midlifegardener

Mediterranean Gardens

Tulips up - but not at home — Tulips up – but not at home

Despite the Easter chills at home, we have managed to spend some time surveying some more warm weather gardens.

Easter was spent in Cornwall – the Cornish Riviera I think is what they like to call it. I always felt that chucking a piece of French on the end of something English to make it sound more exotic was doomed to failure – and in the chill north-easterly winds of Easter Weekend the warm water soubriquet was even more absurd. Thoughts of sun-drenched beaches and ice creams melting before you can eat them were quickly dispelled.

So we went along to the Eden Project where the biomes are heated to produce climates more akin to tropical rain forests and Mediterranean climes. It is very impressive with a good selection of plants from around the world including the Fynbos with which we had become familiar last summer in South Africa. The Mediterranean biome does sometimes look a little devoid of plant material – but then that is what you get if you are standing in the middle of a semi-arid zone in California, say. On our return, The OM told me that when he and mum went soon after it was opened, he heard some visitors from “oop country” complaining that there was not much to see – which compelled him to give them the unsolicited advice that this was a desert – hence the lack of major plant life.And desert is exactly what mum did to dad as soon as she saw him taking on the role of self-styled tour guide.

Sometimes I can feel myself getting the urge to offer unsolicited pearls of wisdom. It is an urge I must fight against at all costs. Oh, the dread of heredity.

Suffice to say our visit was a most agreeable one, and I could see that on a fine day the outside beds would be beautiful to wander around too. But not in the sub-zero wind blast.

"We hacked a ragged grave in the unfriendly earth" (John Cornford, A letter from Aragon) — “We hacked a ragged grave in the unfriendly earth” (John Cornford, A letter from Aragon)

Our other visit to Mediterranean zones involved a short trip by surly Ryanair (with a much happier return trip with Easyjet) to southern Spain where my little big brother, Paul, has purchased a property. It is a lovely spot on top of a hill overlooking Almunecar, on the Costa Tropical. On this occasion the grand name is lived up to by the location, with palm trees and exotic succulents throughout the town. Paul’s apartment is cut into the hill, so the only “garden” he has consists of a window box and a piece of terracing out the back, which is essentially rock and rubble. His neighbour took two days chiseling a square hole in the cliff face before inserting a japonica. We were not sure if he was planting a shrub or trying to build a fence.

"High on a hill..." Moorish Wath Tower on the Cost Tropical — “High on a hill…” Moorish Watch Tower on the Costa tropical

Paul, meanwhile, has bought geraniums for the window box and a Bougainvillea from the market, which he managed to simply plant straight into his part of the vertiginous back lot as he miraculously found a small spot of soil. He has other flowers along the back bought from the market. There might not be too many plants in hs back garden, but then again, there are not always that many in these semi arid zones – just ask my dad (or rather make some comment within his earshot and he will tell you without being asked).

Mediterranean behind, snow capped peaks in front

Sky Fall for Chicken Little

Apparently spring is just around the corner. It’s just that every time I think that now would be a good time to start getting some seeds in, actually PLANTING stuff, the wind veers to the north or north east and we are hit by air that would have brass monkeys running for cover. It’s a convenient excuse for not doing anything significant as I am in the midst of the end of term report writing and end of season hockey stuff – assessing coaches and players alike.

It got me thinking how these days we have a total overload of information and the capability to throw more information ourselves out into the world (of which this post is but one insignificant example). As I climbed into my increasingly recalcitrant car on Thursday to go to early morning fitness training (recalcitrant would sum up my mood at that time too), the dashboard did cheerfully inform me that it was -7 degrees. I did some maths for the wind chill and decided it “felt like” minus ten. Years ago I would not have known this – just agreed with my colleagues that it was “bloody cold” and got on with life.

Now we know what temperature it is, what it is likely to be this afternoon, or next day, what the traffic will be like going into work, what might be happening when we get there, because we check our emails and texts on the move, and can respond before we are even in. Everything is of the moment. We want it now.

