Midlife Gardener

It has been a week in which reports of the C-bomb have been liberally sprinkled across the news, although the “C” that has affected us most in the Midlife Garden has been C for Ciarán as wind and rain have come on stronger than a Dominic Cummings WhatsApp message.  With flooded roads and schools sending kids home early we expected the weather to create the kind of damage not seen since a Downing Street Lockdown Party; but nature has proved to be a lot more resilient than any SPAD or tousle-haired PM.  The garden survived.  To quote Bill Murray in Ghostbusters “the flowers are still standing” and even the greenhouse survived intact albeit with some exceptions. 

First it must be pointed out that the greenhouse is not strictly whole, as the last time I mended it, I ran out of the right sized panes so there is a permanent half pane open on one side.  But maybe, just maybe, this is what has saved it from further breakage?  I am no scientist so will leave it to others to work out about relative pressures, wind speeds and tensile strengths.  But somehow all the panes survived Ciarán’s efforts. 

Secondly, not all the flowers remain standing.  We lost a delphinium in the storm, but since this was a delphinium that had already flowered in May, we are quite smug about it even having another bloom to be battered in a November storm.  This is because, for once, I managed to follow the GW advice to cut back the delphinium as soon as it had flowered in June or July, thus encouraging it to flower again in the autumn.  Ta dah!

The Delph is not the only flower in the garden that has had a second coming.  One of the apple trees, after a frankly poor crop this year, seems to be trying to make up for lost time, but like a school child asking to hand in their homework late, it is not going to get marked now.  It’s too late for apples.  Likewise, the viburnum mariesii has produce one or two late flowers, while its leaves turn a deep shade of red before dropping.   

So, although the garden is generally either overgrown, dead, or, in the case of the raised beds, cleared and prepped for the spring, there is still some colour in there as we head into winter.

For more information on the actual facts behind this story, please go to https://black8.org.uk/

If you can, please register your opposition at the Somerset Planning website link below:

https://publicaccess.southsomerset.gov.uk/online-applications/applicationDetails.do?activeTab=summary&keyVal=SDSGDQOWIRY00

Part of the job of the Midlifegardener is to be a “teacher of future generations”, and this week in English Literature we are taking a look at dystopian fiction. We have a sneak preview of a future (dystopian) edition of Grand Designs, a TV programme which looks at bold, innovative building projects and the people behind them.  In this episode, our brave and intrepid host “Kevin” finds out that while all animals are equal, some (buffalo in particular) are more equal than others as the owner of a large estate aims to create his own Brave New Farming World.

Establishing shot:  Kevin walks across a green field, with a look of wistful intensity.

“This is a county of bucolic charm, where they have made cider for centuries, milked cows for millenia and can recite chapter and verse on churning cheese.”

“I have come to meet someone who has made this corner of the county his own and has an ambitious project to create a new dwelling that promises to meld modernism with this rural idyll”.

Cut to a dapper old man sitting on a bench.  We are looking over his shoulder and for a moment, before the background comes into focus, the viewer can be forgiven for thinking that this is Logan Roy.  As the camera pans back, in the foreground we can see a vast green field from which hedgerows have been removed.  Further away, some hedgerows come in to view below what looks like an ancient iron fort in the far distance.  We cut to an aerial view of a country house and gardens.  An accented voiceover intones:

“I bought this house as a country residence for my wife, but I felt that something was missing.  Yes: it was an estate, but it was so small.  And so untidy”.

Back to the dapper gentleman now sipping ‘cyder’ from a crystal glass on which there is a hand-etched figure of what looks like a lizard. 

“So, I chopped down a few trees, and made a big garden around a fine hotel and a fine restaurant.  It was tidy.  And clean.  But I decided I needed animals to supply the restaurant, so I bought some deer and some cows and sheep.  And then I needed some farms, so I bought some of those as well, but they were also too small.  And then Peter said, let’s build our own, you know?  A designer home where the animals have a proper tidy place to live.”

“So – your project is not for you?”

“No – this is for my buffalo.”

Kevin’s eyebrows knit together in confusion.

“You mean, it’s a farm?” 

Klaus: “Oh, no.  I have farms.  I’ve bought all the farms around here, but Peter and I think they are not fit for purpose.  Too small, too close to villages and to people.  We realised those farms would be perfect for all our guests who could not fit in the hotel.  In which case, we wondered, where can our buffalo live?  What we need to build is a cattle residence, with somewhere to park the biggest shiniest tractors and store the most wonderful grain.  And we have the perfect place for it, at the bottom of this escarpment.  Shall I show you?”

