The Summer in one day

Posted on August 18, 2012 by midlifegardener

 

Sunshine and showers

With the summer continuing changeable, one is almost taken aback by a bit of warm sunshine.  Wednesday provided the whole of this season in one day, with light rain followed by torrential rain, which cleared to warm sunshine, during which, with masterful timing I took the dog for a walk.  A good walk only spoiled by Fudge going ballistic at a slightly startled elderly rambler; though Fudge had good cause to complain: the lady was wearing full rambling gear, carrying maps, back packs and hiking stick all accessorized badly with what looked like a yellow bin liner by way of waterproofing.  Enough to freak the most laid back canine.

By the time we returned, the blue skies were being invaded by scudding clouds as the wind got up and blew away any thoughts of a leisurely afternoon sunning myself in the garden.

Instead I prepared the ground for, and planted, lines of swede and chard as well as hedging my bets by planting a couple of seed trays of the same in the greenhouse as well as some small pots of cauliflowers.

At the other end of the reap and sow spectrum, I picked more runner and french beans as well as a courgette (zucchini to our north american brethren) which magically went from the size of a small pencil to torpedo in hours flat.  In between times I had trimmed the tomato plants to stop them taking over the whole greenhouse.

Elsewhere around the garden the are plenty of flowers blooming at long last, with cornflowers for cutting looking good – though how on earth you get them to grow straight I have no idea.  At the Olympic Park they have thousands of the beggars standing straight and tall in vast beds.  Fantastic – but how do they do that?!

Blousy? Moi?

The Love in the Mist are finally blooming joining the Nicotiana in the corner bed.  The scent of Nicotiana is so lovely on a warm evening as we go to shut the chickens in.  And lovely set off with the Love in the Mist and the Cosmos.  Elsewhere there are numerous splashes of colour including the infamously blousy Dahlias (The Old Man is very pleased with them – but they stand out in the flower beds like rambler wrapped in flapping yellow plastic).  I don’t know the names of flowers – I am don’t have the brain for it – but they look kinda nice and next year we will hopefully plan and develop the colour schemes a little more.

So yesterday had all the summer in one: sun, rain, wind, cloud, preparing, planting harvesting and just some good old seasonal flowering.

Nicotiana – great performers

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Fresh Produce

Posted on August 14, 2012 by midlifegardener

Ready for picking – runner beans

We are at the time of the year when I remember my parents would begin to repeat the mantra about fresh produce in the garden.  “The beans are ready for picking”, “plenty of courgettes” or “please help yourself to lettuces – or else they will go to waste”.

Waste – anathema to the generation brought up in wartime rationing and post-war depression.  Wasting good produce was deemed a cardinal sin in the garden.  All those delicious vegetables and we don’t seem to want to eat them.  Well, I am now in that happy position when some vegetables are coming to harvest time and the daily habit of picking them has started.  I say “some” because, frankly, this summer has been pretty crappy with the cold wet weather putting paid to many of the early veg like the peas (one bowlful from a row of plants).  But the runner beans are hitting their stride at the moment.

Harvesting runner beans is the equivalent of plate spinning: you check each row every day and try to pick every bean that is of the required size: not too skinny, but not too fat and stringy.  But somehow you always manage to miss a couple so next day you see a cucumber sized bean hanging in the green shade. If you left it another day, you feel it would pull the whole plant over, such is the apparent speed with which they grow.

So today I will be getting out there and trying to reap as many as I can.  And what will I do with all these beans?  Well, I will follow the parents’ example and start slicing, blanching and freezing as many of the blighters as I can.  Suddenly frozen veg in the winter seems a really worth while idea.  If it means they don’t go to waste.

Meanwhile, T.O.M. keeps informing me that the carrots in his patch are ready to pick.  I gladly took some last night – and they are delicious.  Carrots are right up there in terms of veg that truly taste so much better than shop bought.

Pull ’em, rinse ’em, steam ’em and eat ’em.  Stunningly delicious.

