Snow Archives | James Alexander-Sinclair

Sunday:
I am off on a trip…
Firstly, it involves a train from Banbury to Heathrow via Hayes and Harlington. Very simple in theory but, as is the way sometimes with the oft laid plans of mice and men, likely to gang aft agley. It is like dominos- one train is ten minutes late so you miss the next train by nine seconds (after a frantic rush across a bridge and a shove through an oncoming crowd ). This means being stranded on an empty platform at Hayes and Harlington for an hour before finally arriving at the airport.

I am going to Moscow to give a seminar nominally entitled Gardening across Continents with the aim to jazz up the world of Russian horticulture. More specifically to talk to them about show gardens, design and planting and also to talk about an exchange we have instigated at Malvern and about which I wrote in my last blog.

Monday:
It is an overnight flight- not long, only about 3.5 hours – in that it leaves at 10:30 (london time) and lands at 5.00 in the morning (Moscow time). I, however, am far to old and set in my ways for this sort of interruption to my routine. I go to the hotel and go straight to bed.

It is cold out there: about minus 10. This raises a few sartorial dilemmas: I emerged into the street all wrapped up like a bear in a duvet. Coats, hats, Horatio’s Garden Alpaca Socks (available here and a perfect Christmas Gift), gloves etc. I walk five steps and get into a car so hot that you could probably roast a duck in the glovebox. I then go to an equally hot office followed by a sweltering restaurant, another car and back to a hotel room where, in my absence, a diligent cleaner had cranked up the radiator. I flung open the window and welcomed as much icy air as possible. Tomorrow I will not be so thermally aware. The restaurant, by the way, was next to the Bolshoi Theatre and involved crab from Kamchatka (a species of red king crab that has a leg span of nearly six feet) and six different sorts of caviar.

Tuesday:

The reason why I am here: I tootle along to the auditorium of the Moscow Museum where there is a milling multitude of assorted interested parties. I am quite happy giving talks of an hour or so but today I am doing four talks of about one and a half hours each plus a two hour Q&A. It is quite tiring – there is a relay of simultaneous interpreters who do a sterling job trying to keep up with me: they change over every twenty minutes to prevent exhaustion. It is interesting as the audience each have a headset into which the interpreter drips a translation of what I am saying but, like an old fashioned transatlantic telephone call, five seconds after I have spoken which means that timing of jokes and frivolities can be a little tricky. You deliver a punchline, pause for reaction and then, just as you are about to give up, a small section of the audience – those who get the joke – laugh politely.

The main purpose of the day was to drum up some entries for the Malvern/Moscow exchange so many participants brought sketches and ideas which continue to flood in – it will be a good thing and you should all come to the RHS Malvern Spring Festival to see what happens.

I have no idea why there is a chicken on the lollipop stall

We retire to a Chinese restaurant where all the waitresses are dressed up as members of the Red Guard which seems like an odd thing to celebrate. They jazz up their khaki uniforms with very red lipstick. The food is delicious and we then troop off to Red Square where there is a bustling Christmas Market and a skating rink – which was sadly barred to us as it had been booked for some spiffy private party for Prada (I think). We posed for many photographs – for that is one of Russia’s favourite national activities and Valenkis (felt snow boots as worn, if I remember rightly, by Solzhenitsyn in “A Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovitch”) were bought for me. The snow is light but the air is a strange dry cold which seems innocuous at first but then gives you a headache and seeps into the bones.
It is fun and I dance with a group of people dressed as Christmassy Cossacks.

Wednesday
And home again – first breakfast in the hotel, an early cab through the appalling Moscow traffic, second breakfast in the Aeroflot Executuve lounge (hmmm.) Third breakfast (strictly speaking an early lunch*) on the aeroplane as we fly through clear skies over miles and miles of snow dusted birch forest. Then an equally fabulous approach to Heathrow all along the river from the Thames barrier. Every landmark is clear and glinting in the sunshine – I can even pick out my mother’s flat.
Then four trains and home again.
The time difference may only be three hours but I feel as if I have been pushed slowly but steadily through a mangle .

I am listening to Slow Movin’ Outlaw by Waylon Jennings.

The picture is of the Bolshoi theatre.

*Russians have a very charming way of saying lunch. ‘Then we will have a lunch…” pronounced larrrnch. Sometimes it is a “friendly larrrnch”.

Come with me, we are off on a jaunt….

Tuesday 5:30am is a thoroughly uncivilised time of day. Unless it is midsummer and one has gone to bed early the night before in which case it has a lot in its favour. On a very cold April morning the prospect is not as attractive.
I am going to the airport, even better I am being driven to the airport by a friendly chap whose name I do not know. This is rather awful especially as it has gone beyond the moment when I can ask him, too much water has flowed beneath the bridge, too much jam has oozed from life’s doughnut to make it easy. He is very good at not saying anything after the first five minutes when initial pleasantries have been exchanged. He drives, I sleep, all is well.