Kevin: “Please – lead on”

Kevin beams and offers the way for Klaus with a mock bow and a show of subservience. Klaus ignores it and walks towards a golf cart with the same reptilian emblem on it. 

Establishing shot of three grown men in a golf buggy bumping down a grassy track past what used to be a hedgerow.  They stop in the middle of a field, with views back to a grassy escarpment.  Between this expanse of grass and the slope of the hill is a small copse.

Kevin turns to the camera and sententiously expounds:

“This looks, to all intents and purposes, like a field.  Just an ordinary green field in which one might expect to find Friesian cows, or perhaps some sheep.  It might have once had cider orchards.  But Logan – sorry – Klaus wants to change all that.  He wants this to become a home for his mozzarella mates – the buffalo.”

“When I asked Klaus and Peter for their plans, they said they had none, thinking I wanted to know their business plan.  But realising I meant the plans for the build, they showed me this. The design is an ingenious one…”

Cut to CGI representation of the same piece of land with field, copse, and escarpment.  As Kevin gives a voiceover, the grass is rolled up from the field, earth is moved as the field is levelled, and concrete is lain across it like a grey IKEA mat.  Round buildings fly in as if from a 50s Sci-Fi B movie followed by rectangular blocks cartwheeling in to create large silos and barns around them.   

Kevin: “For his hotel, gardens and holiday lets, Klaus has sourced local stone.  But for this project, he has decided not to draw on local expertise to help him build in the traditional manner, or even upgrade one of the many farms he already possesses.  He has spurned that idea and gone with a radical and exciting new design.  Peter (the Tom to Klaus’s Logan) is one hundred per cent in agreement with Klaus’s view:  this is the only solution to their quest for the ultimate buffalo barn.”

Peter: “You see, we bought all these farms, but none meets our exacting standards.  Every time Klaus sees a farm or a stable, he wants to convert into holiday homes or bedrooms.  I have shown Klaus every farm on the estate, and none is good enough for his buffalo.  We need something that can truly reflect our long-term plans (when we get them).”

Kevin: “It all looks very exciting.  What is your budget?”

Klaus (chuckling indulgently) “We do not have a budget.”

Kevin: “What, you mean you have no money to spend, or no limit on what you shell out?”

Klaus: “We do not want to spend more than we need to, but we spend as much as it takes.”

Kevin’s eyebrows rise again.  “And what is the timescale?  When do your buffalo need a home?”

Klaus: “Ach, I have told Peter I want this built by the end of the year.”

Cut to sweeping panoramic shots of iron age forts, hedgerows and abundant birdlife.  Then, Kevin walking in a field, the same copse in the background.

Kevin: “What Klaus wants to do here is ambitious and architecturally at odds with what has gone before.  He wants to rip up a part of the countryside and IMPOSE his will on it.  To CREATE something that is fit for the modern age taking farming forward in what he believes is a bold leap for agricultural progress.  Peter says the farm will lie IN this piece of flat land, and points to the forty THOUSAND tonnes of earth they intend to move to accommodate the stylish new barns.  They are MAKING the land, MAKING the scenery as if creating a concrete Garden of Eden.  For buffalo.” (Dramatic pause) “I hope God’s watching.”

“The concrete promises to give this farm a solid footing which declares that this estate is here to stay.  And Klaus expects it to be done in double quick time.  With no limit to his budget and an open site, it seems nothing can stop him achieving his agricultural dream.  I can’t wait to see the result.” 

Cut to music and graphics leading to commercial break.

Low shot of Kevin walking down the same escarpment.  The season has changed:  the trees are bare, the sky pale.  Kevin is wearing an expensive waterproof jacked and looks wrapped up against the buffeting wind.  He walks and talks:

“It is six months since I met Klaus and Peter to hear of their plan to build a home fit for buffalo heroes.  By now I am expecting to see the forty thousand tons of earth moved and concrete poured.  Perhaps some concrete and steel structures will be up, and yet, I see no change.  It is still a green field, albeit with some stakes and some tape.” Cut to close up as Kevin cocks one eyebrow towards the camera “It is more reminiscent of a crime scene”. 

Peter is standing in a field.  Kevin is alongside him, gazing over the same piece of grass. Parts of it are taped off.  Kevin is smirking cheekily as he asks Peter:

“So, where is the Buffalo house?  You surely haven’t run out of money?”

