Garden – Page 3 – Garden Gate Flowers

Where do we find the time?

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.

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.

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

Help Wanted?

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.

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.

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.

Potatoes planted – 10th April as per The OM’s stated policy

Not Green Any More

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

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.

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.

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…

Life Skills

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.

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…

Fudge, Yeah!

Knitwear advert - without the knitwear — Knitwear advert – without the knitwear

It feels like the gardening year is at a bit of a hiatus with little to do, so rather like the lead singer of a band in the middle of a particularly dull riff as the “guitarist goes off on one” as Claire would put it, I would like to take time to introduce an important member of my band: Fudge.

As Bill Murray said in Ghostbusters “so….she’s a dog”, but yeah she really is. She is my constant companion who loves nothing more than to come down the garden hunting out rabbits – or even rats. Which she rarely, if ever, catches. And then just buggers off for a couple of hours digging at the rabbit holes up the top of the field. So perhaps not quite such a constant companion after all, let alone constant gardener.

"I do not like the cone of shame" — “I do not like the cone of shame”

Mind you, she is a lot less of a liability than her sister (Truffle) with whom she was acquired after being abandoned outside a Dublin supermarket. They were the subject of a benign Extraordinary Rendition to bring them to the UK. We offered to give Fudge a good home while Truffle took up residence with mum and dad next door. Truffle ultimately proved too much of a handful: she had her own individual programme when it came to exercise and when out on walks would simply make a bee-line for the horizon which left her owner taking a solitary trudge back home to await her re-appearance at whatever time of day or night suited her.

A pile of puppies... — A pile of puppies…

Truffle was a source of comfort for my mother in her terminal illness, but after mum’s passing, Truffle was never going to get enough exercise with my more sedentary father and she has been re-homed. If her new owners want to feel they are spending time with their new pet in the great outdoors, I hope that they live on a saltpan somewhere and own some very powerful binoculars (or the world’s longest lead).

Fudge has a lot of energy to burn too, and although we are not sure of her lineage, we suspect some sort of terrier crossed with a boxer. Basically a scatter-brained dog who has bags of energy, and lists digging and jumping as two of her main hobbies. A gun dog she is not: she quakes at potential thunder (she can sense the build up of Cumulo Nimbus on the other side of the country) and will suddenly walk to the tightest “heel” if there is any sudden sound – be it gun, bird scarer, or clattering pans.

But she is the best, most patient dog to have in the house, and at least she does not dig up any of the garden: unlike my parents’ previous canine companion – Sambar – who had a penchant for carrots, which she harvested herself, therefore requiring the carrots to be fenced in on all sides, and top.

Gardening is just so tough.... — Gardening is just so tough….

When Fudge came to us she had been named – along with her four siblings – after the Nolan sisters (I hope there were no males in the rescued litter). We decided to change to something of our own choosing as she didn’t seem to be a Bernadette. Naming dogs is even more random than naming children as there are no limits to what you can call a dog. There again, these days the range of children’s names has expanded to include pets’ names too, if some celeb choices are anything to go by, but we happened upon the name Fudge as it was sweet and light brown – (like her?)… And my parents followed suit with her sister, calling her Truffle.

Not that we always use their given names. Truffle was generally known by the kids as “special needs” (she would have kept educational psychologists in work for years if she were human) or on the day that they ripped up their bean bags, leaving drifts of polystyrene balls across the kitchen, “fuckwits” was the first name that came to my mind.

But now we are down to one f-wit, and if she does not have any other pressing engagements at the top of the field, she will keep me company in the garden and – as I said – occasionally catch a rat or rabbit. In fact she managed to tag a rabbit yesterday, but for the most part she takes up the role of Grommit to my Wallis, as we try to fulfil our respective roles in the garden.

KONICA MINOLTA DIGITAL CAMERA — Thinking of going somewhere?

Keats had it right

Keats had it about right with his Ode to Autumn: A season of mists and mellow fruitfulness. In the garden the first early morning mists heighten the aroma of gentle decay and dwindling fecundity. The apples are dropping, we have picked the pears, french beans are finished and even the runners have reached the end of their race. We even managed to eat the pears before the went over into mush.

The hostas are now mostly bare skeletons after the constant onslaught of slugs and snails. But they make for some lovely colours and patterns. It is the colours that lift the spirit in autumn. It is too easy to bemoan the shortening days, cooling temperatures and arrival of equinoctial storms (remnants of hurricanes from across the Atlantic), but there is beauty in the garden and along the hedgerows. Blackberries are brilliant and the raspberries that we planted at the start of the year have given us enough to sprinkle on our cereal each morning. Look great, taste great. Already I find myself looking forward to next year when the raspberries will be really

There is an air of packing up and hunkering down. I have started clearing beds, such as under the Morello cherries: a bed that had some iris in it and not a lot else as far as I can guess, so some small lilies have gone in there today. General tidiness is the order of the day and we have chopped the runner beans down and cleared large patches of the garden.

Elsewhere I decided to chuck in a load of plants that Lynn has given to us. I am not sure what they are, but I cleared the bed at the top of the mole slope and spaced plants out according to what I am guessing they might become. I decided to call that bed the pot luck be, because the outcome of that will be even more one of chance than normal. We will see how it all goes, but it looks tidy for now.

The Old Man returned this week and said that he noticed that Jim had done a lot of work while he was away. I made sure he knew who had done most of the work and even found myself in a conversation about what work to do next in the garden (saw down the tortuosa willow to shed more light on the lucky dip bed).

It’s beginning to feel like I actually manage this place.

The Summer in one day

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?!

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.

Process or Results

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

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.

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.

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.

Fighting Spreads Across Gardening Fronts

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.

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.

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.

Beans and Bugs

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.

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.

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.

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.

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….?!

Memo to self – plan for an organic 2013.

Tag Archives: Garden

Where do we find the time?

Like this:

Help Wanted?

Like this:

Not Green Any More

Like this:

Life Skills

Like this:

Fudge, Yeah!

Like this:

Keats had it right

Like this:

The Summer in one day

Like this:

Process or Results

Like this:

Fighting Spreads Across Gardening Fronts

Like this:

Beans and Bugs

Like this:

Share this:

Like this:

Share this:

Like this:

Share this:

Like this:

Share this:

Like this:

Share this:

Like this:

Share this:

Like this:

Share this:

Like this:

Share this:

Like this:

Share this:

Like this:

Share this:

Like this: