Tag Archives: Garden

Hoe Hoe Hoe

The Vorpal Blade went snicker snack

The weather has finally turned drier this past few days and my father can get to do what he really finds most satisfying: hoeing.  He has always said this is his most rewarding job in the garden so I have had a few attempts over the last few weeks to see where the pleasure lies.

The ground definitely needs to be devoid of dampness to make sure that those pesky weeds are left high and dry.  When conditions are conducive I can easily see why this is such a rewarding exercise.  You are basically buffing up your garden without getting on your hands and knees to do it.  But you do have to be careful: that hoe is a dangerous weapon in the wrong hands and in the wrong bed.  At the week-end he decided to hoe some of the herbaceous borders, without realising that we had sowed some seeds in parts of them.   And for myself, when hoeing around the vegetables I am in constant fear of taking off a healthy broad bean plant at ground level through my enthusiasm.

The beans are climbing, with a little help from blue string

Our good old traditional hoe is a fine and trusty looking tool.  A blade securely attached to a solid pole by means of two sturdy metal arms with a crescent top.  This is a hoe that has seen many a row of beans and borders and the pole is looking increasingly rotten while the blade is a dull rust colour.  I had a go with it, and had some success, but then discovered my dad’s new hoe which is a light sabre compared to the dull claymore that is the old one.  This one has a shining steel blade – or should I say blades, as it is secured only on side, while the other side can be used to deliver a lateral swipe.  This is both useful and intimidating, as I now have the opportunity to destroy my bean crop with forward, backward AND sideways swipes.

I used it around my runner beans and broad beans.  In recent years we have been picking veg while trying to dodge nettles and I do not want this to happen this year.  My main weapon in this battle is the Vorpal Blade that is the old man’s hoe.

And what joy it brings.  My borders and rows are looking dry and weed free with the soil nicely turned and friable, showing the plants at their best. That is something to bring a smile to one’s face.  Perhaps even a little chesty chortle of joy.

Plant Therapy

Sunday I played golf first thing in the morning (7.35 start), was home in time for an excellent Azorieblue coffee, then went to school for a parents’ lunch in the boarding house before checking on the parents’ and girls’ tennis competition. But, with others running that, I was able to get “the best part of the day” (as my wife Claire would put it) and spend it on the veg patch.

Gardening is increasingly feeling like therapy for me. And there is no doubt in mind about its therapeutic benefits. Not only for me, but for my father as well, who I am sure is more likely to spend time of an evening walking around the grounds, gin in hand,  taking in the sights and sounds of a well-tended and busy garden.

Therapy is an emotive issue in our family.  A year ago Claire was diagnosed with a rare form of Non Hodgkin’s lymphoma – which for those who are not sure (and I would have been one of them a year ago) is basically cancer of the lymphatic system which may, or may not, be terminal.  A year of chemotherapy has passed with Claire working her way through the pain, tiredness, hair loss and other grim side effects with determination and a large slice of black humour.

Along the way we discovered a blog called writtenoff.net, authored by a tough young woman called Ellie Jeffery who was suffering from secondary breast cancer.  Her experiences and observations chimed with what we were going through with Claire and gave us hope and reassurance.  Ellie’s prognosis was far worse than Claire’s and in the time that we have been reading the blog, Claire has gone into full remission and is making steady progress in her recovery from the last intense chemotherapy.

Sadly on Sunday night the latest entry was posted on Ellie’s blog.  Written by her fiance, Tom, it broke the sad news that Ellie had died three days previously – finally succumbing to the ravages of the disease.  It was a devastating piece of news which immediately brought Claire and I up short – thinking of what we had been going through in the past twelve months and how fortunate we have been so far.

It also took me back six years to the day that my mother died of pancreatic cancer and the massive sense of loss I felt when I walked into her hospital room after her death.  It was more than emotional – there was an enormous spiritual absence.  It is a feeling that has lived with me ever since, and I wonder if my commitment to maintaining the garden is in some way my delayed response to mum’s departure.  Am I perhaps doing it for her.  Gardening as a form of memorial.

There is no doubt that by gardening one is able to get in tune with seasons, and get a feeling of one’s place in the world.  The death of a loved one – or simply the serious illness – focusses the mind and one can turn in on oneself, but it also makes you view the world in a sometimes more equable and balanced way.

It is too glib to say that Life Goes On.  When a life ends it can leave an enormous gap in everyone else’s – but the memory lingers and can be kept strong through the deeds of those left behind.  We are part of a broad and beautiful world which at the base level is growing and dying all the time.  Planting, watering, harvesting are reminders of the natural order of things and definitely help me to deal with the ups and downs of existence.  Such acts would be of little aid to the friends and family of Ellie Jeffery, but our thoughts are with them at this time and hopefully the overwhelming messages of support on her website will be of comfort to them as they come to terms with their loss.

Shoot Em Up

Today I managed to take another leaf out of my father’s book, to follow in his footsteps, be the unwitting victim of the power of fate and to once more be filled with the horror (the horror) of the dread of heredity.

The final day of the Premier League football season proved to be possibly the most crazed and nail-biting that any one can remember, with twists and turns of fortune throughout the afternoon.  I, as a classic Man U fan (never been to a home fixture etc etc – you know the sort) was offered the chance to watch the excitement on TV, but I instead opted for an afternoon in the garden with the radio to give me the pictures.

Sarpo Mira

I could not help noticing the similarity with 1966 when, on the day that Enlgand had a chance to lift the world cup, my father could not stand the tension of the moment and instead spent the afternoon digging in the allotment.  I have never been able to understand how he missed the greatest moment in England’s footballing history.  And yet, as I planted cosmos and nasturtiums this afternoon while Man City did their best to refuse to accept the title from united, the parallels were too close ignore.

