It’s been a busy autumn and winter in the midlife garden. We started by distributing two tons of revive compost around beds and borders after which started to make some strategic changes with plants. The Christmas tree was dug from the garden and taken inside for the festive period, and replaced by a mariessii, which was otherwise likely to partially block the front path in the summer.
When we realised the Christmas tree might have survived the indoor festivities we decided to place it in the back garden: an exercise which included the removal and replanting of bamboo from the garden and a pot. All of which brings instantaneous results.
Less instantaneous, but hopefully equally pleasing results, are hoped to be gained from the bulbs that we planted in the autumn.
In the veg patch that meant garlic and onions. The garlic is our go-to plant for mid-winter positivity, the green shoots reminding us that there is life in the midlife garden yet and I noticed this week even the onions are starting to show.
Beyond the veg patch, there is a plan for early spring flowers. We sowed various coloured ranunculus in pots in the greenhouse, but they have suffered repeated assaults, with some failing to germinate, some succumbing to damping off, while others fell victim to mice. A few doughty plants remain, like survivors at Rorke’s Drift. The dachshund has busied himself trying to dig up the mice.
Out in the borders, we have sown a bunch of allium bulbs (Ping Pong and Azureum) in the Spursy bed to provide a little early blue and white colour. But, the brightest spring moments are planned for the fruit tree bed, where, in between storms and prior to frosts, we managed to insert 600 tulips for cutting in the spring.
So, lots to look forward to, with crossed fingers.
Prepping for tulips600 tulip bulbs?SowingMouse damage ranunculusOne survivorRemains of the mousehuntGarlicSplitting the bambooReplaced bamboo…With Christmas treeTall bamboo with the shorter stuff in the tub
January and early February have seen an upturn in postive thoughts around here. The early morning walks are punctuated by the sound of thrushes singing their hearts out from the tops of trees while woodpeckers drum on hollow branches and robins argue noisily below; all trying to claim their separate territories with spring just around the corner.
My attempts at my own territorial improvements have centred on transplanting the Acer from the pot at the back of the house, where it was looking rather sad in the atutumn. It has now taken the place of the unsightly cotoneaster, which took some uprooting from the front garden. The removal of the cotoneaster has naturally been delayed until the blackbirds had taken their fill of the red berries, just as my father would have insisted. I follow his advice more now than I ever did when he was alive.
Elsewhere, I have been tinkering with some of the borders: pruning roses and cutting back the autumn bliss raspberries – though the latter was mainly to ensure that I could get to the hen house more easily. There had been the usual hiatus in egg-production from Agatha (although she still claimed her free board and lodging). Supervision of the hen house had become rather intermittent, so when I did finally check on the 20th January, I was astonished to see eight eggs in her nesting box.
Since then we have cleared the path to the hen house and check on her regularly to collect any more eggs, while they are still fresh. But this hen has a sense of humour, it seems, and there has not been a single egg layed since the 20th. It’s probably her way of protesting over her recent exclusion from the flower garden – a ban imposed on her after she destroyed some of the nascent daffodills. Not all birds are welcome in the borders.
The main piece of garden preparation I have managed is to spread two tons of Viridor Revive compost on the raised beds. Thirty-eight wheelbarrow loads to help improve the clay topsoil and top up the beds. So far my efforts have simply created the biggest, most luxuriant cat litter trays in the village. The feline equivalent of Andrex triple-ply quilted, they are soft and very deep, and not even my labrador is able to consume the quantities of cat-poo that are likely to be interred on my refurbished veg patch.
Last weekend storm Ciara blew her way through the country leaving us to pick up the pieces of her trail of destruction, although the greenhouse managed to remain intact (despite losing one pane of glass a few weeks previously). Today I am sitting inside as storm Dennis repeats Ciara’s performance of a week ago. It is the type of weather my old head of PE once described as so bad “I wouldn’t put a cat out in it”. To this brown-fingered gardener, it is precisely the type of weather I would willingly evict any defacating feline.
It’s been a while since I posted, which suggests that I have not done a great deal in the garden – which is true, and fills me with mild panic that I might be lagging behind in preparation for the coming growing season. So I took a quick look at what I did during February and March in the previous years and it was both reassuring and rather bitter-sweet.
In 2013 it was raining hard in February as I cleaned the greenhouse. A year later it was raining even harder and the levels were under water. But the Old Man had a trailer of ten tons of manure delivered. (That manure was finally finished last autumn when I gave up chiseling away at the last compacted layer of it).
In February 2015 I cleared the Silver Wedding and Boomerang beds and potted up plants that would eventually populate the new boomerang. I was still harvesting Red Kale and the new hens’ run was being built (with the help of Jim) by the cow stall. And last year I was in Arran, enjoying the Scottish air, but feeling the first symptoms of heart disease. I put my little chitters out a couple of weeks after potato day and planted my tomatoes and chillis.
A year on and I approach spring with a shiny new stent in a coronary artery, a greenhouse that still looks like my artery did a year ago, but with a bunch of seedlings that are sprouting strongly.
Since my last post The Old Man has been in hospital recovering from his fall while I have been dealing with the usual at sporting issues at school. But now it’s holiday time and an afternoon in the garden simply weeding, mulching and planting gladdens the heart – with or without a stent.
Not always being at home these days has meant that I get out of the little habits that make gardening easier. Like knowing where you left your tools so that you can easily get on with the right tasks. It’s frustratingly commonplace for me to walk down the end of the garden to do some planting to then find out I’ve left the trowel / string / canes elsewhere. And to add to the complexity of detective work, with Mrs B doing much of the labour while I lounge around at school, I will have to assess where she has left items before I manage to acquire the right tools for the job. (In much the same way that simple tasks in the house are made more complex when one has to first work out how the furniture or storage areas have been rearranged in one’s absence).
But the problems are normally self-made. For example, the other day, after I had done some potting up, I simply could not find the small hand fork which I knew I had been using for weeding. I couldn’t find it anywhere and made do with whatever else I had – trowel or big fork or whatever. It wasn’t until a few days later that I found the hand fork, as I was moving the bag of compost: it was stuck in the bottom of the bag like a latterday sword in the stone . I had obviously skewered the compost when I moved it previously. I took the fork from the bag with no great ceremony and went off in search of my horitcultural Camelot.
The Vorpal Blade went snicker snack….then broke
We all have our favourite tools. My father’s favourite is the wonderful hoe which, like a wilkinson sword razor has a triple action (for a closer hoeing experience). Only it doesn’t even do a single action now. I guess the ground was a little hard, but as I was using it the other day, the blade sheared off. A sly glance over my shoulder to see if I was being watched, then a quick trip to Dave Marsh Hardware, and the situation was remedied. I am not expecting the OM to volunteer to do any hoeing soon, so no need for any awkward explanations about my hoeing technique. I guess I just don’t know my own strength. But the new hoe seems just fine and, from a distance, looks just like the old one so TOM will not be too upset.
I 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
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 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…