And in response to my pompous declarations to The Old Man that there are plenty of runners, he first of all said that he better make some runner bean chutney (what? from my beautiful fresh runners?) then, after we returned from our trip to the Olympics at the weekend, said he hadn’t realised there were any ready.

Now I know how he felt whenever I failed to heed his requests for me to pick my quota of produce.

What size omelette did you want?

Elsewhere, the hens continue to lay well, but who is laying what is a mystery as the three from the other day show: mummy egg, daddy egg and baby egg: double yoker, single yoker and, well, “could do better if she tried”.

The unpredictability of home harvests.

 

 

Shallots?

A final note on my previous post about labelling things.  I decided to lift the shallots, which I did under the supervision of T.O.M.  It was all going well, with him advising which were “banana” shallots and which the ordinary variety (pretty obvious really – no need for labels there) when I found one little clump which had not developed greatly.  We simultaneously realised that this was not a clump of underprivileged shallots, but was a garlic bulb.  How did that get there? I wondered.  Then remembered that all the shallots and garlic had been put in hurriedly at the start of the spring.  So, once agin, you need to be so careful to label things, you know.

Drying in the sun – spot the garlic

 

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Process or Results

Posted on August 2, 2012 by midlifegardener

“A dreaded Sunny Day, So let’s go where we’re happy…Keats and Yeats are on your side”.

Anyone for Pimms?

So sang Morrissey with The Smiths. I like the line (as I like the Smiths) but I have had to carefully edit the Smiths lyrics to take out all the pathos and depression.

Likewise one has to do the same this summer: carefully edit out the dreadful rainy days and think only of the sunny ones. And at last we have had just that: a sunny fortnight with which we have been blessed with sunshine.  It was perfectly timed to coincide with our summer celebration for our Silver Wedding which we had ambitiously planned to have in the garden.  Two days prior to the event, the rain stopped, the sun came out and we were able to get the garden looking spick and span.  The edges were done, the lawn mown, the mole hills squashed and rabbit-proofing chicken wire taken down from around the cosmos and Nicotiana.

Beer tent with two barrels of Palmers Ales

It was a fab evening with great friends and family.  It was, to a great extent, what I had been working towards with the garden so I was pleased with the results, though a few more hours of sunshine might have got the potted sweet peas blooming and a little more colour around the garden.

To a great extent, though, gardening is about the process as much as the result.  The repetition of planting, watering, hoeing, weeding and general maintenance becomes an end in itself.  The final moment when you pick your flowers or vegetables is merely the ultimate stage in a succession of worthwhile activities.

Tables and chairs – heavy lifting instructions required

Ultimately, though, the garden is there to be enjoyed, and the sunshine gives us the opportunity to relax and take in the sights, and sounds.  So my obligatory morning coffee is taken on the grass, sitting on the wrought iron seats (purloined from my brother’s former bar – and built to be so heavy you would need a gold medal in weightlifting to be able to draw it to the table, let alone throw it across a crowded bar).

For me, making coffee has become a ritual in which process adds to the result.  I use coffee beans – from my good friends at Azorie Blue – which I grind freshly for each cup with my Krupps grinder.  I then make an espresso with our neat new Aero Press.  While I am doing this I have put the milk in the microwave to heat, then I froth that and add to my espresso for the perfect latte.  I have taken some stick from one of my more cynical brothers for the lengths to which I go for a home brewed latte, but it makes me happy and I definitely get a better cup of coffee.

And it tastes even better in the sunshine in my garden.

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever; coffee in the garden is a joy for now.

A break from gardening…

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We should label things

Posted on July 27, 2012 by midlifegardener

Sprouting brocoli.

Peter Cook and Dudley Moore had – as their alter egos Derek and Clive – an expletive-laden conversation regarding the lack of labelling on important household items (such as motorbikes and sunglasses – getting them mixed up can be awkward, it seems) and I often find myself reciting the lines in my head as I go around the garden looking at rows of green stuff sprouting up, trying to remember what they are or how I should be harvesting / nurturing them.

