The bench at the bottom of the garden

Ever since we moved into Ellesmere, I've wanted to have a bench on which to sit and enjoy our garden.

I soon discovered the cost of a new one was prohibitive.

So I kept an eye out at vide greniers (garage sales) for a used one.

At a local brocante (old wares) shop, I spotted a rusted, broken-down old bench. I quite liked the style.

It had cast-iron ends with wooden slats.

It was in very poor condition so I got it at a good price.

I dismantled it ... discarded the decayed and broken slats and began the painstaking task of removing all the white paint.

I also had to remove the rust from the ironwork and cut new seating slats. I kept the three back-support slats.

Once the cast-iron ends and back-support slats were cleaned and the new base slats cut, the bench was ready to finish. By "finish", I mean spraying the metal with black paint and oiling the timber slats.

Finally, the piece was finished and ready to install in the garden.

I placed it under the lime tree, by the many heuchera and hellebores, looking back over the pool towards the house.

There is something deeply satisfying about a garden bench, where you can sit calmly and contemplate the beauty and tranquillity of the garden.

 

Flowers galore

Cliona and I will be forever in the debt of the artist responsible for the palette of colour around Ellesmere.

At the beginning of her ten-year tenure, Nicole Negrello designed the garden and chose the plantings.

We bought the house from the Negrellos a year ago.

In these wondrous and warming Spring days, it is such a pleasure just walking around the yard.

The irises are nothing short of magnificent. They are like some kind of intricate, papier-mache creation.

And there are the roses, of course.

And myriad other blooms ...

a humble bumble bee feeding on a rabbit's ear

like a supernova

deep-throated pink

Uncle Jack's grave

I never knew my uncle Jack, who was a bomber pilot in the Second World War.

He was shot down whilst returning from a raid over Germany in the early hours of 2 June, 1942.

There was a crew of six in the Wellington that crashed that night near the village of Estinnes au Mont, in Belgium.

Flight Sergeant Jack Walsh was the skipper .... three Australians and two Englishmen made up the rest of the crew.

Last month, on the day before Anzac Day, I visited Jack's grave in Charleroi, Belgium.

The day was bleak and cold. The sky was overcast.

We easily located the Commonwealth War Graves section of the Charleroi communal cemetery but it took almost ten minutes to find the headstones of the six airmen.

Two ravens flew overhead and made an ugly, mournful sound.

Light rain began to fall.

I had brought no bouquet of flowers but my friend Hedley gave me a commemorative poppy lapel pin to place at Jack's grave.

It was a moving experience.

The attrition rate of bomber crews was such that Uncle Jack had written to my mother (his sister) in fatalistic terms.

John Francis Walsh was just 22 years old.