Easter Rising

The glorious few days of Amellanchier blossom
The glorious few days of Amellanchier blossom

The Easter break has been kind for DIY and gardening.  With the weather poor in the first week of the holidays, it was no chore to be inside, though painting the kitchen was.  But with indoor work done, gardening has been a pleasure in the warm spring sunshine.  This time last year it was bitterly cold and there is a hint of that with the fresh breeze and clear skies sending temperatures to hover above freezing at night.  But everyone and everything in the garden has been enjoying decent day time temperatures.

Another stunning morning to enjoy the view of Cadbury
Another stunning morning to enjoy the view of Cadbury

So we have been able to get a lot done and I reckon I have pretty much planted all the seeds I need to at the moment.  Some are a little later than previously, others might be a little early.  I have noticed that it is about this time of year that one starts to check out what your friends and neighbours are doing with their plots or greenhouses.  Denise was offering me spare tomato plants before I had even planted seeds, which put me on edge a little, trying to remember if I had planted seeds earlier last year.  I recall planting sweet peas early, indoors, but these were very “leggy”and were quickly caught up and even overtaken by those planted in the greenhouse later.  So I am, with the dread of heredity, coming around to the same view as The Old Man who always says it really is not worth the bother to force start them indoors.

French Beans (I think - better check the label)
French Beans (I think – better check the label)

Conversely, Denise frowned when she saw I had planted my runner bean seeds.  “Much too early” was her confident assertion.  This was on the obligatory “tour of the garden”, which is a social requirement of all good neighbours who should at least feign polite interest in the others’ vegetables and herbaceaous borders (whilst making frantic mental notes on how yours compare).   When Denise had gone, I rifled through my seed packets to check when it said to plant runners.  Thankfully it says April.  Relief – and renewal of confidence in my own work.  Mind you, when it comes to gardening I am still of the Ronseal school of instruction – I do exactly what it says on the tin (or packet).

The tour of the garden is one overt way of checking on the neigbours.  Alternatively you just lean over the fence to see what is happening over there.  Walking around the village can give you glimpses into others’ back yards.  Paddi’s greenhouse is right next to the footpath and Claire was able to report back that it is not showing any greater advancement in green shoots than ours.  So I feel more comfortable about my own meagre showing of shooting stars, as Paddi regularly produces healthy young plants far earlier than me.

Talking of neighbours I liked the report from the RHS, as reported on the BBC which showed that 22% of gardeners admitted to just throwing snails over the fence into their neighbours’ gardens.  I think the most shocking part of this was how FEW admitted to doing this….  I am in the happy position of not having neighbours too close so snails and other pests (such as dead rabbits) can be slung into the field or hedgerows.  Not that there are too many snails and slugs at the mo – but with the summer term about to start, I expect rain will be forecast so we’ll see plenty more then.  The report did not exactly raise any eyebrows with its findings – with facts such as 70% of men planned to cut the grass at Easter, compared with 57% of women.  Good to see there is still some basis in fact to sexual stereotyping.

So, all-in-all the place is looking good and showing real signs of optimism for the summer, which suddenly feels like it’s just around the corner.  I planted the potatoes on 14th April – which was four days later than the Old Man would have said – so can’t be bad, and the garlic and onions, despite relatively late plantings, compared with last year, are looking perky.  The Amelanchier has been and gone in a trice – showing its stunning blossom for a few days before dropping its confetti on the former heather bed.

So now we await the greenshoots of spring to turn into a the lush green summer.

Against a Dark Background

KONICA MINOLTA DIGITAL CAMERAAugust flew by in a whirl of picking, podding and freezing as the beans, tomatoes, peppers and others all grew to maturity and beyond.  But behind the fecund abundance, the menace of death and destruction lurked in the garden.

I have commented on the battle with interlopers such as moles and caterpillars, and our combined efforts to reduce the numbers of said assailants.  But more desirable garden visitors have not always managed to avoid the dangers of the garden environment.

For example, one morning as I was heading out I saw a squab (young pigeon) walking up the yard – lost, and flightless, it seemed to have fallen from a nest somewhere.  I did not have time to do anything with it, leaving it to its own – or its parents’ – devices.  But later in the day Fudge and Ella (our newest recruit to the Garden Home Guard), were discovered with said squab in mouth.  Claire managed to “rescue” the flightless victim, but only in time to give it the last rites.  The bird was still breathing, though, and as the Old Man pulled up after his morning shoppping and gossip trip, she asked if he would complete the job for her.