Peter (looking unamused): “We are still consulting with the locals which has taken a little longer than we expected.”

Voiceover from Kevin: “Peter tells me that this is merely an inconvenient delay.  He is adamant his neo-brutalist farm is going to get built.  He apologises to me that Klaus is not here today.  Apparently, he is talking to the planners as we speak, at a meeting specially arranged at one of his overseas Estates.  He seems confident that this should help clear the final hurdle”.

Commercial Break

Voiceover: “One man’s vision of rural charm in the traditional style, but a tradition that seems predicated on a Londoner’s idealised view of the country.  In his orchards he has brought together apples from right across the country.  The dry-stone walls are more evocative of the Cotswolds, rather than of this shire.  It is as if he has taken the greatest hits of English country life and put them together to form his own compilation album of beatific bucolicism”.

“And yet, in amongst this kaleidoscope of rural charms, he has had the determination to produce a magnificent structure that sits in this green and pleasant land as if it has landed from outer space.  The design of the cattle houses is cunning.  From afar they look like flying saucers, yet, closer to, they appear in the style of African Rondevals, with no internal corners for the cattle to hide.”

Kevin walks along a spotlessly clean road.  He stoops to look at the fine grain of the surface and the perfectly arched camber. 

“To reach this farm we have come down this BEAUTIFULLY formed pathway.  What better way to approach this Emerald City of agricultural charms, than down your own Yellow Brick Road?” 

Inside the barn he bends to touch the perfectly shiny concrete floor and looks approvingly to camera.

“This concrete is burnished and smooth.  Dry and hard like the High Veldt, and the people that live there.  Like a home from home for the buffalo.  And it is so CLEAN!”  Kevin sends an enquiring glance towards Peter. “Have your buffalo moved in yet?”

Peter, looking a little awkward, replies “well, in order to maintain the cleanliness for our buffalo and our viewing guests, we discovered that our normal tractors cannot manoeuvre around the curved walls to clean up.  So we are now on a quest to find bendy, half-moon shaped tractors that can do the job properly”. 

Kevin laughs and walks away.  Peter does neither. 

Kevin walks to the top of the hill, pursued by another golf buggy and a man in beige asking him to get off their land.  Kevin talks to camera:

“This is a truly stunning piece of architecture.  It looks to be at one with the land (if that land was on the moon) but Klaus has shown such foresight to build something that is so at odds with its environment, it IS the environment.  Peter said to me: “I just want to build a farm”. Well, he has certainly done that and more.  Birds might have to nest elsewhere, badgers will move away, and the hares are long gone, but Klaus and Peter have finally achieved their dream and built themselves a home for their buffalo to roam, and maybe, just maybe, their skies are not cloudy all day.” 

If you have been affected by any of the issues raised in this post, please feel free to visit www.black8.org.uk for help.

In a throwback to the sixties and seventies we have been hearing a lot about pickets recently in the Midlife Garden.  Initially, it was the striking kind, bringing memories of the bad old days of industrial action, when donkey-jacketed men (and women) formed lines outside factories and mines in protest about working conditions, pay and the rest.  Nowadays the picket lines have been staffed by doctors, of which our daughter is one, protesting at something even more fundamental and far reaching than just pay and conditions.

But the other pickets casting me back to my childhood are the type forming a fence, making me think of Peter Rabbit crawling under the gate to raid Mr McGregor’s cabbages and lettuces. In those days I was siding with the rabbit, but today I would not look kindly on an errant rabbit gnawing their way through my burgeoning brassicas. But my intention to build a fence around the Midlife Veg Patch was not to keep anyone out, so much as to keep a certain Long Dog in.

The cost of a good picket fence looked prohibitve, but Mrs B spotted some discarded lengths at ‘The Etihad’ opposite (they are our “noisy neighbours”) so we offered to take it off their hands.  Our neighbour was delighted to be rid of his discarded pickets, so for a few months the fence resided in a pile in our garden instead, while I debated with myself how to get the job done.

When contemplating DIY jobs it is always with the sound of my father’s voice in my head, giving “a word of advice”.  I listened to his words, advising four inch posts with a bag of Postcrete for each.  And then I compromised (as always), selecting three inch posts and less than a bag of Postcrete per post.  And I also sawed the posts shorter, as it was proving far too much like hard work to dig the holes deep enough. It was cheaper and easier, but who knows, it might just stay up?

The end result was pretty fair, though I say it myself.  But our good friend Richard, who puts up fences for a living, took the Old Man’s view, and politely suggested I would need “a helluva lot” of wood preserver to ensure the fence outlasted me. I nodded knowingly.