The brocoli we planted is sprouting nicely, though not in one big head.  As these are the plants that Lynn gave to us we are not too sure what type they are, so I am second guessing what to do.  Perhaps they are “cut and come again” brocoli which I can just take off florets and more grow.  But they are just the size of purple sprouting and at the moment we don’t get much of a meal from them.

How ripe is my tomato?

The tomatoes are another issue – I have been patiently waiting for the first one to ripen to its full red bloom, only to discover that this type are naturally orange in colour and will not turn red.  Change the label to orange tomato.

Mind you, even with a label and instructions, life does not always work out.  My coriander seeds which the packet told me would take something stupid like a matter of hours between sowing and harvesting, have taken months to only produce three pathetic seedlings.  It don’t always do what it says on the tin.

One row of potatoes – spot the difference

And even when your plants do well, you cannot always be sure what you will harvest.   Lynn kindly provided us with a whole host of different chitting spuds, from Belle de Fontenay second earlies to Sarpo Mira Main Crop.  I carefully planted each type in its own row and assiduously labelled each one accordingly.  What soon became apparent when the spuds came up was that they were not necessarily uniform rows: the tops were clearly different, and since the destruction of the plants by blight, I havent’ a clue what I am going to find.  This week we dug several roots of potatoes that are like no other we have planted – so while one root is clearly Setana, the next is bright red – maybe Duke of Yorks?  Who knows.  But it brings even more excitement to an otherwise mundane task fo digging spuds.

As Derek and Clive said “If people would label things…you’d know where you were”.

Trail of destruction – the snails didn’t read the label either…

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Don’t Say What You See

Posted on July 17, 2012 by midlifegardener

Send My Regards to Broad Beans…

Prince Charles has been ridiculed in the past for his admission that he talks to his plants to encourage growth.  Looking over my desolated veg patch this week, if HRH had had a look he could have been forgiven for thinking that I might have been saying rather nasty things to my plants.  The broad beans are black and increasingly wizened, and the potatoes, with nothing above ground, now look like Iron Age long barrows, awaiting grave robbers to dig up the treasure within.   If anyone has been talking to these plants, it would probably have been someone from the John Terry school of elocution.  What might pass for “banter” on the professional football pitch would definitely be banned in the allotment.

Admittedly, the more banal explanation for the sorry state of the beans (and spuds) will be the weather – in particular the position of the jet stream which is doing its very best to break every precipitation record in the book this summer.  But talk of the weather is also banned in our house.  Claire has been threatening to put a sign up in the bookshop to warn potential customers that “yes – we know it is raining outside, that it has been a crap summer and we too are fed up with it.  But most of all we are fed up with every single (JT expletive deleted) customer telling us this”.

The other reason we are not discussing the weather in our house is because our Silver Wedding Celebration is planned for this Saturday – in the garden.  Jim told me yesterday that he thought that we should be OK this week-end, and coming from a man who has spent his life working outdoors on farms, I was heartened to hear an expert opinion on the subject.  Unfortunately, he undermined this voice of authority by saying “well that was what it said on the ‘Countryfile‘ forecast”.  AAAhhhh…. that’ll be same TV programme we watch on Sundays – a glossy magazine of picture postcard farming for city dwellers who think cows are the size of a large dog (genuine overheard conversation that one) where the rare breed piglets on Adam’s Farm get a little sun cream on the ears to prevent burning.

No that does not inspire great confidence, so we are not trying too hard to guess the size of the next weather front and are avoiding false hopes and discussion about high pressure over England this week-end.

But in the absence any weather to discuss, what can we Brits talk about?

