Tag Archives: nature

Branch Lines

It feels that spring is upon us. Warm weather around Easter, has seen a positive reaction from seedlings and early perennials in the longer days and strengthening sun.

Amelanchier in bloom

I fund myself looking to the trees around me for the tell tale signs of spring.  The Ash and the Oak on our lane are full of incoming migrants, such as chiffchaffs and blackcaps, filling the air with their distinctive songs.   I suspect the Ash is coming into leaf first, which is unusual, and suggests the prospect of a wet summer, if the old rhyme is to be believed:

‘Oak before Ash: in for a splash.  Ash before Oak: in for a soak.’

We had scaffolding on the house last week to enable some work on the roof. Standing next to the chimney piece, I realised just how tall the oak is.  A wet summer, or slightly leaky roof, would be the least of our problems if any sizeable part of this tree fell our way. 

But it is a feature of our lives just as other trees are. The Amelanchier, which we transplanted to the Spursy border a few years ago, has been in delicate blossom these past couple of weeks.  It reminds me of the Old Place, as my mother particularly valued it.  In contrast, I have never been a big fan of a Magnolia: the blossom is too blousy for my taste and, when fallen, it litters the place like discarded fish and chip wrappers.  The Amelanchier is far more delicate and refined. 

The Whitebeam that we placed in the back garden also reminds me of the Old Place.  My father bought a White beam soon after my mother died.  At this time of year, the soft silvery green buds anticipate the bright green leaves about to burst forth and delicate white flowers. It almost shimmers in the spring sunshine.

Elsewhere in the Spursy border, the three silver Birches are a major feature.  They are currently covered in catkins, which contrast pleasingly with the shiny bark.  They remind me of childhood trips to my grandmother on Ashdown Forest in Sussex. 

I think we are drawn to trees by their longevity. Most of them will be here long after we have passed. I often take pictures of them and none is more photographed and studied by us (and others) than the Tulip Tree (Liriodendron Tulipifera) down the road on Crawford Lane.  Commonly known as Josh’s Tree, it was planted in his memory by members of our village book group.  It is positioned on one of the main thoroughfares for dog walkers and has plenty of space to grow to its ultimate height of more than twenty metres.

A group of us dug it in during lockdown in a comical example of failed social distancing, which ended with the passing of an iPhone from unwashed hand to unwashed hand before one of us worked out how to take a selfie. I am pleased to report that we all survived the experience – particularly the tree.

Hardly a month or even a week goes by without me taking a photograph of it and thinking of my boy.  The tree will not actually flower for at least another ten or fifteen years, but just the shape and colour of the emergent leaves in the spring are a joy to behold, like small candles on the tree’s elegant arms.

Like the Oak and the Ash, it bears witness to our lives and, in a small way, the Tulip Tree will retain memories of our boy.

Harbinger of Spring
Whitebeam
Amelanchier
How close is that Oak?
2020: The fine art of Social Distancing
Job Done
Winter on Crawford Lane
Candelabra
Candles
A few weeks earlier

Buttercups Runneth Over

This year’s Tulips

In January I reported on my continuing efforts to grow Ranunculus.  Commonly known as Persian Buttercups, these flowers were initially a breeze for me to grow, but more recently they seem to just die for no reason.  I have no idea why.   

But this year, I seem to have cracked it, thanks to some info sourced on the internet.   The method involves starting the corms packed tightly together in a shallow seed tray, barely covered by compost.  Given a light watering, within a few weeks there were small shoots coming through.  I transferred them to 9cm pots and now every single corm is flourishing.  All 101 of them.  It seems too easy.  I do not have the early blooms that I have tried for in previous years (and often failed) but maybe it is worth the delay.