Shopping is an equally instantaneous act. If we want it we google it and we buy it. So on Thursday when Claire discovered that three hens were missing (Speckle, Sydney and Bluebell were absent and failed to make lights out. Gone for good), we made the immediate decision to replace them. It was galling, as these four hens were really hitting their stride in egg production and we were getting four a day most days. That’s more than we need: I mean, there are only so many times you can have poached or scrambled eggs for lunch followed by a good sponge smothered in home-made custard…

So a quick trawl on the internet, locate the place we got the others from, phone the farm, and hey presto the next day Claire returns home with three new hens – identical to the three casualties whom Mr Fox had taken (why Mr? Could be Mrs , you know). In the meantime I had discoveed evidence of one hen’s demise on the other side of the lane from us. Claire did the forensic analysis and pronounced Bluebell a gonner. The other two were officially listed as Missing in Action – presumed to be Fox Fodder.

New Girl

New Speckle

Bluebell’s replacement

There was a feeling of spring in the air – or more accurately, Easter – as Claire brought the three new hens to introduce them to the remaining Gold Star (Foghorn by name). But as she placed them in the compound, up stepped Speckle, risen from the dead, running in from the garden. And as if stepping out from a bad re-make of the 6th sense, Sydney appeared from the corner of the enclosure too (having rolled away a stone, I guess). So it turns out that only Bluebell failed to make it back from enemy lines, and we now have six hens. Claire’s quite happy with this, but as soon as the “point of lay” arrivals start to do the business we will be selling eggs like crazy.

So this morning – in the dry and relative warmth (my car says plus 5) I have managed to shore up the fencing, mend holes and extend the high wire to ensure all six can get on well enough. That said the pecking order is undoubtedly in favour of older ladies who happily hunkered down in the hen-house last night while the newcomers decided that “no – honestly – we are very happy to roost in this tree”. So there they still were in the tree this morning looking a little scared of heights (or just the three bullies below).

But they survived. For now.

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…

Snow Patrol

Red Sky in the morning... we knew then that trouble was brewing — Red Sky in the morning… we knew then that trouble was brewing

We knew the snow was coming – as sure as Christmas. Though, like Christmas Day, we could not wait for it to arrive or quite believe it really would come and Claire, like an excitable child on Christmas morning was up peering out of the window at 4 a.m.to see if it had happened yet. She was disappointed by the light covering that had appeared and came back to bed, a little disgruntled by the meagre offering.

But by 7 a.m, Santa had been: there was proper snow. Not exactly blizzard, tundra type snow, but enough (Three? Four inches?) to bring the whole of the county – country even – to a sliding, scrunching, halt. It makes for pretty pictures on shrubs and trees (albeit without any sun to make that snow glisten) but little else in the way of activity in the garden. So I walked in to Canaryville with Claire, as she was working in the bookshop, and collected The OM’s paper. I trudged back across the fields, avoiding any roads, with the snow blowing horizontally into my face. With Fudge alongside I hopped over some electric fencing, presuming that, as my ever-sensitive companion had not quaked at the vibes in the air, that the fence was not on.

Pow!

I was wrong, as a zap hit the inside of my thigh as I was straddling the single strand, with it far too close to my groin for comfort. Leaping back like a second-rate paralympian high jumper, I decided to crawl under the fence on hands and knees, getting upright just in time to take the next step straight down a rabbit hole practically to my waist.

I stumbled home to find Verity about to set off for some sledging with her mates on the slopes over Yarlington way. The OM came out to chat – as per usual – and in his typical “cup half empty” manner decided to quell VB’s excitement at having a day off school and a week-end of snow to look forward to, by pontificating that it would “be gone by this evening – it’s turning to rain”. He managed to say it with such confidence and commitment that – even though I knew this was complete rubbish – I did not have the nerve to contradict him. Instead I retreated inside to check the Met Office forecast, which duly confirmed my hunch that this is staying for a few days yet. And I once again seethed at my impotence in the face of the Old Man’s bullshit.

Although I had to go into school on Saturday, there were no matches and – since we are a boarding school – the day was spent making sure that the pupils did not have too much spare time to get up to no good (like having snow ball fights or simply liaising with the opposite sex). So the P.E. department was detailed off to occupy girls in the sports hall for a few hours, employing the traditional skills of whistle blowing the repetition of such commands as “stop bunching!”.

