The thing is.....

It has to be said…..I am no gardener. I can trundle around with the mower, and do a bit of pruning and weeding, but when it comes to gifts and talents, the door leading to the ‘green fingered department’ is most definately one that’s not opened forth to yours truly.

I absolutely marvel at those who have the ability to make plants flourish, and can nurse along cuttings and seeds and so forth. This old duffer looks upon the whole business rather as a child watching a conjurer, fascinated and startled by the results and clueless as to its perpetration!

The boy Bing, fortunately makes allowances for my shortcomings, and is happy with my ‘general’ descriptions of shrubs, flowers and trees…..not for him (again fortunately) the need for Latin names, we both take simple delight in the seasons and are happy to allow those that ‘know’ to do their stuff, while we observe their results.

I’ve blurted that little lot out, by way of bringing us to the nub of this little tract. The joy of having young Bingo about the house twice a week, has meant his keen interest in nearly all matters, has invigorated me and, I guess, made me reassess any vague thoughts I may have had on any of the topics Bing chooses to highlight.

The lad as you may know, is a hound. This of course means, his sense of smell is remarkable, his nose - or ‘hooter’ as he likes to call it, is frequently to be seen sniffing the air and just about everything else!

While we were trundling, back along a forest path towards home recently, he suddenly stopped and with ‘hooter’ raised, spent the next few moments oscillating.

‘Cor, now that’s a right royal ‘hooter’ full!’

I sniffed the air in the vain hope my old nose might pick up a pale reflection of that which was being delivered to the lad. Well yes, there was quite definitely a whiff of something or other, and yes it seemed an interesting smell.

‘What do you make of it Bing?’

‘Not sure old huff and puff. I believe I’ve smelt it before…but many and ever so many a sniff ago.’

We eventually got home, and after a drink and bonio, off he went into the garden, while I made a brew and thought about lunch.

It was later when I noticed him, sitting very still on the lawn with his nose almost vertical, as he sniffed and sniffed. He wandered to the other end of the garden and repeated this operation. Even when a squirrel trundled by, he didn’t give it a thought, but continued to sniff.

As I was attempting to wheedle out of a jar, one of Mr Barry Norman’s amazingly fine pickled onions (as made to his Grandmothers recipe) the lad wandered in from the garden, deep in thought. The ‘hooter’ twitched….

‘Cor guv, are you going to tackle one of those strong’uns?’

‘Well I rather fancied one with a nice piece of cheese and a few crackers, don’t you know.’

‘I do indeed.’

Have you worked out what that smell is yet?’

‘I have aged guv.’

‘Well?’

‘Absolutely tip-top, thanks for asking.’

‘I mean what is the answer to the smell.’

‘It’s as I said. I’ve only smelt it once before, and that was I reckon, this time last year.’

‘And?’

‘It’s the end of summer old guv, that’s what it is.’

‘Ah.’

‘Or as we hounds like to call it….Autumnbrurary.’

‘I like it - did you just make that up?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Well it’s the perfect name for it.’

……but the lad didn’t hear, he was back out in the garden, head up and hooter on the sweep!’
 

Lunch was eaten.