February 2013 – Garden Gate Flowers

Not Green Any More

Half term has arrived for me with the amazing coincidence of fine weather too. So we decided to clean the greenhouse.

This time last year, Claire was in hospital undergoing her final chemotherapy and stem cell transplant, so even going out and scrubbing down a load of glass seems like a treat – particularly as only six months ago she might not have had the energy to contemplate it. Last year Lynn very kindly washed the greenhouse, so this was my first attempt at an early spring clean in the garden. It was no big deal, but only when you get up close and personal to it to do you see why Greenhouse is not a misnomer for a shed made of glass: Fungus the Bogeyman would not have felt out of place in this moldy residence. So I did the outside, Claire wiped the inside and the results speak for themselves.

As usual, I did it all with the sound of the OM’s voice in my head, advising me on how to do it, but unlike this time last year it really is just in my head: I knew he would not be wandering down the garden today to dig leeks or check what I was up to. It seems a shame that he does not come down the garden, but I guess he might be keeping out of my way (unlikely) or more probably he just does not have the motivation these days.

Mind you, despite my cynicism of the “I wouldn’t do it that way if I were you” kind of comment from on high, I gave more thought to the advice I had been given as I dumped a load of manure into the beds in the now crystal-clear greenhouse (glasshouse is now a recognisable description). As I dug with the spade then broke it up and spread it with my fork, it occurred to me that perhaps all those years digging and muck-spreading in the garden must count for something. My views are skewed by memories of having to share the experience of him taking an hour to methodically change a fuse (which probably required the shutting down of half the village’s electrical supply to ensure safety) but maybe, just maybe, his way really is the best and most efficient. So fork it was – and it all worked nicely.

Thanks Dad.

The Love Rose (thanks Tony and Juleit). Happy as a pig in... — The Love Rose
(thanks Tony and Juliet)
Happy as a pig in muck

And I even managed to save a little manure to put around our Silver Wedding Rose (now safely ensconced in the “Silver Wedding Bed” – a rose from our Silver wedding in the bed created for my parents’ in 1982). This is based another story from my childhood of my paternal grandfather following horses down the street to collect their detritus for his roses. I never knew either of my grandfathers: my mother’s father was born in 1868, so I was never likely to have known him. The other died before my father reached his teens – but we will have to explore all the Freudian overtones of that another day. For now, let’s just celebrate a clean, un-green greenhouse and some roses that are looking just fine and dandy.

And much of that is down to the use of knowledge and stories passed on across the generations.

Final job was to put together the Wicker Salad Planter (Christmas present from one of my brothers). This did not require generations of knowledge to assemble. And I don’t think I will be passing on either the planter or the assembly technique to my own children…

Hot Chit

Another wet day for hens and gardeners — Another wet day

The rain teemed down again today which meant no golf as the course was closed (I reckon The Royal Wheathill will be closed for weeks at this rate) but it did mean that I was able to accompany Claire to the big event of the weekend: Potato Day at the Cary Constitutional Club. Last night I made my debut as a model, making a guest appearance in the school fashion show to near universal hysteria (interpret that how you like) so I was taking a journey between the ridiculous and the sublime: from catwalk to garden path.

Last year we could not attend Potato Day as Claire was in hospital. It is incredible to think it is only twelve months on from Claire’s stem cell / chemo month in Musgrove Park. But a year ago Lynn did select a cross-section of spuds for us: Belle de Fontenay, Kestrel, Setana, Sarpo Mira as well as some stray Red Duke of Yorks – which served us well.

So we hit the Consti Early this morning to get the best little chitters – and just as well we did. By the time we left at 11.00 the local gardeners’ elbows were being sharpened as competition for the potatoes increased. The variety of potatoes was impressive, brought in by Pennard Plants along with onion sets, small plants and the full range of seeds. But it was the spuds which were the main attraction – colour coded in their trugs according to first or second earlies, main crops and late mains. We had gone with the idea of getting more Sarpo Mira – the only spuds that withstood the ravages of blight in what passed for our washout of a summer in 2012. And also on the shopping list were repeat orders of Belle de Fontenay (a fab early salad crop). Alongside that we decided to try some King Edwards – the very finest roasting potato. And as a wild card, Claire had read up about Ratte – like a Pink Fir Apple, but not so knobbly and a lot easier to prepare.