7:30 Heathrow,Terminal 5. As a treat I am flying Business Class (for only the third time in my life which means that it is still exciting, although it also means that I am a complete wuss in the frequent flyers club) so take advantage of all facilities. Executive lounges, free bacon rolls, newspapers etc. I try to look blasé while stuffing shortbread into my pockets.

9:00 I am in one of those head to toe, soixante-Neuf seats with only a steamed glass partition between me and a large Slavic lady with alarmingly manicured nails. I am being offered Halibut with dill and creme fraiche which I do not really think is altogether proper at breakfast time. So I have eschewed it in favour of a croissant.

12:00 (15:00 local time) I am on a train hurtling from Domedovo Airport to Moscow having been whisked from Arrivals by the delightful Sofia. This is a world of dirty snow: huge banks of the stuff piled up wherever it won’t get in the way. In parks, corners of yards, cul de sacs and central reservations. Oddly, however, it is not cold in fact my cautionary thermal vest is proving an inconvenience.

16:00 We get off the train and are collected by a smooth young man with a cab who takes us to see client number one in the offices of her architect. We conduct a meeting where I try and get the facts together while eating biscuits. There are also fairy cakes containing plums, crystallised fruits and chocolate eclairs. Russians are very hospitable.

17:00 Back into the hands of the smooth young man and a struggle through the Moscow traffic past the Kremlin and the Bolshoi theatre to the hotel. This is terribly swish and infinitely better than the concrete block where I thought I was headed. I am on the sixth floor which has its own reception and a lift which is only accessible by those of us with the correct cards. This means that I am safe from the depredations of any lissome Russian girls which is a good thing, at my age one has to limit one’s consumption.

18:00: Another client meeting over dinner in the Vogue cafe. It is still the Orthodox Lent so there is a special menu for the devout. I eat Stroganoff which rather puts me on the opposition team. There are many beautiful girls who, I presume, are very religious as they appear to be undernourished.

Weds breakfast: Assorted fishy things on offer again and alarming Russian sausages that look as if they will burst at any moment so stuffed are their skins.Today is going to be a little hectic,I feel. mind you, all Moscow days are hectic the city seems to run at a ridiculous pace, days flash by without a wasted moment.

10:00: Today I am visiting two gardens for clients, I have worked out that this is not going to be quite as straightforward as it would be at home. I am correct in this supposition in that they are both covered in snow, not the sort of snow to which we are used but the sort of snow into which it is possible disappear up to your thighs at every step. In other places it is three metres deep.

This makes garden assessment a tad tricky. “Yes” say I “I think perhaps a path looping round through that snowdrift, past that snowdrift and probably ending up in an arbour of some sort right there in that snowdrift”. Not exactly exact specifying.

Among other things I have noticed:

Russians and, presumably, Canadians ,Nepalis, Ski instructors and penguins must have amazing balance. Walking on so much snow all the time is quite treacherous, I felt as if I was about to fall on my face all the time. Not exactly the image of the sophisticated international garden designer, spread eagled in a filthy slush pile.

Secondly, in spite of the immense size of the country, Russians like to live right next door to each other. There are lots of new developments carved into the forest around Moscow where houses of many different styles (brick mansions, log cabins, modernist pieds a terre and symphonies of lime coloured stucco and regency stripe) are being built. Many of them really very close to their neighbours so much so that much of my job involves planting barriers, it slightly begs the question; why not spread out a bit? this is not exactly Luxembourg when measured in square yards per person.

Thirdly, Russian officials like to wear very large caps. It is a hangover from the Soviet era when all generals wore caps with crowns that seemed a little out of proportion- like those really big plates you find in restaurants upon which waiters place other, smaller plates. Chargers, I think is the correct term. This applies also to policemen, traffic wardens and (as here) hotel commissionaires.

2:30 I know that by now you will be concerned that I have eaten nothing for a while, fear not at client number two we sat in a shed and drank sweet Russian tea with little biscuits, chocolate thingies wrapped in coloured foil, small cakes and a choice of cherry, apple, orange and grapefruit juices. So, two clients down, we drive back through the slush to Moscow for lunch, at 4:30 in a very delicious Chinese restaurant.

5:30 Then an interview about the Moscow Flower Show then I am whisked off (with seven minutes to change and shower) to the Bolshoi to see La Traviata .

6:30 We go through a private entrance to a box very close to the stage.This was something else, I have never seen Traviata even though I know it well so it was an amazing evening. Proper Imperial lushness, Gold and scarlet walls, ceilings and upholstery all recently refurbished. Wonderful singing, fantastic dancers and guest appearances on stage by a horse, two salukis and some doves.