And speaking of stop bunching the hens were employing different tactics with the snow. They clearly are not keen on the white stuff and when I went to check on them I could see two of them on the hen-house, but it took a while longer to see another was inside the house (peering through the little heart-shaped window) while Foghorn had made it up into the blue cedar – ten feet up! Like one of the celebs on Splash, she took an age to pluck up the courage to get down off the high board when I threw them some corn.

Fudge, on the other hand, loves the snow. She goes “cracker dog” with the feel of the snow on her belly as she bounces around the field and even makes out that she can compete with Arctic Foxes in trying to catch mice under the snow. We know her better than that. But one thing that is great about her in the snow is that she does not get it “balling” in her coat: she remains clean and snow-free in what we have branded her patented ginger-guard, non-stick coat.

Straight out of Bruegel - The Hunter in the Snow?! — Straight out of Bruegel – The Hunter in the Snow?!

So not much planned for the week ahead, but we will keep an eye on the elderly and wait for the next great disaster: after the big freeze, the great thaw.

Fudge, Yeah!

Knitwear advert - without the knitwear — Knitwear advert – without the knitwear

It feels like the gardening year is at a bit of a hiatus with little to do, so rather like the lead singer of a band in the middle of a particularly dull riff as the “guitarist goes off on one” as Claire would put it, I would like to take time to introduce an important member of my band: Fudge.

As Bill Murray said in Ghostbusters “so….she’s a dog”, but yeah she really is. She is my constant companion who loves nothing more than to come down the garden hunting out rabbits – or even rats. Which she rarely, if ever, catches. And then just buggers off for a couple of hours digging at the rabbit holes up the top of the field. So perhaps not quite such a constant companion after all, let alone constant gardener.

"I do not like the cone of shame" — “I do not like the cone of shame”

Mind you, she is a lot less of a liability than her sister (Truffle) with whom she was acquired after being abandoned outside a Dublin supermarket. They were the subject of a benign Extraordinary Rendition to bring them to the UK. We offered to give Fudge a good home while Truffle took up residence with mum and dad next door. Truffle ultimately proved too much of a handful: she had her own individual programme when it came to exercise and when out on walks would simply make a bee-line for the horizon which left her owner taking a solitary trudge back home to await her re-appearance at whatever time of day or night suited her.

A pile of puppies... — A pile of puppies…

Truffle was a source of comfort for my mother in her terminal illness, but after mum’s passing, Truffle was never going to get enough exercise with my more sedentary father and she has been re-homed. If her new owners want to feel they are spending time with their new pet in the great outdoors, I hope that they live on a saltpan somewhere and own some very powerful binoculars (or the world’s longest lead).

Fudge has a lot of energy to burn too, and although we are not sure of her lineage, we suspect some sort of terrier crossed with a boxer. Basically a scatter-brained dog who has bags of energy, and lists digging and jumping as two of her main hobbies. A gun dog she is not: she quakes at potential thunder (she can sense the build up of Cumulo Nimbus on the other side of the country) and will suddenly walk to the tightest “heel” if there is any sudden sound – be it gun, bird scarer, or clattering pans.

But she is the best, most patient dog to have in the house, and at least she does not dig up any of the garden: unlike my parents’ previous canine companion – Sambar – who had a penchant for carrots, which she harvested herself, therefore requiring the carrots to be fenced in on all sides, and top.

Gardening is just so tough.... — Gardening is just so tough….

When Fudge came to us she had been named – along with her four siblings – after the Nolan sisters (I hope there were no males in the rescued litter). We decided to change to something of our own choosing as she didn’t seem to be a Bernadette. Naming dogs is even more random than naming children as there are no limits to what you can call a dog. There again, these days the range of children’s names has expanded to include pets’ names too, if some celeb choices are anything to go by, but we happened upon the name Fudge as it was sweet and light brown – (like her?)… And my parents followed suit with her sister, calling her Truffle.

Not that we always use their given names. Truffle was generally known by the kids as “special needs” (she would have kept educational psychologists in work for years if she were human) or on the day that they ripped up their bean bags, leaving drifts of polystyrene balls across the kitchen, “fuckwits” was the first name that came to my mind.

