Use of Weapons

Posted on July 17, 2013 by midlifegardener
Cabbages under attack

Cabbages under attack

And so it begins…

This year has been as chalk to cheese with the brilliant, unbroken sunshine of the past few weeks contrasting with the relentless rain of 2012.  But some things remain the same, for while the veg patch and borders are all looking spick and span, we are still under bombardment from local villains.

For example, two weeks ago I happened upon a number of caterpillars on the broccoli.  They were simply resting alongside each other, like mini cruisers in a game of battle ships.  They were resting because they had clearly had their fill of large portions of my summer purple sprouting.  I could hear the dramatic music in my head as I lifted a leaf and saw more as they munched their way along the leading edge of another leaf.  It’s hardly Pearl Harbor revisited, but I actually felt a little rush of adrenalin when I saw the lazy fat striped bodies lying there in the bright sunlight, confident in the knowledge that no birds were going to eat them.  I think I must be investing a little too much emotional energy into this these days.  Well, the caterpillars had not legislated for an angry midlife gardener and were duly despatched.

Interestingly, since then I have not seen any more caterpillars, but the butterflies were out in force this week so we are expecting a fresh assault any time soon.

Dew on Sweet Williams

Dew on Sweet Williams

In other news, as they say, we continue to try and get the rabbit(s).  They had munched on the brussels and broccoli after insinuating themselves through the wide gauge netting which the OM put round the smaller patch at the start of last year (before allowing the chard, lettuces and pink fir apples to get overrun with weeds).  So I changed the netting and, since TOM got out of hospital I have taken possession of the air rifle, with which he has previously been pretty successful from his bedroom window.  (I can imagine my father would have been very much at home back in the hey day of the Empire, sitting on the veranda in some sweltering Imperial outpost, shooting whatever happened to be passing, while the ice cubes rapidly melted in his tumbler of Bombay Sapphire and Fever Tree Tonic).

Sweet Peas and Lobellia

Sweet Peas and Lobelia

However, as he is slightly concerned with the thought that he might be split asunder by the kick of the rifle, I have taken control of the weapon and have spent a few fruitless mornings stalking bunnies in the garden.  Fat chance I have of hitting one.  In the old days I used to blast them with a shot-gun, but in the current climate of proper gun control, with only an air rifle, my chances of hitting a rabbit with a single pellet from 25 paces from behind a small shrub are slim.  Even allowing for the telescopic sight (which gave TOM a black eye when he rested it against his eye brow when firing) I know the rabbits are safe.

Instead of shooting we are trying trapping instead.  We have baited the rabbit trap (after a short 10 minute instructional talk and demonstration from TOM).  But to no avail.   I also set mouse traps and netted off the caulis and cabbages as I thought mice might have been eating my Fennel sprouts.  No mice or rabbits caught, and although no further damage, the culprits are still at large (in the case of the rabbits, increasingly large).  So one has to turn to the ultimate desperate weapon of choice: Fudge.

Awarded for services to pest control

Awarded for services to pest control

I know, I know, I have made much of Fudge’s inability to catch anything other than a canine cold, but she has shown interest in the rabbits, and got close on occasions.  But no success as yet.  But then, metaphorically speaking, she pulled an almighty rabbit out of the hat the other day when she dug up and slaughtered a mole.  I had basically given up on catching moles – the traps never work and none of my pouring acrid smelling chemicals down the holes last year seemed to do any good.  So I would simply “tramp the dirt down” (a nod to Elvis Costello – what a set he played at Glasto this year) and get on with life.  But then Fudge comes up trumps with an excavated and executed mole.  Good dog!

Now, Fudge, about those rabbits….

