton.  Both have shades of Vincent Van Gogh about them... 

It was originally established in 1991 and now houses four artists.  These paintings, and the one in the photo below are by Sheila Appleton, the ceramics by Julie O' Sullivan.  The latter studied at Central St Martins College of Art and Design. 

The studios contain two kilns.  I chatted to one of the artists and he said it was a nightmare trying to work there with the kilns firing away during the recent heatwave!

I popped my head into Sara's Tea Gardens and took this picture because I thought it looked so cute, yet rustic.  I especially love the welly planters!😀

The Coal Hole looks to be some kind of Sea Scouts meeting place.  I took a photo because I liked the name, but there didn't appear to be much going on behind the windows.

This curious stone sits between the two sections of The Coal Hole.  Known locally as The Cundit, it marks the site of the conduit fountain at the head of the spring which gave the old village its water supply.

Leigh Heritage Centre is located in the Old Smithy, and you can see the sign for adjoining Plumbs Cottage, a substantially rebuilt and restored fisherman's cottage.

On this day the centre was closed, but you can make out the historic range, in this picture taken through the window...

Apologies for the quality of these through-the-window shots.  This looks like a recreation of a blacksmith's forge at the back...

By the side of Leigh Heritage Centre, looking through at Plumbs Cottage, and here's a reflected Vain-Old-Tart and a fishy on a dishy...

A tray of mussels at the window of this living area, with the fireplace and dresser visible. 

Kitchen and stairs...

Cottage bedroom...

The floods of 1953 affected this east coast area badly.  This plaque sits on the side wall of the heritage centre.

There seemed to be a lot of construction work happening locally.  I took this photo as I rather liked the appealing skinny house over the way.

This part of the town is known as Old Leigh, or to locals is simply The Old Town.

A "smack" is a traditional fishing boat- not a punch in the head!

The Old Town dates back to the 11th century, gets a mention in the Domesday Book of 1086 and was once the primary shipping route to London; by the 16th century becoming a prosperous port.

Looking down into a slipway...

But by the 1740s the village was in decline as an anchorage, as the deep water access became silted up.

A closer view of this slipway shows the condition of the water here...

Bell Wharf Beach.

Further along to the left is a path called the Lower Walk/ Cinder Path, which takes you behind Essex Yacht Club.

Walking up the slope of the rail bridge, whilst looking down on The Mayflower, which is a fish and chip restaurant/ take away...

Looking down the tracks and over the water towards Southend, and Leigh is considered a commuter town as it's only 40 miles from London, and well-served by the railway.

We headed up to the Broadway, where the modern shops are, and I thought the house to the left was so pretty, what with its roses.  There were serious roadworks going on, which we had to negotiate.

I thought this peach tree, growing around someone's front window, looked really lovely.  My immediate thought was of a Bellini cocktail (champagne and peach puree).  It would be...😉

Leigh Library was completed in 1838, and was once a rectory, although only one quarter of the original building still stands today.  It was Grade II listed in 1974.

At this point the skies opened!  But I just put up my umbrella and got on with exploring the shops, of which there's quite an eclectic mix.  Like many towns, in the past 30 years Leigh-on-Sea has seen a change in demographics; with the rise of out-of-town shopping centres and the increase in online shopping.  It has adapted accordingly; sporting galleries, mini-spas, restaurants, cafes and boutiques.  It came across as a tad more pretentious than nearby Southend.

Gypsy Bridge continues in a spiral after crossing the railway line, and connects the town to the beach.  It was still tipping down by the time we'd walked back alongside the beach and through the Old Town, so we decided to head for the railway station.  I didn't take any more photographs as it simply wasn't practical; I don't have enough hands and certainly not enough coordination to wangle an umbrella and a camera simultaneously and successfully. 

I'll leave you with this thought, from fashionista Karl Lagerfeld and seen in a dressmaker's shop that day.

I couldn't agree more with this sentiment.  The only correct time to wear sportswear is when working out- that and at no time otherwise.

💓

You can see a reflected Vain-Old-Tart- who doesn't wear jeans and t-shirts, and who's never even owned a pair of sweatpants (urgh!)

It's also interesting that I chose to wear my crown necklace- which I hadn't worn for some time- on this particular day, and its significance was not lost on me...

On the way home I remember looking at my watch (which is a few minutes fast) and it said twenty to three.  Later that day it was announced that the Queen had died.  The deep, dark web mentions that she died of bone cancer (it wouldn't surprise me- her recent malady certainly seems to point that way), and actually passed away at 2.37pm that day.  I have to say, you can pinpoint her deterioration in health as from the time her beloved Prince Philip died.

I've always been a royalist- republicans are colourless and boring.  My favourite monarch ever is Charles II, otherwise known as "The Merry Monarch."  He had the best hairstyle, too!  Yes, I know it was a wig and yes, I know I'm biased- I've been told that if I was a dog (no comments please😉) then I'd be a King Charles Spaniel.

King Charles II.

Rest in peace, Queen Elizabeth II, our beautiful queen.

You will be missed.

💜

TTFN

The Miss Elaineous

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BURNING BRIGHT by HELEN DUNMORE

 BURNING BRIGHT

BY

 HELEN DUNMORE

THE BLURB:-

Nadine, a sixteen-year-old runaway new to London, is set up in a decaying Georgian house by her Finnish lover, Kai. Slowly, she begins to suspect that Kai's plans for her have little to do with love.

'Be careful,; warns Enid, the elderly sitting tenant in the house, who knows all about survival and secrets. And when Nadine discovers Kai's true intentions, Enid's warning takes on a terrible and prophetic quality.

THE REALITY:-

It was the second time around for me with this one. I first read it when I was a student living above an Irish pub in north London, off sick from work back in 1996, when it came free with a magazine (Cosmo, I think?) and it kind of stuck with me. There is another Helen Dunmore I've read- Mourning Ruby; the terrible tale of a child who died. That book went off on tangents, including circus performances, and that also features in this novel, so I'm wondering (as I always do when an author repeats subjects) if that person has personal experience of that?

Enough of the speculating. This book is incredibly strangely written; a combination of first person, second person and third person dialogue within the same chapter, although it seems to work and it looks like different character's viewpoints are divided by chapter. I also noticed lots of repetitions of words/ phrases within paragraphs. Towards the end, when (spoiler alert!) Nadine's in Finland the process does delve into a stream-of-consciousness approach (this was actually where I put the book down and got bored with it, skipping to the end the first time around) but if you persevere it does work in both shaping the character and describing the remote, rural surroundings.

This book has been described as "nasty" in reviews, as it delves into the subject of a vulnerable girl being groomed for prostitution. Another reviewer questioned whether Nadine's parents would really leave her and move abroad to concentrate on their disabled younger daughter, who has to go to a special centre. Sadly, I can find that all too true, being the family outcast (or so it felt) who was also not living at home at 16, and with a (mentally) disabled (older) sibling, whose needs always seemed to take presidence over mine. As for predatory men on the make then yes, they abound and I've seen how they can take advantage of vulnerable young women.

It was obvious that (another spoiler alert!) Paul Parrett is Enid's son, who she had put up for adoption, although that's not confirmed in the novel (we also never really find out what happens to Kai, but in the end it's only Nadine and Enid, who develop a touching friendship, who seem to matter anyway- others are merely bystanders.)

But the best, most heartfelt sections were those that dealt with Enid's past, her affair with Sukey and Caro's (big spoiler alert!) murdering of Sukey. Manchester Ladies and the cottage where Sukey met her end really touched me, and this novel was an interesting study of both class (Sukey and Caro were from the upper echelon) and love affairs between women. This is a book that gets under your skin and stays with you.