In my defence, it was about the best day of the year so far, and the simple matter of being outside instead of in was overwhelmingly attractive.  So an afternoon spent planting flowers – nasturtiums, cosmos, cornflowers and Nigella – into the borders to brighten them up later in the summer.  And I will forever look upon the lavender beds next to the sundial with mixed emotions as it was there that I was weeding when City scored twice in the dying moments to clinch an amazing victory.

Elsewhere, the potatoes are really shooting up, with the parsley also actually arriving at the party, after weeks of sitting miserably in the wet cold soil.  I am beginning to get some idea of the variations in germination for plants.  All pretty basic stuff, but I did not realise how long the parsley – which has seeds like large bits of grit – would take to sprout compared with, say, the radishes next to it.  But it has finally done so.

Belle De Fontenay

Meanwhile in the greenhouse, extra ruby chard I planted has just sprung up, compared with pin points of ruby in the beds, while the brussels and purple sprouting are jumping out of the soil in their seed trays.  I might have to do something similar with the parsnips which I sowed, as per the packet instructions, one per 30 cms in rows outside, only to be solemnly informed by my “gardening conscience” (the old man) that parsnips have  notoriously poor germination rates.  So I am thinking that I might have to wait months only to discover that I have one parsnip to last me a year!

Never mind, I think I will plant some in

Arran Victory

seed trays, in newspaper cones (I am advised on Saturday night by Piers and Hazel), so I can transplant easily.  Might do the YouTube video “how to grow parsnips in paper” or some such title.  Or maybe I will just sit outside avoiding telly, watching the garden grow – and all those different potatoes.

Digging In

It rained today.  It was cold.  And I dug.

Apart from planting radishes, broccoli, parsley, peas and rhubarb chard, I could not help myself digging one of the large herbaceous borders which is getting strangled with ground-ivy and elder.

I never would have thought that I would find this therapeutic, but I am genuinely gaining immense satisfaction from the back straining labour.  When I was younger this would have been anathema to me, but not now, and the reasons are complex.  Before Easter I set out to clear the “Silver Wedding” bed (so-called as it was created from herbaceous gifts given to my parents when they celebrated 25 years together).  Now while I agree with Pippa that digging is very therapeutic, it also struck me that, while I found the clearing of ground and revelation of spring plants satisfying, I think that it goes deeper than that, to a sense of territoriality.  What I am really doing is laying claim to that piece of turf – taking away my father’s influence, if not ownership.

Before, I would only have been able to venture into doing work in the garden under his supervision and advice.  But now I am increasingly emboldened to take control and do it my way.  And interestingly, he seems to like it.  He does not – as a I thought might be the case – seem to feel threatened.  But, perhaps not surprisingly when I come to think of it, he seems to welcome my input and likes to seek my opinion on horticultural matters, which makes me feel good, but also reminds me how little I know.

It has been a year or two since these beds were really worked over, and images of ground elder and ivy have now supplanted cows in my nightmares.  I know I haven’t got it all out, but for the moment it looks pretty and tidy.  As to how you get ground elder out of the numerous clumps of hostas that are sprouting I haven’t a clue, but if a job’s worth doing, it’s worth doing quickly so I just nip the tops off the weeds so only the flowers show.

It looks good enough for now God only knows how many weeds will sprout back after this rain.

Mid Garden Crisis – How It All Started

Image
Best Brussels in years – destroyed in one night.

Last night I dreamt I woke to the sound of cows again.  It was a dream that has haunted me recently and it is a signifier of more than just a mad fear of bovine TB.

In November when delinquent Friesians from the next door field trampled the Brussels sprout patch in our garden I was more amused than dismayed.  Yes, we had lost the best crop of Brussels for many years even before we had eaten any (my father insists on not picking them till after the first frost) but the whole incident was somewhat comical in that the damage had been done under my old man’s bedroom window and he had not heard a thing.

But he was upset.  And only now am I beginning to grasp his depression at the destruction wrought by the hungry heifers as, in the fallout from the incident, we have agreed to take over a large part of the gardening duties from my father.

My parents had always been fiercely proud of their garden – and with some justification.  They had started it from not much more than a ploughed field and turned it into a well cultivated acre of land with herbaceous borders, trees and, most importantly, a fine vegetable patch.  All four sons had been required to do some digging, planting or harvesting, under a certain level of supervision, but it had never really left me with any feeling of satisfaction.

Until now.

Renting the converted barn off my father, we have a vested interest in the state of the garden, and since my mother died five years ago it has become increasingly difficult for him to cope.  But it is even more of a struggle for him to let go.  Any work in the garden is closely monitored from the control centre next door and is more than likely being done in the wrong way, with the wrong tools and at the wrong time of year.  I am approaching fifty (from the right direction, if one asks) but still get myself into adolescent sulks as I try to start the strimmer and hear the inevitable “is there enough petrol in that?” or the catch-all offer of  “a word of advice”.  I am unable to attempt the simplest tasks without the intervention and supervision of my father and it drives me mad.  But I say nothing.  Why?  Because I think that if I do I will upset him.  So I take the angst while he takes control.

But the cow debacle has given us a way in.  We have offered (nay – demanded)to actually take over part of the veg patch and that is what I am going to work on this summer – and perhaps even write about.  And it might just be the means I need to finally become a mature independent adult.  I have already made one step when I was given some advice by the Old Man on how to put chicken wire around the patch to ensure that the mower could still get around.  I finally felt compelled to tell him to back off and leave me to do it myself.

“I know how to do this thanks.  But if I want advice I will ask.  I would rather try things out my way and if I fail, so be it.  I would rather fail and learn from my mistakes than constantly have you telling me what do”.  There….I said it.  And felt so much better for it.

But now I feel I must NOT fail….