But now we are down to one f-wit, and if she does not have any other pressing engagements at the top of the field, she will keep me company in the garden and – as I said – occasionally catch a rat or rabbit. In fact she managed to tag a rabbit yesterday, but for the most part she takes up the role of Grommit to my Wallis, as we try to fulfil our respective roles in the garden.

KONICA MINOLTA DIGITAL CAMERA — Thinking of going somewhere?

Dreaming of a Wet Christmas

So after the past six years spending Christmas at home doing our duty with in-laws and parents (s) we finally made the break and got away for the festive celebrations. I have been hankering for a quiet Christmas without the usual stresses of combining disparate ends of the family in an event that reminds us why we only do it once a year. So courtesy of my eldest brother Nick, we got away from it all in his holiday property on the Scottish Island of Arran.

Arran has been described as the best of Scotland in miniature: there are mountains and glens in the north and rolling lowland to the south. There are seven golf courses on an island 10 miles by 20, and everything else you need for a decent Christmas: a brewery, a distillery and some decent shops for both gifts and more mundane essentials. Claire’s main concerns about going to Arran revolved around whether we would even be able to get there as the chances of cancelled ferries loomed large in her mind in the weeks prior to the 8 1/2 hour journey up north. My blind faith that it would all be fine on the night was severely tested as our four day stay was bookended by high winds and gales, prompting Calmac Ferries to run “disruption” banners across their website. One cancellation simply meant a longer-than-planned-for shopping run at Asda in Ardrossan while we awaited the next crossing.

121226a (19) — If you go down to the woods today

Once there, a quick perusal of the local information service – The Arran Banner – told us that on Boxing day we should attend the “dook”: the local “let’s jump in the sea” equivalent of the Serpentine swimming club in London. Unlike the Serpentine club this was not a race, just a relaxed, informal affair in which participants strolled (or ran) down the slipway at Lamlash before swimming to the end of the jetty, getting out and diving / jumping / falling into the icy waters below before returning to the slipway for a refreshing hot soup. Fancy dress was optional, but prizes were awarded, so there were plenty of splashing santas to amuse the spectators as we sipped on our mulled wine. All donations went to the RNLI so the risk of hypothermia seemed a fair one for the enthusiastic ‘dookers’.

Before we left Somerset for Scotland I had bumped into a former coaching colleague who now works in Scotland and was in the West country for Christmas. He was incredulous that I was travelling up there for the festive period. I can see his point: the days are short (sunrise 9am and setting by 4pm) and the weather potentially vile. But it proved to be the most peaceful and relaxing christmas in memory. After all, what more do you want from Christmas other than to be able to eat, drink and slob out in front of the telly, with only the briefest blast of fresh air to revive you for the next instalment of festive gluttony?

121225 (35) — Stunning scenery and excellent golf (course)

Josh and I did, however, manage to get one round of golf at the local course. Shiskine Golf and Tennis Club is a rarity in golfing terms as it is a 12 hole course. Which is a perfect length for two hours of excellent golf. It can never be described as a good walk spoiled as the course is on well-drained links with views across the Kilbrannan Sound to the Mull of Kintyre which are able to lift the soul after even the worst drive into the gorse and bracken. The scores are secondary to the experience of playing on such a great course, though I did manage to keep my 20-year-old son in his place by about 7 shots….

Greens and red cabbage – and home reared pork sausages

And in order to maintain some sort of gardening theme, I am pleased to say that we managed to cut some veg from the Arran garden for at least one meal. Curly Kale is something I have not seen in a long time, but Nick (or rather his neighbour) has been maintaining some herbs, greens and red cabbages that are looking good. And we also took our own brussels sprouts from our own garden – the few the mice had left us.

A truly peaceful christmas with close family, home cooking and room to breathe as you take walks along the beach with only the oystercatchers, cormorants and other gulls to keep you company. And although not strictly speaking white, there was always snow visible on the highlands.

Almost perfect.

121224 (21) — Sunset over Mull of Kintyre

The Turn of the Year

It’s New Year’s Eve – a time to look forward to the clean slate of a fresh 12 months of hope, promises and ambitions. But it is also a time to reflect and it is in that mood that I am spending this year-end.

