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.

Plans for the New Year

Winter Walk
Winter Walk

Since November I have not posted.  There are a number of drafts still on hold, but the idea of posting every day during November rapidly became an end in its own right: like a dog’s incessant barking, publishing a blog post every day was just so much pointless twitter.  Combine that with the end of term and the appearance of Christmas on the horizon and gardening and writing took a back seat.

So a quick update on the garden sees more of the same, really.  Ella has twice managed to get into the chicken run, and on each occasion has brought down a hen, catching a bird then trying to gum it to death in her soft retriever’s mouth.  The hens have been vocal in their outrage and called the emergency services (me) to save them from the Black Death Eater.  Verity, Josh and I spent some time translating just what it was they were saying:  “f-king HURTS!” was our best guess, though we thought they were simply having a laugh at Ella’s inability to deliver the coup de gras.  The second time I arrived to find three chickens in the hen-house, and the other two standing with their heads in the ivy, looking like the world’s worst exponents of hide and seek.  Ella had one of the Sussex Stars in her mouth but was good enough to let it go when I told her.

The Hen Run - Dog Proofed
The Hen Run – Dog Proofed

Just as with the previous time, the bird was, to all intents and purposes, playing dead.  But with a nudge from my foot she got up and got on with life.  Ella received a severe reprimand, but I do not think that will have much effect on her.  So on Christmas day I worked off lunch making the fences dog proof once again.

Elsewhere in the garden I tidied up after the storms that we have had.  A couple of panes of glass were blown out of the top greenhouse, though fortunately neither was broken.  The cracked bits in the end of the greenhouse also fell out, but I managed to mend all without any assistance from the Old Man.  Proper grown up, me.

Winter Oak
Winter Oak

And down the end of the garden today I bundled up all the stakes and other bits and bobs of netting etc that had blown over under the oak tree.  One thing leads to another and I came to the realisation that storing stuff around the oak rather detracted from what is a really lovely tree.  I mean, how many people are lucky enough to have a good sized oak tree in one corner of their garden?  It looks a lot better now.  I was thinking of planting some bulbs around it but it’s probably a little late now – plus, the chances are my idiot black puppy will in all likelihood dig them all up, as she was hard at work digging there as I was trying to clear the posts.

One thing I will have to do later than last year is plant the garlic, which will now have to be a spring planting.  We have been cooking with our own garlic all autumn – and only recently starting buying onions. It has been interesting to see the difference in flavours of each type, though I cannot remember which is which as the labels I wrote whited before I harvested them.  The Elephant garlic was great.   That one is not too difficult to spot, on account of its size, and though not strictly speaking a garlic, it has a lovely mild flavour.  But as to the others, who knows.  I will have to make a cunning plan for the spring.

 

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.

Can I go in now?
Can I go in now?

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.

The Fuckwits
The Fuckwits

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.

Not Green Any More

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A Very Green House

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

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Is there anybody in there?

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.

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The Crystal Palace!

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.

A good Forking effort
A good Forking effort

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…

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).

KONICA MINOLTA DIGITAL CAMERAFudge 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.

KONICA MINOLTA DIGITAL CAMERANot 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.

On top of Goat Fell, Arran
On top of Goat Fell, Arran

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?

Fighting Spreads Across Gardening Fronts

Casualties of the Garden War

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.

Sawn off at ground level – but they will be back

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.

Fudge – the rabbit chaser. “I am not a killer” she says.

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.

Eating Out of House and Home

Sunday Lunch Al Fresco
Eats shoots and leaves?

The sun continues to shine unabated and the salad in the greenhouse grows an inch a day.  So we are now into full-blown eat it or beat it mode.  The different leaves are lovely to look at, and make a brilliant plateful of fresh salad.  Combine that with one of Claire’s fine tartlets and you have a proper salad for a magnificent May Sunday.  OK, the tomatoes are not our own (yet – the first trusses have set and the plants are coming on strong) but what a joy to behold.

We set up lunch on the patio table which sits outside the kitchen window in the drive.  It is not the sort of table you move in a hurry as it was requisitioned from my brother’s bistro when they were changing their whole “theme”.  It think it was designed to be too heavy to throw in a drunken brawl – which it certainly is.  Anyway, the food looked and tasted good, with home-grown radishes (more planted already) and a decent bottle of co-op’s finest Fair Trade Carmeniere to wash it down.  It felt like we were on holiday, which is pretty much how I try to approach life these days.  Enjoy it like it is a holiday – even work!  And we could have been in any part of continental Europe with sun baking the stone wall behind us.

Fresh Radishes
Red Bombs Away…

Radishes are an interesting veg: I used to find that peppery taste too hot when I was younger, but either my tastes have changed or perhaps we don’t grow such violent radishes these days.  But I love the look of them – the green leaves setting off the red and white body, which looks like a brightly coloured mini bomb.  I hope it is the harbinger of good times to come with long days in the garden dining off the fruits of our labours under the Somerset sun…..eating outside house and home as if without a care in the world.

Tomato plants
Tomatoes a week ago – trusses set…