Parsnips just keeping their heads above water

Well, I reckon second on the list, is gardening, so a quick resume of what’s growing on in the borders.  Well, Claire planted out the Sweet Williams and I put the parsnips out.  Both now look rather sodden and sad, but are surviving.  The Heritage Peas have grown magnificently – straight and tall.  Unfortunately, they forgot to flower, so there are five feet of leafy, spindly growth, with six inches of flowering plant on top.  So a couple of handfuls of peas are the best we can hope for.  But only if the bees are able to get out and pollinate, but they are seemingly hive-bound because of – you guessed it – the weather.

The pigs are happy as….well pigs in mud really.  They have discovered that if they dig deep enough they can get to the roots of the blue cedar.  The other morning I discovered them up to their shoulders shovelling away with their snouts – looking intent on digging a tunnel out of there.  Perhaps they are trying to escape this crap weather.  When they ask for a wooden horse for practising their gymnastics I will start to worry.

They are managing to keep themselves busy with rootling around amid signs that they are getting adolescent urges as the smaller puny pig keeps trying to mount his larger brother.  Some sex education might be in order here, but in a blog that is intended to be read by the whole family, I think we will leave it there.  To paraphrase from last week’s court case: he’s a rutting ginger runt.

Elsewhere sex education is also in short supply with the hens who are laying three eggs per day, but Sydney the Speckled  Sussex has been broody for weeks.  Sydney clearly does not understand that however long she sits on those eggs, they ain’t gonna hatch.

But then again, perhaps it’s not the eggs that make her stay indoors – perhaps she too is just fed up with the WEATHER.

But we’re not going to mention that are we?  Just try not to comment on the bleeding obvious.

An Orange glow in the greenhouse…
Is it the sun?
No: just the first tomato trying to ripen.

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Blighted

Posted on July 14, 2012 by midlifegardener

Sarpo Mira – advertised as blight resistant. Correct!

My depiction of war in the garden and use of historical references – such as the clearances –  sprang to mind on Wednesday as I walked down the garden to see two thirds of the potatoes had been struck down with blight.  My thoughts turned to A-level Irish history and accounts of the Irish potato famine.

The speed with which this has struck is breathtaking.  We had not noticed anything particularly untoward a couple of days ago, but on Wednesday morning the rows of Kestrel, Setana, Belle De Fontenay, and Wilja were covered in  tell-tale brown spots and in some cases the plants were already turning to mush.  Even the Arran Victory had taken a “hell of a beating” and looked defeated.  The only spuds that seemed to be surviving the onslaught were the Sarpo Mira: the spuds that we had intended to buy in bulk but – due to Lynn’s munificence when going to the potato day at the Consti club –  we just ended up with two rows and an interesting array of other varieties.

In retrospect this looks like we were right all along, but who could have guessed that we would have SUCH a wet summer and anyway, isn’t it good to try a range in your first year? But all is not lost yet: the Sarpos  still look mostly healthy today, despite the small brown patches on the leaves.

Fungal Spores

So what is this blight?  I read that it is a fungal infection Phytophthora infestans that can also infect other members of the potato family, Solanaceae such as tomatoes. It spreads through the air and is particularly virulent in damp weather.  If that does not fit your idea of a typical British summer, then you clearly do not live in these Isles.  So in retrospect I should not be surprised by the turn of events.

Apparently it is possible to predict the occurrence of blight by “Smith Periods” – in which the temperature remains above 10 degrees along with 90% humidity during a 48 hour period.  And that is exactly what we had in the previous two days: misty, drizzly weather that when I went into school the previous day to teach athletics to year 10 I had finally snapped and declared that I had had enough.  No more cheery “crap weather again hey!”, or “anyone for tennis” laughing at the tennis coaches braving it in wind and rain.  The weather was no longer a subject of ironic mirth.  I was fed up with being constantly wet or changing lesson plans according to the position of the jet stream.  Well thanks very much Jet stream – you can sod off back to Scandinavia, your work is done.  My potato crop is ruined.