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77 Years of Hurt

Posted on July 12, 2013 by midlifegardener

My father was about seven months old when we last had a British Men’s Singles Wimbledon Champion.  Having waited nearly 77 years for another he nearly didn’t make it to see the next one after Andy Murray’s nerve-wracking victory over Novak Djokovitch on Sunday.  The fact that the OM “literally” did not see the moment of triumph is by the by:  he had managed to watch the match till 3-4 in the third set, but retired to sit in the garden as he couldn’t stand the tension.  Not unusual for a man who dug the allotment rather than watch England in the ’66 world cup final.

But I can forgive him his moment of stress-relief as he is currently recovering from a triple heart by-pass operation.  It was something that had rather taken him by surprise when the doctor who carried out his angiogram told him they needed to get him into the Bristol Heart Institute as soon as possible.  It was a “do not pass GO, do not collect £200” Monopoly kind of moment.  He thought he would be home that night, but it took another two weeks and two hospital transfers before he came home with vertical scars adorning his chest and legs.  No one else was particularly taken aback by the turn of events for a man who has always carried a little more weight than is strictly necessary, who had smoked in his younger years through to middle age, and who has taken a great deal of comfort from a sedentary lifestyle in which gin and decent wine have played increasingly significant roles.

But a truly great summer of British Sport beckons, starting with the Lions’ rugby win over the Wallabies, Murray’s phenomenal success at Wimbledon, and the potential for another British win the Tour de France, maybe an Ashes victory in the cricket and – who knows – a British winner in the Open Golf always a possibility.  So TOM can relax in this brilliant weather, with us providing breakfast for him, Gill coming round to do the lunch and dinner and sport all across even the most satellite-unfriendly TV.

Perhaps he might develop nerves of steel and be able to actually sit through a whole match in which he feels some allegiance to one or other combatant, but I am not so sure.  I knew when I walked into the hospital to collect him that he was ready to come home.  He was watching Murray’s quarter-final on hospital TV, in which Murray had just won the third set (easily) as he clawed his way back from a two set deficit.

“He’s playing awfully – he’s going to lose” was the pithy, perceptive comment from TOM.

“You’re feeling better, then?” I said.

Hopefully he will not retain a negative mindset on his own ability to recover from a metaphorical two set deficit.  A triple by-pass (not to mention the lump they took out of his lung) is going to knock him back – but he will need to buck his ideas up, get a grip on the short-term goals, and actually look forward to a long hot summer of armchair sport.  All things are possible…if we can get a men’s singles champion in this country, surely the OM can get a more positive outlook on life?

I remain upbeat…

 

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Where do we find the time?

Posted on June 17, 2013 by midlifegardener
Runner Beans, Borlotti and French

Runner Beans, Borlotti and French

I was busy at school last weekend with evening duty on Saturday and afternoon duty on Sunday.  As a result I missed seeing one of my older and wiser brothers – Paul – who was calling through with after collecting Charlie from Exeter Uni.  They were, I am given to believe, very polite about how the garden is looking, but dubious about whether we were doing all the work ourselves in cultivating the vegetable patch.  Charlie was intrigued where we got all our plants from and seemed taken aback to hear that we grew virtually all of them from seed.

Brussels all planted

Brussels all planted

I guess from the outside it does seem that a full time job and a full allotment do not seem to be easily achieved, but it is all about little and often: getting out there and just picking at small jobs each time you’re in the garden.  For instance, this evening as I was looking around the garden I had time to weed the rows of cornflowers and night scented stock that are just coming up, weeded some of the parsnips, watered both greenhouses, and dug around the blackcurrants to get rid of some bindweed and nettles.  Took about an hour.

On Sunday evening I planted 24 brussels sprout plants and put netting over them, and also hoed around the garlic and onions.  Didn’t take long, but I had just enough time.  And it all builds up into one great symphony of stuff growing with such rapidity.

