The scent of sweet peas

A day working from home in Kirkby Lonsdale, while the Minx went to meet with a colleague, and then we went back down to Salford this evening. 

Not quite nice enough for sitting out, but we popped out into the garden nonetheless. 

The smell of the sweetpeas reminded my of my grandparents' garden on Burlington Road.

When I was small, it seemed a magical place, cut off from the rest of the world. There was the back door into the garage, which contained my Grandad's workbench, all his tools, plus loads of stuff he obviously couldn't bear to throw away: masses of pipes and plumbing equipment, and five or six 'boneshaker' bicycles. It smelt wonderful.

Back in the garden, the clothes line was held up and out of the way by a long stick, and there was a tiny patch of lawn, just in front of the door to the outside (and only) toilet.

On the far side of the little square of lawn was a tree - possibly an apple tree - and my Grandad would nail things to it for me to shoot at with his air rifle. I was, for my age, a pretty crack shot.

The rest of the garden was devoted to growing vegetables. My Dad, a keen gardener himself, would always marvel at the rich produce that my Grandad extracted from the thin, dry soil. 

And beyond the end of the garden was a large area of waste ground, which I think used to be something to do with a pottery, although these days it's a rather nice, but rather less magical, park.