Brown stains – everything must go…

So that would explain the potato blight on Wednesday morning.  I told Claire and we both trudged down the garden and cleared the tops off the plants.  That is the beauty of the internet:  I could google blight, and after getting a brief history of the Irish potato famine, I could get good advice on what to do if you do end up like a 19th century Irish tenant farmer.  Get rid fo the infected foliage and hope it has not got into the tubers.  We did that – though left the self-righteously healthy Sarpos to prosper a little longer.  We had it done by 8 a.m. ostensibly so I could get to school on time, but, you know, I was convinced the blight was spreading before my eyes and we had to act now.  To lighten the gloom I joked that either we got rid of this problem and saved our potato crop, or else we up sticks and emigrate to America…

Wiljas – Dad’s “go to” spud, looking less reliable than this year’s model, Sarpo Mira

So we await the outcome of our swift action.  Dunno what spuds will be left, but I think we did the right thing.  Dad’s reaction was that it must have been weed killer or something to have done them in so fast, but after sharing the results of my googling with him he takes my word that it was blight – and even understands about Smith Periods.  By next week he will be telling me the same things as if it was he who knew all along about such things.

In the meantime I can feel like I am – in my father’s eyes – a grown up who is actually managing to cope with the vicissitudes of life in the garden.

All gone – except for the Sarpo and a few Belle de Fontenay

Barrow load of rotten potato tops

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Garden Clearances Continue

Posted on July 4, 2012 by midlifegardener

Who’s been eating my broccoli?

After our last report, we are sorry to report that further damage has been sustained to the veg patch.  Well – mainly to the Old Man’s patch.  We noticed that most of our brussels, broccoli and purple sprouting had taken direct hits from an unidentified assailant.  It was not initially clear what had done the damage: I thought that maybe a smart pigeon had somehow managed to fly in under the radar and the netting to peck the succulent leaves off.  Claire was of the opinion that slugs – which have been numerous in this sodden summer – but The Old Man was suspicious of rodent mammalian infiltration.  Either small rabbits who had dodged his air rifle pellets and got through the large gauge netting or perhaps mice.

So, smaller netting was put in place and fresh brussels plants were put in.  Over the path  in our patch we already had tighter fencing in place, but we gave a liberal sprinkling of the slug equivalent of liquorice allsorts to turn them to mush.

One small victim at the scene of his crime

The next day we had got one slug, but the new brussels in the small allotment were nibbled again.  This time TOM brought out the ultimate weapon against rodents – his mouse traps.  I had never seen these before:  they look like plastic castanets or even sets of dentures lying around the veg patch.  But the next day they had done their job.  Lying there with castanets on their heads were two mice.  Well, that is not strictly accurate.  One small grey mouse was truly dead with a set of dentures round its neck.  The other was larger, browner, and had the castanets over its nose.  And it was still alive.  I put it out of its misery.

I’ve never been very relaxed about putting animals into the afterlife.  I recall meeting our local female doctor out as she was walking her dog one time when it caught and failed to wholly despatch a rabbit.  Without breaking off our conversation Judith put her foot on the neck of the failed extra from Watership Down, and twisted its head through 360 degrees, tossed the body into the hedge, and continued the walk.  While I stood in aghast in awe at her dispassionate approach to the rabbit’s demise.  She was simply annoyed that her dog had failed to complete the job it started.

Another one bites the mouse

But my father was right: it was mice that were destroying his sprouts.  Or rather I thought the larger one looked more like a small rat.  I left the corpses for him to dispose of. Although one has to be quick around here: the other day he shot a rabbit then went for lunch (such is the casual nature with which we take away life these days) and when he came back, a couple of magpies were already picking at the choice cuts themselves.  Reminded me of the scene from film Excalibur when the knights are searching through the famished land for the grail, and there is a scene in which a crow picks the eye from a corpse.  Yummmmm.

I was later informed that my “small rat” was actually a “large field mouse”.  That made me feel a little guilty.  Field mouse conjures images of fluffy rodents (and their young) nibbling gently at golden ears of wheat under azure skies.  Admittedly, just prior to combine harvesters mashing them, but I guess they are fairly numerous and anyway they should just “get off my land!