Last week, we were in a ‘collab’ producing flowers for Ellie’s wedding (daughter of our good friends Steve and Lesley).  It was joyful affair and we felt honoured to be able to contribute to the day in such a positive way.  Being so early in the year, it was touch and go as to what stems we would be able to provide, but in the absence of any early ranunculus, the Garden Gate tulips came good, doing much of the floral heavy lifting.  But ranunculus was there too, albeit stems that had been sourced from a Devon flower farm by our collaborator, Nat, Ellie’s sister-in-law.  Nat was the primary organiser of the arrangements and utilised the ranunculus to create some wonderful bridal bouquets and buttonholes.  She had also made some awesome dried flower rings for the smallest bridesmaids. It was a pleasure working with Nat.

I have said it many times, how gardening and horticulture teaches us about patience and humility.  Our flowers bloomed because of some careful planning, nurturing and, above all, time.  We did not have to shout, swear or use excessive force to get the results we wanted.   

Although we might not have had ranunculus in time for the April wedding, we are quietly confident of a good crop of them in due course.  As the Middle East is in danger of being bombed ‘back to the Stone Ages’ by our one-time allies, it seems ironic that I am about to produce my best crop of Persian Buttercups.

Ranunculus in March
Not quite ready for the Wedding
Table Decoration and Bud Vases
Bridal Bouquets
A Welcoming Display
Glorious Persiana
Prepped for the service
Spring Wedding
Pew Ends
Another delivery of table decs and bouquets to Kimbers’
Freshly cut

Not Going Cheap in the Sales

January means planning the spring planting but these days, fewer seed catalogues are landing on my doormat.  Either the postal service is getting worse, or the seed companies are going electronic.  Either way, instead of browsing catalogues, nowadays I am surfing the Web for my gardening fantasies.

I have plenty of seeds left over from summer, so have only needed to supplement them with a few from Ben at Higgledy Garden.  But the internet is a dangerous place and leads me into horticultural temptation.  After the losses of ‘dahliagate’ I was minded to order fresh ones to swell the depleted ranks and while I was browsing those tubers, I could not resist ordering a bulk batch of ranunculus.

My relationship with the Persian Buttercup over the years has been tempestuous, to put it mildly.  The first time our paths crossed, at the Old Place, we managed to produce a fine crop of the multi-layered rose-like blooms.  It seemed so simple:  stick them in a pot in the autumn greenhouse, and by early summer – Boom!

In subsequent years I have tried the same formula, but it just hasn’t worked out.  They have thrown up a few, sometimes weedy, green leaves, but each time they have wilted and died in the pot before spring could arrive.  And this autumn I put them in 9cm pots and they never even bothered to germinate or shoot.  Just rotted.  I desperately want ranunculus in my life, but each time I try, they just swipe left.

I am clearly doing something wrong.   Reading their biog, I see that they like the paradoxical “damp, well-drained soil.”  So, they do not like being dry, but at the first sign of too much water, the corms will melt away like the Wicked Witch of the West.

Mrs B laughed when she knew I had succumbed to the Temptation of Ranunculus once again.  The words of Soft Cell, she regards my attraction to ranunculus as a so so love; the standing joke of the year.  For my part, I tried to make it work and although they didn’t even germinate last time, I wanna make sure it doesn’t happen again. 

Despite my best intentions and ferent hopes, deep down I know that, even if they do manage to produce a few green shoots, I it is likely to be another case of  Say Hello then Wave Goodbye.

Midlife Latin

Chrysanthemum Rainbow Hippy Lovechild

This week’s Cultural Wednesday took Mrs B and me to Barrington Court.  Our first visit to Barrington was with Josh, so it felt apt to be here on what would have been his 33rd birthday.  I remember enjoying wandering around the gardens and on another, subsequent visit, I we watched a small child staring into the ornamental pond, yelling “Oh my God!  Oh my God!” at the top of his voice, entranced by an enormous Koi Carp that lurked between the lily pads. 

This week there were no child-eating Carp in the pond, but there was an impressive range of shrubs and flowers in the well-ordered borders.  It being a school day, small children were notable by their absence, and so we could amble around the well-laid paths enjoying the warm sunshine in the company of folk against whom we ranked at the lower end of the age range.

