Storm Angus has just ripped through the West Country and dumped a large quantity of rain as well as ripping most of the remaining leaves from the trees. Up till this weekend it has been – by common consent – one of the most beautiful autumns for many years with still days and blue skies highlighting the glorious leaves.
There has even been just a hint of frost to give us justification to pick the brussels – which have been the best that I can remember growing myself, and therefore the best since the night of the cows which prompted this whole adventure in gardening to start.
Herewith a few pics from a morning walk a couple of weeks ago, when the sun was shining, the leaves were on the trees and life was apparently in harmony.
Ella is a retriever / lab cross. There’s probably a posh name for this – like a labtrine or something. I guess someone somewhere has already thought of crossing the shitsu with a poodle (how much for a shitapoo?) but the key feature of our dog’s genetic inheritance is an overweening desire to bring back anything that is dead. Like rigor mortis rabbits (with which she nearly took Mrs B off at the knees the other day) or pigeons that have been half eaten by sparrowhawks. But she will also attempt to retrieve stuff which has not actually been shot or died of starvation.
One pheasant – dead or only resting?
Autumn around these parts brings out the birds and beasts that are trying desperately to fatten up for the winter months. The pheasant is one such bird trying to fatten up for winter though it has not idea that all it has been successively bred for is to be shot by posh boys in tweed before being collected by their soft-mouthed coated canine companions. It might explain why they have the aerial ability an early Wright Brothers prototype, making them tempting bait for anything that will chase – thus cutting out the gun-toting middle man. The other morning our over-keen gun dog disappeared down the lane after a pheasant. It seems the bird’s idea to try to out-run the labrador failed as two minutes later – much to Mrs B’s dismay – the dog returned with bird in mouth (is that worth two in the bush?) and placed it Mrs B’s feet.
However, as Mrs B tried to move the corpse out of the road, the pheasant jumped up and ran into the ditch. Miracle? Maybe. The chances are that the Lazarus-like recovery of the bird was just the “headless chicken” response of a bird that was pretty much dead. But Mrs B retains the notion that the pheasant is still out there wandering the hedges and ditches. Aaaah.
Elsewhere Ella has less success chasing the squirrels that pilfer the walnuts. Looking from the Labrador’s eye view, how hard can it be? Squirrels are small, slow-moving, can’t fly, and appear to be such easy targets to chase down and destroy. And yet….. Ella spends many a long hour gazing into the branches working out how she can climb the tree to snag the rat. Fudge did climb the tree once – having chased a squirrel at such pace towards the walnut she actually ran up the trunk almost to the bottom branches ten feet up before, like Wile E Coyote, she noticed gravity was about to take effect. It was long way down.
The constant chasing is symptomatic of the turf war between dogs and squirrels over who owns the walnuts. Ella retrieves them (naturally) and it is a subtle observation game to tell when the lab has a nut in her mouth. But Fudge has taught her how to crack them open and eat them. So seeing the squirrels tucking into them will only annoy the territorially jealous dogs.
Elsewhere Ella employs her jumping skills indoors as aprt of the self-appointed dance police. She won’t allow any dancing at any time and attacks any offenders. On he whole she is a very quiet dog and the only time she barks is in her sleep. A Fat Boy Slim gig (which we went to at Pilton Party in September) would be her worst nightmare, but I suspect what really makes her howl in her sleep are those pesky squirrel varmint.
We didn’t manage to get away for half term this year as my school once again made me an offer I could not refuse and I instead found myself organising and leading a half term hockey camp for a visiting prep school. But rather than dwell on the places I could have gone, I was able to appreciate how lucky we are to live where we do. And at this time of year, with this sort of weather, Somerset is not a bad place to be.
Some see autumn as a depressing season, but I have always enjoyed it. When I was younger this was probably because I could look forward to my birthday but, with advancing years, somehow a birthday is not the harbinger of good tidings like it used to be. Instead I enjoy autumn for the glorious colours of the trees, for the incoming migratory birds and for days like today, which presented the opportunity to be out on such a gloriously sunny November morning.
After taking the dogs for a walk the main order of the day was more planting. This year we are going large (super size perhaps) on bulbs. Over the last couple of days I have planted 200 tulips as well as an indeterminate number of ranunculus. I planted a load of the latter in tubs last winter and although I did get a good number of blooms I think I could have done better by giving them more space – as well as feeding them more often. So this year I am hedging my bets: some in pots, some in the greenhouse and some in the cutting patch.
The tulips have gone in what was the lily pond – now renamed the tulip bed and reshaped to fit the theme. But again I am not putting all my eggs in one basket or bulbs in one bed, and have planted some in the cutting patch too. All of this would have been a lot harder if Mrs B had not invested in a bulb planter – a tool I had not come across before, but which I will never be without from now on. In making a hole for the bulb, the planter takes what looks like a core sample of soil which ultimately is deposited on the ground. After while your bed is covered in bore holes and the detritus from a pig’s latrine. But it works for me as I happily plop a bulb in each hole and then cover it up (did that sound right?!)
If all goes well we will have a good number of blooms to sell come May next year.
We didn’t manage to get away for half term this year as my school once again made me an offer I could not refuse and I instead found myself organising and leading a half term hockey camp for a visiting prep school. But rather than dwell on the places I could have gone, I was able to appreciate how lucky we are to live where we do. And at this time of year, with this sort of weather, Somerset is not a bad place to be.