Well, I am glad to say that there have been no more gnashers on mice and all the brussels, broccs and purps are beginning to recover from the rodent blitzkrieg.

***********************

Weeding: little and often is best!

At the weekend Claire was concerned that the garden was getting overgrown with weeds.  She was not wrong: it has been so wet and I have been busy with end of term at school and other coaching work, so the veg lines were looking shaggy.  I set to, weeding three rows of broad beans, two rows of runners and climbing french and our brussels, brocs and purps.   Like I always say, if a job is worth doing. it is worth doing quickly.  Unfortunately, in my haste, I did the unthinkable, taking off a borlotti bean and two pea plants at ground level with the Holy Blade of the Super Hoe.  Oops.  That upset me more than killing field mice, but the garden is looking better tended now albeit rather more denuded.

Survival of the fittest around here.

 

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Fighting Spreads Across Gardening Fronts

Posted on June 22, 2012 by midlifegardener

Casualties of the Garden War

The large elder lies in a tangle of branches, wilting leaves and splintered trunk, alongside the dishevelled box hedge.  The young tree had apparently been growing though the hedge, which had lost much of its shape as a result.  There have been suggestions that the elder had been using the box as a hedge “shield” and elsewhere in the garden the sight of another elder growing out of the top of the box – but now dying – would suggest that the rumours have some foundation.

Which is more than can be said for the hedge-bound elder: sawn off close to the ground, its life curtailed.  The result of hack saw and secateurs is clear.  And what is equally clear is that this is no time to be an elder in the garden.  Since the break down of the ceasefire between the gardening authorities and the weeds and vermin in the garden (broken – apparently – by the elderflowers’ unrelenting growth and invasion of further flower beds) clashes have become more commonplace with increasing casualties.

Sawn off at ground level – but they will be back

Most of the casualties have been sustained by weeds and elders whose infiltration of flower and vegetable settlement areas have been on the increase in the recent weeks and – according to the authorities – wholly against the planting agreements.  The Midlifegardener is upscaling his combat operations with not only the heavy artillery, but also chemical warfare against many of the small weeds in and around the sundial and lavender, as well as around the edges of veg patches.

Similar tactics are being employed against aphids which have tried to settle on parsnip plants and there are rumours of massacres on the broad beans as black fly have come under sustained chemical attack.

Fudge – the rabbit chaser. “I am not a killer” she says.

Larger vermin have been targeted too.  Well, I say targeted, but the aim of the “peacekeepers” is somewhat random, as the initial attempt to seek and destroy rabbits entailed the use of a “Somerset Hunting Dog” (code-named Fudge) whose high levels of enthusiasm for the job correlated inversely with her effectiveness.  While few rabbits were caught there was a large amount of collateral damage as shrubs and flowers were trampled by the excitable mut.  Since then the Old Guard has been brought in, with sniper fire from the French Windows accounting for a number of large and small rabbits.

All this would presume that The Garden is a place of high security and little freedom for the local inhabitants, but that would be to ignore the underground invasion that is taking place right under our feet as moles infiltrate every part of lawn and bed.  The tunnellings are obvious and have so far proven to be immune to mowing and the deranged stamping of gardeners’ wellies.  Top level meetings have taken place between Gardener, Old Man and Jim, but no effective means of quashing the mole rebellion has been found.

The use of ferret faeces will dissuade moles apparently, but this will only move them to another part of the garden.  And mole traps, according to Jim, have limited success.  So, while battle rages around the garden, the moles look to turn the lawn into their own version of Tahrir Square.  As the oppressors might say, in an attempt at reverse psychology, “let the moles rise up”.

Then at least they might be able to catch a few.

