Back from half term we have had some frosts in Somerset which has knocked everything a little. I actually brought my sweet peas in from the greenhouse just in case they get nipped by the frost. The temperatures did not dip low enough for the Old Man to need his water turned off in the lean-to, so I guess I was worrying needlessly.
Anyway, before I went up to Arran I had planted tomatoes in order to avoid the tomato tensions of last year, when Mrs B was gazing longingly at other Gardeners Delights and comparing them unfavourably with my Sweet Millions (looking more like sad singletons).
Aubergines going in
And hey presto, the toms are up. The problem now is trying to make sure they don’t get too leggy as they strain for the dim light coming through the study window. Do I put them in the greenhouse and risk losing them in the cold?
One thing that will not be going in the greenhouse any time soon are the chillis and aubergines that I planted at the same time. Even Monty on Gardeners World (hoorah – new series started Friday….middle aged? Moi?) was saying that planting chillis was a job for this weekend, but mine have steadfastly refused to germinate so far. I’ll try again next weekend if they have not come up by then.
In the meantime, I have a Sunday which I will spend finally cleaning the greenhouses – then perhaps I will risk those long-legged supermodel tomatoes out there.
Days three and four on Arran saw days of starkly contrasting weather.
A wet walk through the trees was as much as we could manage on Tuesday as the gale blew through. But on Wednesday we headed for the hills again – this time on the Eastern side of the island, climbing to reach the Deveil’s Punchbowl, above Sannox, before I fitted in a sneaky nine holes at Corrie.
Ella was “on one” all the way up, and was equally lively on the way down, not least when she growled at a fellw hiker who was planning to go way beyond where I had been and head on up Goat Fell. “Hopefully the clouds will lift” he said, “But I have a compass in case”. I am a lightweight in comparison, but I had other activities planned.
Golf was stunning. This was not a good walk spoiled so much as a fine stroll enhanced. The views from Corrie Golf Course are dramatic and the course is far better than I remember (unlike my golf). And to cap it all off I saw the tea room at the Golf Club was open. I was the only customer in their busy lunchtime and they served the finest BLT I can remember. Perfect.
This post has nothing to do with gardening as I am away. When I get back I will have more to say on the horticultural front and other family issues. This is simply my “what I did over the holidays” composition for when I get back to school. In the meantime I agree with the thoughts on this other blog which gives some idea of why people grow their own veg..been there dug that.
I’m in Arran for half term with the essentials in life for a good stay: my black labrador (to give me company as I trek over the hills) and a set of golf clubs (to accompany me on my walks across one of the seven golf courses on the island). Only Mrs B is lacking for the perfect scenario but she will join me at the end of the week: one always needs something to look forward to.
Columnar basalt
The weather for days one and two was perfect: clear blue skies and little or no wind. So the emphasis was on outdoor activities. We arrived at lunchtime on Sunday and went down to the beach at Blackwaterfoot. Ella was reticent at first, being spooked by wagtails amongst the rocks but, once she had paid her nervous respects to a dead seal, she was soon galloping across the sandy beach, chasing oystercatchers (into the water and over her head) and generally checking out all the olfactory diversions that the beach and headland offered.
Yesterday continued bright so we went to Lochranza in the north of the island to walk up the valley behind the distillery. I was planning to get up to Loch na Davie – reputedly the source of the purest water in Scotland – but having got about 2/3 of the way there, I decided it was time to head back and see what the distillery did with all that pure water. On the way up it was still frozen so I could skip across many of the more boggy parts although Ella managed to find the deep end of an increasing number of squelchy areas on the way back down.
The afternoon was spent in splendid isolation on the golf course at Blackwaterfoot. Ella was sound asleep in the house and there was no one else on the course when I started. Bliss.
Not that it is all entirely easy-going. Today, the weather has turned vile: windy and wet and even the sheltered woodland walk we took was damp and still occasionally very blowy. But it gives me the excuse to stay in and write up my diary (this blog) and get other stuff done.
5th green at Shiskine
And speaking of writing, I woke up so cold on the first night I was tempted to write a letter to Mrs B along the lines of Robert Falcon Scott (what a middle name that was) “make the boy interested in natural history if you can; it is better than video games”. But I survived that urge and managed to see some interesting fauna on my walks: a hen harrier that drifted over the car when we driving back from the beach and another pair as we rested near Loch na Davie. And as we neared the distillery on our way back, I turned to see a pair of Golden Eagles just taking flight above where we had walked. It is an image lodged in my mind and – uncoincidentally – embossed on every bottle of Arran whisky. I had to buy a bottle just to sample what they do with that lovely pure water.
