charles barrow's writing

Last week, in the company of dear friends, I was lucky enough to visit two beautiful English gardens, blooming in the June sunshine. Luckier still these gardens were attached to two different, very slightly 'stately', homes, once owned by two wonderful women writers. The first was Monk's House, in Sussex. A 17th century retreat, once owned by Virginia Woolf and her husband Leonard. The few rooms in the house that we were allowed to walk through were gloomy, and atmospheric, and fascinating. But the room of real interest was Virginia's writing room. It was in a large summer house, set apart from the main house, further down the garden, amongst fruit trees and cottage garden borders. Unfortunately visitors weren't allowed to enter the room, but could gaze into it through large windows set in three sides of the building. The room was full of items that had once belonged to Virginia, and were arranged around the room, and on the desk, as if the room was still in use and...

I've been watching the blackbirds in my garden; male, female and baby. All three rush around the lawn, searching for worms. The juvenile is learning the ropes from its parents. Soon the parents will stop feeding it, and it'll have to fly off and find its own territory. I sometimes see the male blackbird, on a high branch in the plane tree in the street outside, or sitting on top of the freshly trimmed hedge that divides street from garden. I do hear him singing some evenings, a loud, melodious, full throated song, designed to carry through the thick woodlands, wherein these birds used to live. Thick woodlands are no longer as common as they were, so my blackbird lives in a hedged around garden, and sings a song that is now a little extra for his surroundings. It's said to be good luck if a blackbird nests near your house. And in Celtic mythology a blackbird is believed to be one of the three oldest animals in creation, the first bird. The other two creatures are the stag an...

I'll always stop to read a blue plaque on the wall of a house, to satisfy my idle curiosity about who may have been born, lived, briefly visited (yes I'm talking about you Charles Dickens), or died in the property. Very often I find I haven't even heard of the luminary being honoured, so it's as well the plaque always tells me what said honouree did for a living, or why they're being recognised. However, I recently came upon this beautiful slate plaque on the stone gatepost of a very large house in Oxford, and whilst the written information on offer is minimal, this is more than compensated for by the simple visual cue, which is stellar. Photo is the author's own.

Emergence I steel myself to step outside. A final glance through the window reveals crystal blue skies, an early sun gilding black branches, glittering frost in pockets of shadow on the borders; riming emerald crocus spears. “Bury them deep. Bulbs are a promise of brighter days. Like treasure.” These were almost his final words to me, as we laboured last autumn. “Golds, amethysts, pearls. Riches for when you’ll need them most. Afterwards.” I’d been wrapped in a smothering duvet of despair. Since. With neither the will nor strength to cast it off. My heart a bitter winter graveyard of grief.  Yet today breaks, somehow, differently. Those resolute crocuses will have pushed their way through earth like iron, just as he’d promised. A reminder that hard winters do fall away, springtime does return, offering renewal. I crack open my door. Birdsong drifts in and calls me out into a newly defined world. Photo is the authors own  

I grew a terracotta pot full of ranunculus once, many years ago. It was a glorious sight and bought joy to my heart. The cultivated ranunculus, or ranunculus asiaticus, or Persian Buttercup, is indeed related to the common buttercup, but is a much larger plant, has a tight whorl of petals, and comes in a variety of colours - pink, orange, yellow, white, or red, as opposed to the primarily yellow, open face of the smaller, wild buttercup that sprouts every year on the lawns outside. My favourite colour of ranunculus is orange. It is the vibrant, vivid orange of the marigold, the California poppy, the Solero ice lolly. I've attached a photo of some orange California poppies that I grew last year, to give you an idea of the colour I'm talking about here. That first pot of ranunculus I grew was wildly successful. I think because I grew it back then in complete ignorance of just how fussy a plant a ranunculus is. The soil, the moisture and the temperature levels have all got to be ...

Not a good month for me, on a personal level. In fact, the last eight months have brought loss and grief and anxiety on a large scale. This month brought more terrible news, and still more lurks on the near horizon. January is always a long, dark month to be gotten through, but this one is the darkest in memory. So I have been particularly grateful when I have happened upon something that has brought a little light and positivity into my life, and has taken me out of my day-to-day. Books (IQ84 Murakami), films (Wonka), nature (planting Spring bulbs), and wildlife (taking part in the Big Garden Birdwatch) have all helped to get me through. And a big help, from an unexpected quarter was the night sky. The freezing, cloudless nights through early to mid-January, afforded me a wonderful view of the Wolf Moon as it transformed from a fingernail fragment to a full moon over the course of weeks, and what made it even more special was the dazzlingly bright planet Venus hanging in the sky behin...