But we are beginning to feel our age (‘midlifegardener’ is an increasingly tenuous nom de plume) and further evidence that we are becoming our parents, is provided by our increasing habit of attempting to name every plant we see.  I am surprised by our degree of success.  There was a time when I had to Google them or just describe a plant as “that pink flower with the green bits; well behaved plant or whatever”.  Now, “physostegia” just trips off the tongue. I know my Eryngium from my Echinops and Veronicastrum from Verbena Bonariensis.

This fluency in horticultural Latin feels to have happened suddenly, but it’s no coincidence that it manifested itself as we embarked on our cut flower journey.  I guess we need to know exactly what we are growing in our garden, and now we can identify them in the National Trust’s gardens too.  With knowledge comes power and confidence and the MLG side hustle is starting to turn into a pivot, evidenced by the creation of Garden Gate Flowers (BA22), with our lovely neighbor, Kate.  We have a regular Friday stall at Galhampton Village Hall, and we take orders and offer a delivery service to the village.  There are tentative enquiries about weddings, including a “DIY, Rustic Festival” style wedding, which matches our vibe perfectly.

You can even find us on Facebook and Insta so we really do exist.

Who knows where this will lead us?  Up the Garden Path, through the Garden Gate…

Veni, Vidi, Vendidi.

I came, I saw, I sold.

Badger’s Book at Bedtime

Trying to fit into the sun spot

It is Pablo we must thank for the fact that we own a dachshund.  When Josh slept over at his colleague’s house after a “Thursday is the New Friday” drinks session got a bit out of hand, it was Pablo who woke him, tunnelling down into Josh’s sleeping bag demonstrating a sausage dog’s obsession with warm dark spaces.  If Josh had not been the unwitting bedfellow of his colleague’s dachshund, he would not have expressed his desire to own one, neither would we have promised him one when he was ill, and nor would my work colleagues have gifted us the funds to acquire one in Josh’s memory. 

Why am I telling you this?  Perhaps to provide some context to explain how I recently found myself sitting in the kitchen at 2 a.m, reading to Mr Long because he could not – or would not – sleep in his own bed.

It started when we agreed to look after my brother’s dog, Bruno (a Vizler/Pointer cross) for ten days.  On the first night, Badger’s ‘cousin’ opted to sleep in Badger’s small bed instead of his own, which meant he had to:

  1. Turf Badger off it
  2. Drag it out from under a low shelf and
  3. Curl up really tightly to fit on it

The first we knew of this low-level canine bullying was the whining of our little pet at the kitchen door.  Bruno wasn’t relinquishing the bed, so we took pity on Badger and allowed him to sleep in ours.  Badger was delighted and became quite accustomed to the arrangement over the following ten nights.  When Bruno departed, Badger saw no reason why he should return to his old bed in the kitchen. 

But, since we wanted our own bed for ourselves, we shut him in the kitchen anyway.  Unimpressed by the return to his old dormitory, Mr Long whined; quietly at first, but then louder and with more urgency.  And then he started to bark.  Not incessantly, just occasionally, but regularly enough to awaken us as we were tipping off to sleep.

It was not as if Badger was angry.  Just disappointed.

Eventually, I got up and tried bribing him with treats to stay in his bed.  Which he did, until I switched the lights out.  When I turned the lights back on after five seconds, to check he was still in bed, my dachshund was half way across the floor, frozen in mid-step.

I tried a couple more times, but Badger was beginning to enjoy his own version of Grandmother’s Footsteps.  So I did what any exasperated parent would do and decided to bore him to sleep, by sitting with my book and reading, albeit not out loud. I am not that deluded (yet). Miraculously, it worked.

I only had to repeat the exercise a couple of times over the next few nights before Badger accepted his own bed instead of ours.

It was reminiscent of when we had to manage the kids’ sleeping patterns and is one of many similarities between bringing up toddlers and looking after a dachshund.  It is no coincidence.  Simply cuddling Badger seems to release a dose of oxytocin as if I am holding my child.  Of course physically, Josh and Badger are at opposite ends of the scale:  one, six feet four inches tall; the other with four feet but only six inches tall.  And their respective characters are equally far apart: quiet, mild mannered and reasonable against angry, demanding and self-centred. 