Lochranza
Moving up the valley
Classic streams
Still frosty
Icy and pure
Loch na Davie is up there somewhere
Black is the new Ginger
Looking back
Eagle over Lochranza
Perfect golf
Mini glacier
Both balls in play – just
And the rocks are lethally icy
Weird – there wasn’t a water hazard here last time
It’s been a busy half of term. There have only been a few weeks, but the weekends have been full of school-related activities and if they have not been happening it has probably been because of another popularly-named storm making itself unpopular with the populace, and any garden-related activity virtually impossible.
So on Friday I broke up for half term and, before packing my bags to take my daughter back to Liverpool and my black labrador to Arran, I did manage to quickly throw some chilli seeds and – more importantly – some tomato seeds into some trays. This was in an effort to get early germination and (hopefully) avoid the sumer-long needling from Mrs B about how late our tomatoes were compared with those down in the village. We’ll see.
Not chitting you
Earlier, before school, I had laid our seed potatoes out in the morning – yes the perfect way to prepare for the day: chit, shower and shave. Potato Day had been a week or two earlier and I had been rather slow in get my littler chitters out of their bags. Well, they weren’t going to get good strong shoots in a brown paper bag were they? (No chit Sherlock). This year we have gone for some regulars: Bell de Fontenay, Cherie and Anya; we have had to change our Sarpo as they did not have Una, and we have gone Axona for the blight-resistant main crop, and this year’s “guest Spud” is Arran Victory – named in 1918 for apparently obvious reason. So I have driven north feeling that stuff can be going on in my absence.
Mary Poppins the musical is back doing the rounds and so I somehow got an ear worm in my head that is straight out of the show. Ear worm is an apt description as the song is “Feed the Birds”. It was always something that the parents did and the Old Man has always been diligent in keeping the feeders full of nuts. in recent winters the main recipients have been rats who have climbed the wisteria to hang on the wire cage and feast. This year TOM has not been putting food out for the birds (or the rats) yet. Whether this is because the weather has been so mild our feathered friends really do not need any more sustenance I am not sure.
In years gone by we would be asked to delay pruning the Cotoneaster until the birds had been able eat all the berries, but frankly I have never seen any self-respecting fieldfares helping themselves to the red plenty.
But we have found other ways in which to provide for the wild bird population. A year or two back the starlings would flock around the hen run and clean us out of layers pellets and corn. It cost us a bomb to keep re-filling the feeder – making for some of the more expensive free range eggs around. We now have a feeder that is not accessible to small birds so that is sorted.
Equally, I have put an end to providing fodder to the pigeons, who after I had netted the purple sprouting, turned their attention to the kale and when I covered that, they started to shred the brussels. Can’t fault them for taste, but it amuses me how easily they are put off feeding by a bit of green net.
Birds I am happy to aid in their five-a-day nutritional requirements are obviously the robins who appear as soon as I pick up a fork. Robins act like they are your chums and at Christmas they appear all sweet and festive on cards and the like. But they are fiercely territorial and pretty damned belligerent towards each other. So not all that cute.
The other piece of bird-friendly activity I finally did yesterday was to take the netting off the raspberries – thereby allowing birds to rummage in amongst the canes for any old fruit or other stuff.
And all day long I was humming along “tuppence a bag”…
Last night we spent an evening imbibing at the house of Love (Juliet and Tony) which included less dancing than usual but concluded with the consumption on my part of an interesting blend of vintage port and non-vintage sloe gin. So this morning the knees were in a better condition than expected, but the head was in need of some clearing.
So Mrs B decided on a plan to get out for a walk in the village. We went along paths that she herself had only discovered recently, which considering she spent much of her teen years walking dogs or exercising horses around the byeways of Galhampton, was quite a find. It certainly did the trick for me and along the way we saw the usual squirrels and other vermin as well as a deer, which our trained attack dogs failed to spot.
Lunch was taken at the Orchard Inn (formerly the Old Pub and even further back, The Harvester). So a properly restful lazy Sunday. When was the last time we had one of those?
