Midlife Gardener

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!

Anyone seen any rabbits?

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.

Frozen Blueberries

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!”.

No lunch outside today

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.

Multi storey hens

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?!

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.

Some leaves still on the oak

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?

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

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…

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

Garlic patch prepared

Garlic planted

Cutting the beech back – thanks Jim

Shaggy front garden

I turned 50 last week.  I celebrated with the my U16 hockey team ending narrow runners-up in the county tournament to “the-school-that-must-not-be named” (otherwise known as the “C” word in my dictionary of sporting vernacular).  I had a quiet meal at the local pub and on Friday celebrated a different 50th anniversary by going to the first night screening of James Bond in Skyfall. Birthdays are not that big a deal – not even your 50th. Am I officially middle-aged or is that 40?  Or is 50 the new 40? If so, is 60 the new 50, in which case when are you officially old, if we are all going to have to work till we’re 70 something to be able to afford a pension?

If I was not sure, the evidence on my birthday cards was conclusive: the recurring themes of gardening and golf which spelt midlife mediocrity writ large.  But that is what I enjoy.  I had a great round of golf earlier this week which included my first ever eagle, (followed by my umpteenth quadruple bogey) and on Friday, after a quick trip to Liverpool, I spent a very happy day in the garden.

All Clear!

I sorted the gravelly bit out by the road, though it has become overgrown with weeds.  It is not an area that concerns me greatly, but Claire retains a suburban desire to put on a good front for the neighbours and wanted the grit and grass sorted out.  It was hard work, as we have not really done anything to this patch for a decade – when we cleared the area, put down shingle and planted a Mahonia.  My mother insisted that grasses would be a good idea – which irked me as this was, at the time, the only piece of the garden I could honestly call mine and I wanted to do whatever I wanted to:  grasses were not in the plan.

Ten years on, two days hard labour and I have come round to the idea that ornamental grasses on this windswept patch of soil would be a great idea.  My mother was right all along.

Always like a trim bush…

When I am in the garden I am often trying to avoid my father, but I conversely I feel closer to my mother, who died six years ago.  It was she who did the majority of the work to create this garden and it is in many ways in her memory that I am doing what I can to maintain and develop it now.  So I cleared the weeds from the shingle and split one or two of the ornamental grasses.  There is some other weed there that looks reasonably decorative so I left that.  And then I came in and ordered some more grass (no not that sort – ornamental stuff).

Lavender and sun-dial

Afterwards I trimmed the Berberis or whatever it is at the front of the house and then, after further internet research, I pruned the lavender.  This had me thinking of mum again as we planted that this year around the sun-dial which had been her 70th birthday present from her four sons.  I’m only twenty years away from that landmark, but there is no point in being morose over it.  There’s still plenty living (and gardening and golfing) to be done.

Better get on with it then.

Lavender at the end of May – our first statement of intent in the garden. Better than dahlias we thought

Running out of control

It’s been a while since I posted, which means that I have not been in the garden as much as I should have been, but I have two good reasons for that.  Firstly, the Olympics were a totally warranted distraction from normal life and a two week holiday in South Africa put a complete hold on any horticultural activity in Midlifegardening terms.

But, coming back from our life-affirming break, I was pleased to see that everything in the garden is doing well.  The Old Man’s lettuces and carrots, beetroot and squashes have all grown immeasurably in the fortnight we were away.  And our brussels, cabbages, and purple sprouting have blossomed too.

Unfortunately, alongside  (or rather on top of) the brussels, the cabbage white butterflies have been busy too.  TOM’s brussels had been lacerated, with writhing masses of striped caterpillars gorging themselves on the fleshy leaves, and within days, mine were showing the same apocalyptic tendencies, with leaves holed and shredded.

The Red Kale took “a hell of a beating”

Since then I have spent a few happy hours picking the little blighters off the leaves and destroying them.  I recall as I child I once did this with a friend and we somehow managed to throw them on a bonfire with the fierce glee of the young savage that burns within the soul of any under ten, but I decided to be more green with the destruction of these pests and even offered them to the chickens.  Unfortunately the hens were not interested – which made me think that perhaps these caterpillars are toxic to birds (hence the bright colours) so crushing them under my welly heel was the most humane way I could think of to destroy them.

One thing is for certain: the cabbage white butterfly is not in danger of extinction through my random culling.  There will be plenty left on the plant to maintain another generation.

Beans, Beans, Beans

Elsewhere the truly remarkable hits of the summer are the French Beans and the Runner Beans.  Runners are an interesting item on the vegetable list and are a peculiarly British veg.  I am not sure that our runner beans are so popular with our North American cousins.  The idea of a bean that you pick whole, take the stringy part from them edge of the pod with a knife or potato peeler then slice to prepare for the pot, is not a type of preparation that some are familiar with, but it is second nature to many growers in Britain.

Last year the runner beans were a disaster for my father: they did not grow well and the harvest was poor.  This year, I threw them in a well-manured trench, constructed the network of canes for them to grow and then pretty much waited.  As we went away there was a burgeoning number of them getting to a good size and while we were away I think TOM was overwhelmed by a tidal wave of ever larger pods.  Indeed, this summer has been declared, in true Olympic style, “the best ever” for runner beans.

The problem is one of glut:  what do we do with the extra?  TOM likes to make runner bean chutney, but there is only so much of that you can eat in a year before you are round to the next summer with a cupboard full of last season’s still in their jars.  I think next door he probably has row upon row of chutney lined up in their years, categorized by type:  “Mmmmm 2005: Classic Vintage: that’s going to be ready in 2015, while the 2011 makes an excellent Nouveau for use with lighter cheeses.  The 2008 is stonking good blue cheese accompaniment: a fine body and with a hint of cinnamon on the nose”.

Or else the other means of preservation is the good old chest freezer, which, although full of dead animal has some room for runners.

So, repeat after me: string, cut, blanche, drain, cool, bag, freeze.  String, cut, blanche…..

Bagged and ready for the freezer