Iris

Iris

The great thing this year is that I now have a base line assessment (spot the teacher) from which to judge this year’s efforts and since last year was so sodden wet, this year seems to be so much better in terms of germination and productivity.  And because it has been nice and dry, the weeds and slugs have been kept down.  So virtually everything is now planted in their rows or tubs, and for the most part are all looking happy.  Bees were spotted around the broad bean flowers and the potatoes are starting to come into bloom too, so we could be digging new potatoes soon.  And with the lack of slugs, even the hostas are in fine form.  So, for now, all those little bits of work have created a scene of rude good health.  Only the courgettes had a poor germination this year, but we bought a couple of plants and with two sowings of our own, have now planted out seven little soldiers, which ought to be enough, if they all survive.

Of course, we have not have any crops yet (with the exception of salad leaves and radishes) so there is still some way to go, but we take one day, or one hour at a time and that seems to be working just fine for now.

Radishes & other salads alongside the rioting raspberries

Radishes & other salads alongside the rioting raspberries

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A word of Advice

Posted on June 4, 2013 by midlifegardener
Irises in sunshine. Lifts the spirits.

Irises in sunshine. Lifts the spirits.

It’s been nearly a month since put finger to keyboard for this account of my continuing takeover of my father’s garden.  Of course May / June is a great time in the garden as the seedlings germinate, grow and are hardened off in the cold frame before being planted out in  serried ranks in and around the patch under the increasingly watchful eye of the Old Man.

A year ago I would have dreaded the offer of advice from the OM, but now I can take it or leave it and it does not worry me. This year I have germinated the mangetout in three phases separated by a couple of weeks to ensure a longer harvesting season.  When I planted them out I wanted to put them in separate rows to ensure I knew which was which to see if my cunning plan had worked.  Unfortunately as I was about to insert the third set, the OM appeared and advised me that I was spacing the plants out far more than I needed to.  I went to transplant them to reduce the spacing but was advised to just put the remaining plants in between the others.

KONICA MINOLTA DIGITAL CAMERAThere lay the quandary: should I do as he told me and mess up my planting plans, or contradict his suggestion and carry on with my relocation of the previous plants?  Of course I steered my usual path of least confrontation and decided to change the activity while we continued our conversation on other topics.  So I got on with hoeing, watering, weeding…anything to pass the time until he decided it was time to head back indoors.  Of course the conversation took ages: we men find it easiest to talk when one of us is DOING something while the other observes and advises.  Only after the best part of an hour did her return inside and I was able to go back to the mangetouts and plant them in the order I wanted.   But in the spacing that he had suggested. A fair compromise, I reckon.

Is that diplomatic on my part? Or merely spineless? Perhaps this is why we manage to rub along as neighbours – despite some differences.   I might get frustrated but don’t generally get annoyed or angry.  Not my style – and I think it works best with his lordship.

collaterla damage from the chemical warfare

collaterla damage from the chemical warfare

With the good weather of late, the OM has as taken to spending more time in the garden, busying himself with the industrial tasks, such as weed-killing the grass around the beds.  I think he likes the instant results of his death-dealing actions as the weeds wilt and die.  Unfortunately his sprayer has been a little wayward so that some of my purple sprouting, runner beans, and kohlrabi have a bad case of the measles as the Weedol has drifted off target.

It is bloody annoying.  After all that work planting the damn things, I do not need them being wiped out by some over-exuberant chemical warfare from my father.  I suppose I could have given him some advice on how to do it or I could just rant at him for his negligence, but I probably won’t do either.

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Help Wanted?

Posted on May 6, 2013 by midlifegardener
Amelanchier - at its best

Amelanchier – at its best

I have previously written about my gardening buddie – Fudge – who has often been my constant gardening companion.  She will hunt for rabbits, or trot around the garden keeping herself busy while I get on with the less arduous task of digging, weeding, or planting.  But in recent weeks she has not always had the necessary patience for gardening and has developed a pentient for wandering off across the nearby fields and – more worryingly – crossing main roads.  In the old days we would have put any such misdemeanours down to “being led astray” by her sister Truffle next door, when the  “fuckwits” would disappear for long evenings running through fields of maize returning with faces like beaten prize-fighters.