The sky was opalescent yesterday morning as I took the dogs out for their daily ramble. The clouds were grey and wind-blown, but a small aperture had been rubbed away by the elements to reveal a patch of blue with some pink-tinged wisps of cumulus. Even the most dull walk can be enlivened by the smallest sight or the greatest view. Even in the depths of winter there’s always something to brighten your day such as a patch of blue sky, a flock of fieldfares taking flight or a sparrowhawk hunting along the hedgerows.
December mow – the mole hill reappeared within minutes
But it does not feel like the depths of winter. Since the frost of a few weeks ago it has remained steadfastly mild – warm even – and the garden continues to grow as if summer had not ended. It is mid-December and we have alstroemerias blooming as well as other blossom in the borders. The penstemons still bloom and the grass has simply kept on growing. But combined with the amount of rain we have had, cutting it has been nigh on impossible. Yesterday, though, as it did not rain in the night, I took a punt and jumped on the mower and had a go. The mower was not happy, and I could only imagine the stirrings from next door as the Old Man would be turning down his TV to listen to the grinding of the blades against the damp grass. Even now I still do stuff around the house and garden with a vestigial sense of doom wondering if I am doing it correctly in the eyes of my parents. I guess most of us do this to some extent but when the eyes and ears of one parent are only the other side of the kitchen window the lingering nature of the affliction devolves to a more clear and present danger. On the up side, though, The Old Man is not walking too far these days, so even if my concerns about his thoughts on mowing in such conditions are real (and not imaginary) then at least he’s not likely to run out in to the garden to voice his disapproval.
So I clattered on with the mower thinking that I could get away with whatever lack of foresight or good workmanship I might be displaying. And yet, when I saw TOM this morning he announced that it was an all-time record to be mowing in December. “But it did need it” he affirmed – thus giving approval to my bleak mid-winter mow.
In amongst the usual TV series that appear this time of year to lead us into winter, like Strictly and I’m a Celebrity, some proper wintry drama returned with the third series of The Bridge. The theme tune was in my head the other morning – partly as a result of the gloomy nature of the programme, but also because we had our first (and so far only) frost of the winter and that reminded me of how this whole gardening thing really started with me. A frost, in the eyes of The Old Man, was critical before we would be allowed to start picking the Brussels Sprouts. It was the lack of a frost back in 2010 that meant that the stampeding heifers who trampled through the garden one November night destroyed the whole crop in one fell swoop.
So I went out and picked the Brussels which are looking pretty good for the first time in years. It was a proper Sunday roast with veg from the garden all done to perfection by Mrs B. And delivered to the table at exactly one o’clock. Sunday roasts are in our British DNA – though each family has its own take on how it should be done. Mrs B combines all the best ingredients from both sides our families. We use the veg from the garden (my family’s habit) but it will – almost without fail – be served at one o’clock. I have fond memories of going to the pub with my father-in-law when we came down to visit in our young newly wed days. He and I would have a half of IPA in the Catash while Bren cooked the lunch. I was his partner-in-crime as we would “roll” back at ten past one, just a little merry but subject to a cool steely gaze from the disgruntled chef.
It seemed a jolly jape at the time, but these days it is I who gets the hard stare from Mrs B if I do not get myself together in time to be sitting down for the roast at 1 o’clock. It seems we are doomed to become our parents in so many ways. As The Bridge theme song wails…”goes back to the beginning”
I’ve rewritten this post about three times as I have tried to get the tone right. Autumn has always been to me a time for reflection though in my younger years it was enlivened by my birthday in October which would be closely followed by Guy Fawkes night and then on to Christmas. These days another birthday is of little consequence – although the arrival home of Verity for my birthday was a wonderful surprise. This, sadly, was tempered by the premature passing of my cousin Dave at the age of 55, which put me back into reflective mode. Attending a funeral of one of our peers reminds us that there is no point in hanging about – life is out there and it is not waiting for you so it was apt that two days later Mrs B was running 10 miles in the Great South Run to celebrate her own good health three years on since Lymphoma and stem cell transplant.