But the arrival of Badger is directly linked to the loss of Josh, so, we can be forgiven for treating him like our lost boy.  Even our daughter ironically (or otherwise) refers to Badger as ‘the favourite child’ and there might be some truth in the observation. 

Not that we ever spoil him or bow to his demands.  Apart from the occasional bedtime story. 

Garden Clearances Continue

Who’s been eating my broccoli?

After our last report, we are sorry to report that further damage has been sustained to the veg patch.  Well – mainly to the Old Man’s patch.  We noticed that most of our brussels, broccoli and purple sprouting had taken direct hits from an unidentified assailant.  It was not initially clear what had done the damage: I thought that maybe a smart pigeon had somehow managed to fly in under the radar and the netting to peck the succulent leaves off.  Claire was of the opinion that slugs – which have been numerous in this sodden summer – but The Old Man was suspicious of rodent mammalian infiltration.  Either small rabbits who had dodged his air rifle pellets and got through the large gauge netting or perhaps mice.

So, smaller netting was put in place and fresh brussels plants were put in.  Over the path  in our patch we already had tighter fencing in place, but we gave a liberal sprinkling of the slug equivalent of liquorice allsorts to turn them to mush.

One small victim at the scene of his crime

The next day we had got one slug, but the new brussels in the small allotment were nibbled again.  This time TOM brought out the ultimate weapon against rodents – his mouse traps.  I had never seen these before:  they look like plastic castanets or even sets of dentures lying around the veg patch.  But the next day they had done their job.  Lying there with castanets on their heads were two mice.  Well, that is not strictly accurate.  One small grey mouse was truly dead with a set of dentures round its neck.  The other was larger, browner, and had the castanets over its nose.  And it was still alive.  I put it out of its misery.

I’ve never been very relaxed about putting animals into the afterlife.  I recall meeting our local female doctor out as she was walking her dog one time when it caught and failed to wholly despatch a rabbit.  Without breaking off our conversation Judith put her foot on the neck of the failed extra from Watership Down, and twisted its head through 360 degrees, tossed the body into the hedge, and continued the walk.  While I stood in aghast in awe at her dispassionate approach to the rabbit’s demise.  She was simply annoyed that her dog had failed to complete the job it started.

Another one bites the mouse

But my father was right: it was mice that were destroying his sprouts.  Or rather I thought the larger one looked more like a small rat.  I left the corpses for him to dispose of. Although one has to be quick around here: the other day he shot a rabbit then went for lunch (such is the casual nature with which we take away life these days) and when he came back, a couple of magpies were already picking at the choice cuts themselves.  Reminded me of the scene from film Excalibur when the knights are searching through the famished land for the grail, and there is a scene in which a crow picks the eye from a corpse.  Yummmmm.

I was later informed that my “small rat” was actually a “large field mouse”.  That made me feel a little guilty.  Field mouse conjures images of fluffy rodents (and their young) nibbling gently at golden ears of wheat under azure skies.  Admittedly, just prior to combine harvesters mashing them, but I guess they are fairly numerous and anyway they should just “get off my land!

Well, I am glad to say that there have been no more gnashers on mice and all the brussels, broccs and purps are beginning to recover from the rodent blitzkrieg.

***********************

Weeding: little and often is best!

At the weekend Claire was concerned that the garden was getting overgrown with weeds.  She was not wrong: it has been so wet and I have been busy with end of term at school and other coaching work, so the veg lines were looking shaggy.  I set to, weeding three rows of broad beans, two rows of runners and climbing french and our brussels, brocs and purps.   Like I always say, if a job is worth doing. it is worth doing quickly.  Unfortunately, in my haste, I did the unthinkable, taking off a borlotti bean and two pea plants at ground level with the Holy Blade of the Super Hoe.  Oops.  That upset me more than killing field mice, but the garden is looking better tended now albeit rather more denuded.

Survival of the fittest around here.