9:00 Thursday Gorky Park by Metro and the wind off the river is icy cold. Unsurprisingly as there is ice floating down the river, great big chunks of the stuff. We view the area of the park that will, come June, be the show ground. At the moment it is covered in ice and snow. Quite a lot of it.

10:00 A television interview and a chat with a famous Russian actor who is worried about my cold ears so insists that I keep his Roberto Cavalli bobble hat. I feel a little guilty about this as he has less hair than Joe Swift.

11:00 Sushi in a department store and another interview, this time with a rather bemused financial journalist. I try to convince her that business should be excited by the idea of a flower show. She remains bemused.

12:30 Drive to the station, catch the airport express, check in etc. The woman at passport control spends a lot of time comparing my face to my passport. I am not exaggerating look at passport (10 secs), look at me quizzically (15secs), look at passport again (5 secs), hold up passport to compare to face (5 secs). Shrug, stamp, let me go. What does one do in such situations? Smile. Look away? Stare back with love in ones eyes? Sneer? I don’t know. Either I look very much older than I did when the picture was taken or she regarded my mere presence with great suspicion. Thank goodness I have lost my temporary beard or I could be in the cooler.

5:15 On plane, back soon.

The picture is Russia from the air. I am listening to Chillout Tent by The Hold Steady.

So.

End of year and all that. Janus (i) looking back and forwards. Resolutions and Regrets. Choices made and Opportunities lost. Time for a bit of soul searching: learning from the mistakes of 2010 and consolidating plans and ambitions for the Twelvemonth yet to come.

Or not. I think that would just depress some, delight others and bore the majority. And distress me unnecessarily.

What else? Christmas already and, if you needed actual proof, the Three Men Went to Mow festive offering is here for your mild delight. Another one filmed at Kew Gardens.

[youtube clip_id=”O2GP3XxJbKg”]

As everybody I have encountered recently has but one main topic of conversation viz. Snow: I feel that I should fall in step with the majority. The A43 has been pretty dreadful but everything looks very pretty….

Enough about the snow. No matter how much falls here we will always get outdone by Canadians so there is not much point trying to compete.

This picture is my contribution to the growing canon of Blog published snow shots. It is interesting how very similar they look to other snow pictures that I have taken on previous occasions. Sue said the same thing about frost. I have about 25,000 photographs on my computer. Most of them are completely pointless but I never seem to find the time to do anything but the most elementary editing. I suppose it is the inevitable side effect of digital photography. When I was younger (stop yawning at the back) it was drummed into me that pictures should not be wasted. Every shot on the 12 picture roll of my 126 Instamatic was precious: not surprising as the cost of developing six pictures of a very distant seagull sitting on an indistinguishable bit of field was considerable. If one balances money against artistic achievement.Today it is wonderful to be able to take 200 pictures of something in the hope that at least one of them will be good. Except that I still end up with 199 bad pictures cluttering up my hard disk.

The thing about snow (and I know I promised not to go on about it but bear with me a moment….) is that is rather stops things happening. I know that is quite an obvious statement but it is true. I have a couple of thousand bulbs loafing around the barn waiting to be planted. And some roses. And we need to get some trees in and a couple of other clients are inaccessible except by tractor. And everybody wants it all done by Christmas.

And it is not going to happen.

But the other interesting thing is by about now people (and I include myself in that group) realise that it doesn’t actually have to be done by Christmas. It will be fine if done in January. Or February. Everybody becomes much more relaxed. And bonhomie takes the place of panic.

I thought I would supplement the Three Men thing with a short film of my daughter dancing in the snow for those discerning folk who have had quite enough of Joe, Cleve and I swanning about.

So…. Happy Christmas to you all. Thank you for reading, commenting, participating in and supporting this Blog over the past year. I will endeavour to keep on providing drivel and elementary gardening for the discerning reader. Whether you want me to or not.

I am listening to Brownsville Girl by Bob Dylan.

The picture is of a slightly bewildered snowbound hen.

(1) Janus and hence to January. The Roman God of gates, doorways and time. A busy fellow all things considered. Especially as, having two heads (one forwards and one backwards facing) he has twice as much beard maintenance, eyebrow shaping and tooth brushing to deal with.

After all the hurly-burly of last week’s Blog I am feeling rather wan and exhausted. One of the nice things about WordPress is that I can reply individually to each comment although this becomes rather time consuming and exhausting when a brawl breaks out in the comments layer. Still, it seems impolite not to reply – especially to new people who have emerged from the shadows. Thank you all for your contributions.