Squashes – not too large
So as the clocks go back and the nights draw in one must be thankful for one’s blessings and to look forward, which is exactly what one does in the garden, as we start planning for next year. We have been designing a new border, planting out Sweet Williams and other perennials, and planting garlic. We have also cleared the last of the squashes (much smaller than last year for some reason) and harvested the last of the green peppers and aubergines – which were also disappointing in size and number. So we will be looking to rectify what might not have gone right this year and trying to add new and different aspects to the garden.
Halving the irises in the Silver Wedding
So, as I had a couple of spare days at half term I took time to make the extension to the Boomerang bed. Not sure what to call this…the didgeridoo? I shuffled plants in the Boomerang and the Silver Wedding, putting the Veronicas together in the former and splitting the irises in the latter (hard work, that one). I surprised myself by how many plants I had for stocking the bed: as well as the Rudbeckia Marmalade and leftover Sweet Williams that we had grown from seed, there were a whole bunch of perennials that I had acquired as a bargain plug plant offer last year, and a lot of them have been doing nicely up by the top greenhouse over the summer and look ready for planting out now. It’s almost like a planned it all along. It was potentially back-breaking work, but immensely satisfying.
The great summer of 2016 starts here (or at least the planning does).
Fungus
Mrs B’s scarecrow glove – designed to get rid of Cabbage Whites
Walnuts – collected then pilfered by the dogs
First sod is cut
This takes time…
Ready for stage 2
2 barrow loads of compost dug in. Now planting
Trying out the new camera
Season of Mists…?
Red sky in the morning – Mrs B’s running warning
The ladies – 30 miles between them (Mrs B is in the middle)
It’s getting towards autumn – in fact Mrs B observed to me last week that the day and night were at that point of equal length. “Aha – autumnal equinox” I said. She just sneered at my nice-boy schooling which got me a C at latin O-level to provide me with the ability to throw in some long words in short sentences. Add to the equinox a lunar eclipse which coincided with the harvest super moon and it is all beginning to feel just that bit chillier and darker around these parts.
Boomerang Bed in Autumn
In gardening terms this is a time to plan, as the seed catalogues start to thump on the front door mat. But it also prompts an air of melancholy which puts me in a reflective mood. A constant topic of discussion with Mrs B is the reduction in the OM’s capabilities as he struggles with his breathlessness and decreasing mobility. But a lessening in mobility is something that guess I am coming to terms with as I ponder the fact that I will no longer be able to play competitive hockey or tennis again, as my knees and back have put paid to that. I feel old. But I’m not am I? I reassure myself that I can still dig the garden or plant up the Rudbeckia or Sweet Williams. And I also had my best round of golf the other day. So I tell myself that I am still active and reasonably fit…..but then I’m reminded that I am fit only within the parameters of someone who has truly hit middle age. So yes, if that is the sum total of my achievements then I guess I am getting old(er). Just check out the title of this blog for confirmation of where I am in life.
Lord of All he Surveys
But the garden keeps me stimulated as we plan extensions to borders and think of new veg for the spring. And in the spirit of reflection I happened upon some old photos of the boomerang bed when TOM and mum first planted it. The pics tell a story of how much the garden has matured in the intervening years, but also give some insight into the division of labour in the household in those days. We can see TOM standing tall and imperious as his life partner bends to do the planting. It might be an unfortunate moment, but I think it illustrates how this garden came to be. Other photos show the bed planted up for the first summer with begonias – Mrs B’s most loathed flower – and it brought back memories of how my parents would assiduously fill the borders with bedding plants every year.
How times have changed: now the vogue is to emulate Piet Oudolf with drifts of perennials, an example of which we viewed the other day at Hauser and Wirth.
If only we had planted them a bit to the left…
I remember TOM as the manager from the time I helped mum to plant the five acers at the end of the garden. I must have been in my late teens. We put in the best part of a day’s hard labour digging the holes and planting the sizeable saplings in the rough field while the OM was at work. On surveying the work his initial reaction was to point out what we could have done better – which was not unusual. He told us they should have been three feet further to the left. The news was not received well: I suspect it was suggested that if he did not like their positioning, he was welcome to move them himself.
They stayed where they were and thrived.
He must have been about my age when the boomerang bed was planted, so it fills me with hope that the garden has come so far since then and continues to stimulate, challenge, frustrate but ultimately reward the work that goes into it, and will do so for many years. Hell, TOM is still around and able to gain some pleasure from the garden so I guess there is still plenty of life left in this Midlife Gardener yet.