Of course, once we got there the sheer range of seed potatoes on offer turned our heads to some more obscure strains of potato – and that surely is the fun of it all. Why not try something different each year? I know the OM will have plumped for his favourite Wilja after years of spud growing, but I like the idea of trying something a little different. Apart from anything, variety is not only the spice of life, it also surely security against such things as disease or poor weather as some might do better than others. Or am I naive? (yes is the resounding reply. But I am happy in my horticultural simplicity)

Cary gardeners get stuck in to get their little chitters

That said, we did avoid anything that said that it needed “good conditions” to thrive: after last summer we are not going to rely on great growing conditions to ensure a good crop. So after some umming and aahing, we ended up with: Belle de Fontenay (10), King Edwards (10), Sarpo Mira (12), Ratte (10), Cherie (8), Salad Blue (6). In addition we took a scoop of red onion sets and 15 banana shallots for good measure. Not sure we have as many potatoes as last year – but then we can always get some Wiljas from Dave Marsh to make up the numbers.

Next up, we just need to look out the egg boxes to start the chitting…

Life Skills

I was reading the paper the other day and saw that the Air Sea Rescue in UK is being privatised – with the venerable Sea King Helicopters being retired after 50 years in the skies. It rang alarm bells with me, not only because on the face of it this is another misguided governmental attempt to cut costs and reduce their deficit, but also because it had me preparing for the inevitable “in my day” stories from The OM, who was – according to the man himself – a central player in the development of the flight control systems for the Sea King.

I had just had a conversation with him about how he has just started Spanish Lessons, but how he had completely forgotten everything from it within hours. He said he was worried about his memory. I asked how long this had been going on. “How long has what been going on?” he did(not) reply. But at least he is getting out a little more.

With the snow gone, I managed to get out and wander down the garden on Friday to see what was growing, what was being dug up and what had been eaten. The bad news was that the red kale, parsley and tops of the purple sprouting have been shredded. Tracks in the snow showed clearly that rabbits are running rife in the patch, despite the supposedly impregnable chicken wire, and the decimated crops are testament to the Lapine infiltration.

But the good news is that stuff is surviving and almost thriving. The colour purple sprouting in the middle of the Purple Sprouting. If there were a few leaves about them (previously ripped off by pigeons) it would look proper. And there are also signs of cauliflowers beginning at the heart of the six-inch high plants. Either these are a new breed of dwarf colly, or I planted them (and the slim-line swedes) rather later than I should…

Is that a cauli in there?! — Is that a colly in there?!

Still, I got to work spreading more horse manure on the old bean patch. A couple of barrow loads, then a third as my OCD inner self could not bear to leave a covered area that was not a proper rectangle. As I dug the manure my father’s words were in my head advising me not to use a shovel (I snapped the worm-eaten handle of one) His advice was to use a fork which would break it up better. I mused on this as I continued with a spade. The manure went into the barrow like slabs of rich chocolate brownie.

I had elected to use the fork to spread it, but in the meantime I broke it up in the barrow with swift stabbing motions with the spade, rapidly cutting parallel lines as I moved the spade towards me. It occurred to me that I was using the same technique The OM used to employ to mix mortar, getting the water, sand and cement to combine with pedantic movements of his shovel as I looked on as a fascinated youngster, or bored teenager. It made me think on all the things that I have – consciously or subconsciously – learnt at my parents’ apron strings or fork handle. I wondered if Josh or Verity are growing up with skills or techniques that they have absorbed from us like osmosis. I am sure that there will be fewer practical skills than in the past as there is probably an app to do most things now, and failing that, one either simply replaces the whole unit or pays someone else to do it.

A good drop of stuff

Check out the colour of my sprouting

What the rabbits left

More green shoots

First flower in the tub

Last spring Josh had a go at doing the muck spreading. It seemed to take him hours to do a barrow load. This could be because he had not learnt how to do it by seeing me (snapping shovels) although it was more probably simply a matter of motivation. There is no doubt I have far more motivation than he had in chucking horse shit on the garden, just as I never really pulled my weight in the garden when I was young, but now when I do get in the garden I have a well-developed work ethic which I could probably have done with when I was younger.

But I count myself fortunate to have the time and ability to practice what I have either been brought up with or learnt. For the OM, the retirement of the Sea King helicopter will be a reminder of how his life has moved on and the fact that many of his faculties have been reduced. That is why I am now in charge in the garden. The pity of it is that while he has an almost seemingly photographic memory of past glories, recent memory – so vital for continued learning – would appear to be less effective.

So if my father is going to struggle to learn new skills, I suspect I will just have to settle myself down while he employs his abilities in story telling to remind me about how he built a helicopter…

Monthly Archives: February 2013

Not Green Any More

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Hot Chit

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Life Skills

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