Plant – 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…

The Summer in one day

KONICA MINOLTA DIGITAL CAMERA — Sunshine and showers

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.

We should label things

Peter Cook and Dudley Moore had – as their alter egos Derek and Clive – an expletive-laden conversation regarding the lack of labelling on important household items (such as motorbikes and sunglasses – getting them mixed up can be awkward, it seems) and I often find myself reciting the lines in my head as I go around the garden looking at rows of green stuff sprouting up, trying to remember what they are or how I should be harvesting / nurturing them.

The brocoli we planted is sprouting nicely, though not in one big head. As these are the plants that Lynn gave to us we are not too sure what type they are, so I am second guessing what to do. Perhaps they are “cut and come again” brocoli which I can just take off florets and more grow. But they are just the size of purple sprouting and at the moment we don’t get much of a meal from them.

The tomatoes are another issue – I have been patiently waiting for the first one to ripen to its full red bloom, only to discover that this type are naturally orange in colour and will not turn red. Change the label to orange tomato.

Mind you, even with a label and instructions, life does not always work out. My coriander seeds which the packet told me would take something stupid like a matter of hours between sowing and harvesting, have taken months to only produce three pathetic seedlings. It don’t always do what it says on the tin.

And even when your plants do well, you cannot always be sure what you will harvest. Lynn kindly provided us with a whole host of different chitting spuds, from Belle de Fontenay second earlies to Sarpo Mira Main Crop. I carefully planted each type in its own row and assiduously labelled each one accordingly. What soon became apparent when the spuds came up was that they were not necessarily uniform rows: the tops were clearly different, and since the destruction of the plants by blight, I havent’ a clue what I am going to find. This week we dug several roots of potatoes that are like no other we have planted – so while one root is clearly Setana, the next is bright red – maybe Duke of Yorks? Who knows. But it brings even more excitement to an otherwise mundane task fo digging spuds.

As Derek and Clive said “If people would label things…you’d know where you were”.

Don’t Say What You See

Prince Charles has been ridiculed in the past for his admission that he talks to his plants to encourage growth. Looking over my desolated veg patch this week, if HRH had had a look he could have been forgiven for thinking that I might have been saying rather nasty things to my plants. The broad beans are black and increasingly wizened, and the potatoes, with nothing above ground, now look like Iron Age long barrows, awaiting grave robbers to dig up the treasure within. If anyone has been talking to these plants, it would probably have been someone from the John Terry school of elocution. What might pass for “banter” on the professional football pitch would definitely be banned in the allotment.

Admittedly, the more banal explanation for the sorry state of the beans (and spuds) will be the weather – in particular the position of the jet stream which is doing its very best to break every precipitation record in the book this summer. But talk of the weather is also banned in our house. Claire has been threatening to put a sign up in the bookshop to warn potential customers that “yes – we know it is raining outside, that it has been a crap summer and we too are fed up with it. But most of all we are fed up with every single (JT expletive deleted) customer telling us this”.

The other reason we are not discussing the weather in our house is because our Silver Wedding Celebration is planned for this Saturday – in the garden. Jim told me yesterday that he thought that we should be OK this week-end, and coming from a man who has spent his life working outdoors on farms, I was heartened to hear an expert opinion on the subject. Unfortunately, he undermined this voice of authority by saying “well that was what it said on the ‘Countryfile‘ forecast”. AAAhhhh…. that’ll be same TV programme we watch on Sundays – a glossy magazine of picture postcard farming for city dwellers who think cows are the size of a large dog (genuine overheard conversation that one) where the rare breed piglets on Adam’s Farm get a little sun cream on the ears to prevent burning.

No that does not inspire great confidence, so we are not trying too hard to guess the size of the next weather front and are avoiding false hopes and discussion about high pressure over England this week-end.

But in the absence any weather to discuss, what can we Brits talk about?

Well, I reckon second on the list, is gardening, so a quick resume of what’s growing on in the borders. Well, Claire planted out the Sweet Williams and I put the parsnips out. Both now look rather sodden and sad, but are surviving. The Heritage Peas have grown magnificently – straight and tall. Unfortunately, they forgot to flower, so there are five feet of leafy, spindly growth, with six inches of flowering plant on top. So a couple of handfuls of peas are the best we can hope for. But only if the bees are able to get out and pollinate, but they are seemingly hive-bound because of – you guessed it – the weather.

The pigs are happy as….well pigs in mud really. They have discovered that if they dig deep enough they can get to the roots of the blue cedar. The other morning I discovered them up to their shoulders shovelling away with their snouts – looking intent on digging a tunnel out of there. Perhaps they are trying to escape this crap weather. When they ask for a wooden horse for practising their gymnastics I will start to worry.

They are managing to keep themselves busy with rootling around amid signs that they are getting adolescent urges as the smaller puny pig keeps trying to mount his larger brother. Some sex education might be in order here, but in a blog that is intended to be read by the whole family, I think we will leave it there. To paraphrase from last week’s court case: he’s a rutting ginger runt.

Elsewhere sex education is also in short supply with the hens who are laying three eggs per day, but Sydney the Speckled Sussex has been broody for weeks. Sydney clearly does not understand that however long she sits on those eggs, they ain’t gonna hatch.

But then again, perhaps it’s not the eggs that make her stay indoors – perhaps she too is just fed up with the WEATHER.

But we’re not going to mention that are we? Just try not to comment on the bleeding obvious.

Hoe Hoe Hoe

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.

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.

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.

Tag Archives: Plant

Where do we find the time?

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Help Wanted?

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Not Green Any More

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The Summer in one day

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We should label things

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Don’t Say What You See

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Hoe Hoe Hoe

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Digging In

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