Can I go in now?

Can I go in now?

During my mother illness I erected what was commonly described as “giraffe fencing” around the property to corale the dogs.  But after mum’s passing, and Truffle’s out-of-contract transfer to Heaven’s Gate (the animal rescue centre, not the actual portal) the higher fences have gradually come down as Fudge always seemed less motivated than her sister to abscond.  But like a secne from Les Miserables, the barriers are being erected again as Fudge once more goes in search of her Field of Dreams.  It seemed I had managed to make the garden escape proof and yet she was still managing to disappear.  We thought of tagging her, or using hidden cameras or perhaps slyly following her to see where she was getting out.  Until it dawned on me that, hey – she’s just a DOG.  So I went into next door’s drive while Verity held her, and when I called, Fudge gleefully joined me via a circuitous and cunning route under the oil tank.  Job done.  She was so pleased to see me….but now that escape route is blocked and the dog yesterday got so bored in the garden she scratched on the kitchen door to be let back in to the house.

The Fuckwits

The Fuckwits

So with Fudge spending less time in the garden, it was a such a lovely day that Claire decided she would join me in digging the afternoon away.  She had decided she would like to dig the nettles up which are imminently going to engulf the chicken run, but after ten minutes she had dug one nettle and got stung five times (“didn’t you wear gloves?”  “Yes – but they are the ones you bought me and they are are crap”).  She found me in the greenhouse, potting up, and asked if there was anything else she could do – like planting.  I offered her the chance to plant some runner beans, but she she pointed out she did not have the right gloves to do this (she is justifiably wary of infections after chemo last year) and as I had my hands dirty I could carry on with that.  No, Claire thought, she would go and pull up the remaining purple sprouting ready for me to dig it over.  A nice easy job, with quick results.  A perfect job for Claire..

Purple Sprouting broccoli - real stars this winter

Purple Sprouting broccoli – real stars this winter

Fifteen minutes later I hear an ejaculation and look up to see that she has just put the last plant into the wheel barrow, only for it to tip over and spill all the contents.  She is not happy.  Another ten minutes pass and I hear more cursing and see that Claire is now tackling the stakes on which I had placed netting to keep pigeons off.  The stakes  are further into the ground than Claire would have expected and are proving to be difficult to get out (whole).  Eventually I see her extract a post, though up to a third of it probably remains below ground level as Claire throws the offending article like a javelin towards the pile of broken timbers she has previously removed.  There is not a lot of peace love and understanding in evidence.

I have a brief flash back and think how it would have been for  my parents with me helping them in the garden.  It became a bit of a catch phrase “A job for you, James” and I am sure that I probably had similar tantrums.  I am later told that I looked all to smug and happy in my greenhouse as my other half was throwing lumber, but I was taking the time – protected by my glass house – to muse on what good therapy gardening is.

I think Claire might need alternative therapy before returning to the veg patch any time soon.

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Mediterranean Gardens

Posted on April 12, 2013 by midlifegardener
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.

Succulents in the Biome

Succulents in the Biome

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).

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Sky Fall for Chicken Little

Posted on March 16, 2013 by midlifegardener
Hen Down

Hen Down

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.

130125-7.jpgIt 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.

The Scene of the Crime

The Scene of the Crime

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).

How do I get down?

How do I get down?

But they survived.  For now.

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Not Green Any More

Posted on February 18, 2013 by midlifegardener
130217 (1)

A Very Green House

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

130217 (3)

Is there anybody in there?

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.

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The Crystal Palace!

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.

A good Forking effort

A good Forking effort

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…

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Hot Chit

Posted on February 10, 2013 by midlifegardener
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.

Spud you like?

Spud you like?

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

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…

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Life Skills

Posted on February 4, 2013 by midlifegardener

KONICA MINOLTA DIGITAL CAMERAI 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.

Stripped Bare

Stripped Bare

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…

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