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Beans and Bugs

Posted on June 12, 2012 by midlifegardener

Wisteria in bloom

The recent dry weather well and truly broke last week. The fact that it was half term holiday (and the Queen’s Jubilee celebrations) only added to the air of despondency at the inclement weather.  The wind was threatening to knock over some of the newly planted veg and evidence of the strength of the gales was there in the morning in the shape of large parts of the walnut tree lying like bones on the grass.  I had transplanted my lupin from behind the hostas in the middle bed (I had not noticed the “dwarf” descriptor on the label) into the more exposed Silver Wedding Bed and the flower subsequently got knocked off.  The rest of the plant does not look too happy either.  I guess it was happy hiding behind the hostas.

The weather put paid to the wisteria blossom as well as finishing off some of the irises.

Iris in sun. For a short while.

Wisteria always conjures thoughts of mullioned windows and Oxbridge courts, so seeing a fine wisteria blossoming on my father’s tool shed still feels a little incongruous.  But I do love the fine new leaves and the stunning flowers.  They dazzle in the sunlight.  Just not so good in the wind and the rain.

But overall, everything was sound.  The mature trees – many of which my parents have planted over the years – give good shelter for the garden.

So not too much doing this week.  We put in a row of purple sprouting, planting them closer than I had the Brussels.  The Brussels I had put well apart, still thinking about how my father would probably say I had put them too close, only for him to say that I had put them further apart than he normally would.  You just can’t win sometimes. I didn’t worry.  It will be easier to pick them.  But we seem to be balancing our relationship now, with me doing stuff and him offering simple advice where necessary.

Black fly, black fly, little black fly…they make me itch just looking at them.

We planted another row of mixed lettuce and also some pepper plants in the greenhouse.  However, my experiment with parsnips in newspaper or toilet rolls seems to be floundering as the green shoots are curling up under an aphid onslaught. We will have to see what can do about that.  Black fly is another potential problem on the broad beans, but with a little advice from the old man I have started picking the tops out of the plants.

But this has proved too late, as there are plenty of the little blighters crawling into the folding fans of the early leaves and getting milked by the ants on the stems.  But fear not!  My dad pointed me in the direction of a can of bug spray.  It has been sitting on the gas canister outside the greenhouse all winter as far as I can tell and I did not dare ask if it was really full of toxic aphid slaughtering chemicals.  Well apparently it is.

One little tyrant making my parsnips curl

So I gave them all a good going over – including the harbingers of destruction on my nascent parsnips.  I tend to hold to the policy of “if a job is worth doing, it is worth doing quickly”, so when it comes to controlling pests, I am rapidly finding myself in the spray, swat and splat school of bug control.  None of the organic, let’s encourage ladybirds and hoverflies to come and eat them all, “third way” kind of liberal nonsense.  No: Direct Action.  And fast.  That’s what we want.  We can send invitations to the ladybirds for next summer.  If it means preserving my darling beans of May (or June, or whatever) spraying with Bug Off is what I’ll do.

And I hate myself for it.

The Lost Front Garden raised (or shoud that be razed?)

Meanwhile out the front, I spent a happy afternoon in the rain doing the nearest equivalent of slash and burn on the front garden which some years ago we made into a gravelled patio area but which in recent times has become somewhat overgrown.  Judicious use of the strimmer – just a little worrying with shingle stones in the grass  – and other destructive tools, and the sweet Monsieur Hulot type path was retrieved.  And in the process, more nettles (otherwise known as Ladybird heaven) were destroyed.

Oh dear, no more green planet.  A few toxins won’t do any harm, will they….?!

The Sun Also Sets

Memo to self – plan for an organic 2013.

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Ginger Boys – the Vandals of Sleepy Wallow

Posted on June 4, 2012 by midlifegardener
Ginger Pig

One of the Accused

I came home yesterday afternoon to discover that Gilbert and George had been naughty. Their water trough (well more of a basin) had been wrenched off the post on which it had been secured for a couple of years now, and the water had been pouring across their enclosure for most of the day.