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Mind the doors…

Well, by the time he had decided on how to get out the of car, what to do with his shopping, managed to select which pocket to put his car keys in, walked five paces towards the bird, formed a plan on exactly HOW he might despatch it (wring its neck? Swing it against a brick wall? or perhaps take an air rifle shot at it?), the bird had decided “sod it” and quietly slipped off this mortal coil out of sheer boredom.  Death by exasperation was the coroner’s verdict.

We have had a plethora of woodpeckers in the garden this summer – Green and Great Spotted varieties.  I could hardly turn a corner without having some noisy fledgling flying up from the grass, yaffling at me for disturbing it.  Great Spotteds spend more time in the trees (and the bird feeders) but can get confused by greenhouses, as one found out to its cost.  I guess it just flew into the glass and broke its neck.  A shame. “Beautiful plumage”, to quote Monty Python.

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The two feathered salute

The garden is not only a dangerous place for wildlife.  It is for domestic life too.  The hens have a new potential predator in the form of our new, supposedly soft-mouthed, retrieving hound, Ella.  She managed to get into the chicken enclosure the other day and had a magically entertaining minute running after the squawking hens before I managed to pull her away from Foghorn Leghorn (our best layer).  The hen remained lifeless as I took Ella inside, and still did not move when I returned.  She did eventually get back on her feet, and remains fine, though her tail feathers now form a rather tell-tale V shape – as if to give a two fingered salute to any passing labrador puppies.

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Caterpillar – and the remains of the meal

In terms of deliberate, more calculated exterminations, we have continued with the annual cull of cabbage white caterpillars, which have had a field day (or rather a full summer campaign) on our caulis, cabbages and brussels, not to mention the curly kale.  An enthusiastic expert on TV last night was commenting on what a brilliant year it has been for butterflies.  He was excited about the Orange Tips and Red Admirals, but I think their numbers are dwarfed by the sheer density of Cabbage Whites in my veg patch.  It is a grim and stinky job picking caterpillars and squeezing them like runny toothpaste.  But oddly satisfying.

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Death to the tyrant moles!

And what of the moles?  A chance conversation with a member of the underground arms trade gave me access to a weapon of mole destruction and the means to – literally – blow them up.  I thought he was joking at first, but when he explained that this piece of kit, entitled “Le Detaupeur”, (“satisfait ou rembourse”) was imported from France I thought it probably did what he said. And sure enough it does.  I set it up with a bucket over the top and some chicken wire around it to prevent the dogs getting too close and after a couple of nights (and a re-set in case I had not got it right) came out one morning to find both bucket and detaupeur blown out of the ground.  (The voice of Michael Caine echoed in my head here – “it’s only s’posed to blow the bloody doors off”).

The mole was – I assumed – dead, but I was not prepared to excavate the area to find out.  But I need not have worried: five days later, our adorable puppy decided she would do some digging and I only latterly realised where it was that she was working the soil.  She successfully uncovered the decapitated mole – which I disposed off beyond her reach.  So moles need to look out – we have now tapped into the murky world of the international arms trade.

And no UN mandate or weapons inspector is going to help them.

 

Super Storm?

Another look for the front garden

So this morning I got up to play my usual round of Sunday golf at 7.35 am to avoid carving into that all important family day.  The rain had been lashing down all night and the dog was not impressed when I kicked her outside in the what was still a torrent.

The forecast was for it to clear up about 9.30, so I was hoping as I drove to the Royal Wheathill (thank you Juliet for that soubriquet) that it would start to ease sometime soon.  But it was not to be.  As I stood with Julian pondering if Steve had the good sense to not even bother getting out of bed for this, the rain started to turn to sleet.  And as Steve arrived to participate in the debate, it started to snow.

Snow dial

And it continued to do so for about an hour after that, leaving golf out of the question, but some very attractive views of the garden. The weathemen had not forecast any snow which made the white covering all the more beautiful.  But it was cold.  Claire and I decided that the snow would count as the first frost of the year, thereby allowing us to abide by family tradition to only pick the first brussels sprouts after a frost.  And they were delicious with our roast pork chop at lunchtime.  Excellent.

Fudge – not a happy puppy
Snowy Leeks

 

 

First frost for Brussels?