But, more positively, our noisy neighbour, who spent most of lockdown sawing ceramic tiles and recently replaced his own fence posts, gave me a Paul Hollywood-style handshake in recognition of my fine work.

A handshake from Pep – must make me star fencer of the week. 

Of course, the ultimate test was yet to come, when Badger exited the side gate to try his hand at escapology.  The glee in his long-dog dash was short-lived as he came face to face with the pickets like a scab miner from the eighties.  I stood on the outside while he barked from the inside, and a line from the film ‘Back to the Future’ came to mind, as Marty views his jail-bird uncle as a toddler, standing in his playpen.

“Better get used to those bars, kid”.

Like Post-Brexit Britain, the Midlife Garden tries to be a tolerant, outward-facing place to which we welcome all-comers. Robins, wrens and blackbirds have nested in various parts of the garden this summer and any number of moths and butterflies, dragonflies and other insects have made their home in our “bee-friendly” environment. We have even seen hares on the lane outside.

But, just like the modern UK, there are limits to our hospitality. Upon returing from our brief summer break we discovered major problems with border control. In our absence, a plethora (possibly a tidal wave) of invertebrates have been taking advantage of the wealth of the land in the MLG veg patch. Slugs and snails were munching on flower seedlings and vegetables while others were speeding (in snail terms, at least) across the lawn and paths to join them. I pondered where all these migrant munchers were coming from but decided not to enquire too closely and simply put them on a metaphorical flight to Rwanda (to the other side of the road, not the neighbours fence, I hasten to add).

The next day I found a number of stowaways under a plank in the garden. They did not seem happy about the sunshine on their backs, so I bundled them into a potting tray like so many refugees in a floating barge, told them they could F-off back to the hedgerow they come from, and dumped them in the verge opposite.

All this “growing your own”, supplying the home market, is not as easy as it appears. The foreign slugs (“coming over here, eating our vegetables”) have destroyed the last vestiges of any kale (Curly and Cav Nero), as well as, rather ironically, all of the Brussels. Instead, I am going to have to import some young plants from a nursery. Such are the pitfalls when you decide to Take Back Control.

Happily, in the leguminous bed we have a contrasting problem, where the peas, french beans and courgettes are now growing in profusion and abundance. Our lovely neighbours did the watering in our absence and they clearly did a good job, with tomatoes, basil and peppers ripening in the greenhouse too. All we need now is some cheap labour to help pick ’em all.

We are clearly in the season of rain and gluttonous fruitfulness and every menu for the next few weeks will involve an increasingly desperate search for new and different ways to cook beans, tomatoes and courgettes.

It’s not a bad problem to have, in spite of the tsunami of slugs and snails.

March, and life is starting to rev up.  January was hard and February not a lot better.  Not because of the weather, although at times it seemed either too wet or too cold, or both.  There just did not seem to be enough light.

But now, the evenings are longer, the mornings are bright and the garden is beginning to wake up.  Garden is in its Yellow phase: of daffodils and forsythia, of Cloth of Gold wallflowers and the pale yellowy-green fringing on the trees as they start to test the temperature. The birds seem to have doubled their decibel levels since Sunday’s hour change and the garden is alive to blackbirds, robins and the rest collecting nest-building materials.

It all seems a far cry from January when we turned up late for Potato Day, only to realise that arriving at 11.30 meant we missed the 10 am stampede and were able to pick our spuds without having to deploy elbows to maintain our space in the queue.  Since then the potatoes have been chitting inside, while outside any gardening jobs have been of the type that most pleases Mrs B. i.e. destructive ones.  We (I) have severely trimmed pyracantha, poplar and smoke trees as well as reducing the weigela to little more than a stump.  It is this type of instant tidiness that has Mrs B purring, although perhaps not purring as much as the next door cat that continues to use the raised bed as a littler tray.

But it has not all been slash and burn. We have also got plenty started and are already into the nurturing phase with sweet peas, broad beans, and flowers, inlcuding lupin seedlings and foxgloves.  We have even forced some rhubarb, underneath the rusted wheelbarrow from the Old Place.  Noice.

I have even started some tomatoes on the sunniest windowsill, but they are too leggy (too forced?) and have been moved to the greenhouse, like wimpy kids sent to toughen up at boarding school.

This weekend we will get those first earlies in the ground, once I have cleared the Cat shit, and then veg patch will feel like the new season is getting under way.