Who are Gilbert and George you might ask. Well, they are two Tamworth / Oxford Sandy and Black cross pigs. Brothers, they are affectionately referred to as the ginger pigs. They are the latest set of weaners that we have raised. We started with a pair of Saddleback sows, then some Sandy and Blacks, a couple of sets of Berkshires and now these two, who came from Tim and Judith down the road.  Gilbert and George’s predecessors on our patch have all been despatched in their time. But now the chest freezer is beginning to look a little empty, more pork is required for our winter store.

Keeping pigs, you can begin to see why people say that they make great pets.  They are characterful creatures that are smart and inquisitive with distinct differences between the breeds.  The Saddlebacks were docile and friendly while the Sandy and Blacks were more sparky.  The Berkshires were also very amenable.  But now we have the progeny of a Sandy and Black sow and a Tamworth boar.  And these boys are very different.

One obvious difference is in gender – boys together seem to make for more rough and tumble.  It is something about two young males in a family (be it pig or human) that leads to a higher degree of friction and general boisterousness.  These two are no different.  Plus they are red heads.  I will say no more on the subject – I have some good friends of burnt auburn colouring, so won’t dwell on the subject, but there is a kind of Celtic edge to their demeanour.  So these guys are noisy and rumbustuous lads who seem to be intent on getting hold of anything they can find and testing its physical strengths to the limit.  During their stay I have found bits of wiring and a plate that they have somehow dragged in through the stock fencing.  They have an ability to move large stones and even the Belfast sinks that had previously be used for feed – all shoved around with their snouts.

Putting the snout to good use

Pigs’ snouts are remarkable things.  They are part bulldozer, part perfumier’s sensitive olfactory organ to sniff out stuff underground.  It is fascinating to see them rootling away through soft turf, just ploughing up the ground with their nose.  Even more impressive when the ground is hard.  I would like to think that the deconstruction of the water trough was a scheme on their part to provide damp conditions to snuffle and wallow to beat the hot weather.  I am not sure that they are that intelligent – but then who knows?  Images of Animal Farm spring to mind.

“Better get used to those bars, Kid”

That said, these pigs are much less interested in wallowing than their predecessors – mostly sows – who would love a good slouch around in a muddy hollow, specially provided by our own “Pig Whisperer” Josh.  Those sows loved to just cool their bits off in a muddy hollow, then chase Josh around the pen to say thank you.  These two boys are somewhat less confident with us, though they are betting better.  One is very much the runt, but the larger (Gilbert?) is more confident, though he squeals like a, well, a stuck pig, when you touch him.

The Scene of the Crime

So, mending the water feeder was going to be interesting.  It turned out the damage had first been discovered by The Old Man who had somehow turned it upside down to stop the water escaping.  Gilbert and George saw this as just another variation on the game so that the water was once again flowing freely (or expensively if it is your water meter in question) by the time Verity came home from school and tried to right it once again.  So TOM had had plenty of time to work out a solution to the problem.

Work starts – but halts until adequate supervision arrives.

Now, either I am becoming more astute and practical in my thinking, or else genetics are taking their toll on me, because the idea I had in my head to sort this issue was exactly the same as that proposed by my father.  The only difference being the size of the post onto which we would secure the drinker.  My idea involved a smaller, less industrial sized anchor. While I was thinking stake, he was thinking telegraph pole.  If my father had his way, the drinker would be able to withstand the predations of an African Bull Elephant.

Mended – but that post looks worryingly flimsy….

So Jim and I stood waiting alongside the damage while his lordship walked back to the house to get the drill.  We agreed that while we could do this ourselves, there was no doubt that we would probably do it wrong.  So, supervised by the Lord of the Manor, we hammered, drilled and screwed to the satisfaction of all.  Help was at hand from the ginger boys who subtly dragged the sledgehammer into the bottom of the muddy puddle along with the pliers and a screw driver.

So the Ginger Whingers are watered again, and like the rest of the estate, basking in the warm sunshine.

 

Happy, muddy pig with Olfactory Digger to the fore

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