2012 was a year in which we as a family put paid to the shadow of major illness, so far as Claire is concerned, with her final course of chemotherapy and stem cell transplant to guard against recurrence of AITL non-Hodgkins Lymphoma. And it was not long after the completion of her treatment and while she was in recovery that I started this blog.

I have said before that I feel closer to the memories of my mother when I am gardening and to some extent I suppose there is an element of the Keatsian search for the eternal. I have a heightened sense of the turning of the year and of the natural world about me. I am but a small part in the great scheme of things and it all helps to keep my sense of perspective in other aspects of life.

Keats looked for eternity in the song of the nightingale and the repetition of the seasons. The trees in the garden or field have a air of permanence about them, but that is coloured by the brooding menace of ash dieback on the horizon.

For Keats perhaps eternity culd be found in the bold robin getting under foot as I dig; the bright crisp morning when we get up to let the chickens out; or, more pertinently today, the drenching rain that puts paid to any serious work outside and leaves the hens lurking in the undergrowth like refugees.

The rain seems to have been falling for an eternity, though we were lucky with our Christmas break in Arran – of which more in a subsequent post, hopefully – but when the rain stops I will be out there to get stuff going. It won’t be long before spring will be with us and I will want to be ready for it all – with good planting plans and a well prepared garden. Even now, there are shoots coming up in the tubs by the door, and with the crap weather at least I have my seed catalogues to divert me with thoughts of the long hot summer to come, and no worries about droughts…

Easy Going

It’s been a while since I posted. Much of my time has been involved at school in playing tournaments against some of our keenest rivals as well as trying to maintain diplomatic relations with some of our scholastic neighbours – all of whom are trying, though not succeeding, to give us a beating. In the meantime the garden has survived a battering with heavy rain and high winds, so I haven’t managed a lot work out there.

At the start of the month, though, I did manage to hit my best round of golf ever – 72 (on a par 68). Sounds pretty spectacular (net 12 under), although one must take into account winter tees and greens for most of the round which shorten the holes by about 50 yards and make for two putting at worst. But my irons were good and golf seemed a pretty easy pastime for a moment or two.

Who's been eating MY Brussels? — Who’s been eating MY Brussels?

And one can get into a false sense of security with anything when it is all going well. The brussels and purple sprouting have been going brilliantly and looking fab. With a couple of good frosts even TOM will have accepted that we can eat the Brussels. Except for the small matter of rodent damage. The mice have been getting to them before us – nibbling the small tender ones at the top. We put down the mouse traps that worked so well on TOM’s Brussels earlier in the summer (although he subsequently allowed them to be shredded by caterpillars). But no mouse was caught – and weirdly there are no traps there now. I think a rabbit has pushed under the fence – or is it rats? – so did they make off with the traps? Beats me. There’s some odd stuff going on out there.

I did manage to plant my garlic the other day. Couldn’t decide what type to get so got a about 12 different varieties – and planted the lot. So we will have our own garlic festival come the summer. Chesnok Red, Early Purples, Elephant…you name it, we’ll be trying it.

Allez les Verts...supporting my greens — Allez les Verts…supporting my greens

More advice was forthcoming from Jim the Strim, who after tidying the hedges was giving me the heads up on needing to stake my greens. He was right: the purple sprouting was falling over and about to lose its roots, so I spent Monday morning, before school, giving support to them. The rain lashed down, but somehow I neither noticed nor minded. It was far more satisfying and rewarding than any amount of dealings with other schools and their staff who have an overinflated sense of their own self-importance and their schools’ talents. I felt grounded – literally and metaphorically.

Even this time of year retains a sense of promise. I feel like I am preparing presents that will not be opened till the warm summer days are with is.

Standing guard over the bulbs... — Standing guard over the bulbs…

Forget Christmas and all the angst of finding the right present for everyone – I like the idea of planting a few tulips or crocuses as Nick gave me for my birthday, and looking forward to the arrival of them in the spring. Which is all well and good so long as the rabbits have not dug them all up by January, or the mice haven’t eaten the Brussels, or the greens haven’t toppled over. In sport, as in life, as in the garden, it wouldn’t be any fun if it was all too easy

Author Archives: midlifegardener

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