I have seen various important people over the last week or so: firstly I had lunch with Sue Biggs the Director General of the RHS. A deux. In James Rudoni’s office at Wisley . I had a delightful time discussing all sorts of things about the RHS while eating slabs of rather weighty quiche and small round chocolate cakes. Also on offer were oranges cut into quarters: rather like those which used to be on offer at half-time during football matches. I don’t know if they are still standard fare or if today’s players prefer a bag of monster munch and some intimate massage: anyway, neither of us could work out an elegant way of eating them so they were left untouched.

I have also been to visit the offices of Somethin’ Else who make Gardeners Question Time. I like a fizzy office especially one with a pool table and table football. It reminds me of Thirtysomething which some of you might remember. It was a late Eighties television series about rather perfect couples with young children and exciting jobs: this was a time when we had a very small baby and were permanently exhausted.. The blokes worked in an advertising agency with a basketball net into which they potted (i) balls while having creative thoughts. I had a mad crush on Mel Harris who played a character called Hope. Unlike them this office also had a roof garden with fine (though cold) views and a selection of containers bearing the fading vestiges of sweetcorn and other things. Apparently the pumpkins were removed as it was considered a health and safety issue to have large vegetables teetering on ledges six storeys above the street.

The frost (ii) has, as I am sure you have noticed, spectacular. It was minus 10c here on Monday and the only way to sit at my desk was by wearing a velveteen Turkish skullcap, a large scarf, many layers of thermal underwear, two fleeces, a travel rug and a pair of luxuriantly cashmere socks. The alternative was to jog around the house stopping occasionally for a strenuous press-up or two or to go out. We went to the cinema at one point because we were so cold (iii) and at one point I went and sat in my car because it has heated seats and my buttocks needed thawing. The countryside and garden looked delicious and I, like many others, spent time tootling around taking photographs like this. My sympathies go out to Andrea Jones (photographer de luxe) who spent the night with some truckers on the M8. It was doubtlessly quite tough on the truckers as well.

I feel I must warn you about the January crop of garden magazines. House and Garden features the first instalment of the Top Twenty Garden Designers (about which I wrote here and Nigel Colborn went all ranty: which is always gratifying to the rest of us). It consists of a rather nice group picture and then a (I think) deeply unflattering individual picture of me looking as if I have just emerged from a chilly evening spent marinading in a deep pool of lemon juice. But that is foolish vanity and it is very lovely to be included: even though not everybody will approve of the choices. Part Two featuring the much sexier Sturgeon and West is next month. Also English Garden features my column, my garden and a piece I wrote on Tom Stuart Smith’s garden: such saturation is only for those with stronger constitutions. To make things worse there is more to come as I have a piece in January Gardens Illustrated (iv) and a snippet in The Garden. Sorry.

To top it all I am on Eggheads this Friday at 6.00pm on BBC2. You might remember my writing about it in the summer, here to be exact. It is for Celebrity Eggheads (v) (using the word in an even looser fashion than they use it on I’m A Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here) and I was on the Home and Garden team with Toby Buckland, Chris Collins (the Blue Peter gardener), Aggie McKenzie (the unscary one of the two people who clean people’s houses) and Craig (off Big Brother).

Did we beat the Eggheads? You will have to watch and see. Set your video recorders or new fangled Sky Plus machines. 6pm Friday

The picture is of Viburnum opulus berries in the frost.

I am listening to Baby Please Don’t Go by Van Morrison.

Two years ago I was shamelessly trying to flog you copies of my book – which are still available, incidentally, if you send me a fiver.

Is that the right word? Almost certainly not. Dropped? Slotted? Basketed? Popped? Dunked? (or is that only appropriate for the Slam Dunk?)
Spectacular for us but probably nothing to write home about to those of you from Omsk, Finland or Alaska.
The American with George Clooney. Quite good and particularly notable for an exceptionally beautiful Italian playing a small town prostitute. So beautiful was she that her presence in the brothel of some rural hill town in the middle of Italy seemed fanciful to say the least. If one took the British equivalent – for example, Melton Mowbray or Banff – I am pretty sure that the standards would not be quite so high. I may, of course, be wrong and welcome comments from those among the readers of this blog who regularly patronise rural cathouses.
The more observant of you might have noticed (I did not) that my article in December’s GI about the charming naked folk at Abbey House included a slight misprint. The owner Barbara Pollard was called Su Pollard at one point (after the actress best known for playing the bespectacled chalet maid in Hi-De-Hi): fortunately it was taken well.
For the benefit of the uninitiated (or foreign) Eggheads is a television quiz programme where a team of people (could be a pub quiz team, work group, football club or, as in this case, a scratch team of the best brains around exhaustively selected from literally hundreds of applications) challenge the Eggheads. This is a group of serious social misfits who have dedicated their lives to absorbing trivial facts. Some might say that this is in compensation for their having few friends but I could not really comment.