Contrary to TS Eliot’s assertions, this year April has been the kindest month. Dry and sunny, without being too hot. I read that bluebells have been flowering a fortnight earlier as a result of the weather patterns over the autumn and winter adn we saw plenty of them at Easter in Devon. Particularly pleasing as they were more often English bluebells, rather than unscented Spanish bullies that we tend to see around here, and which are resident in the Midlife Garden.
While it has been a good year for the Bluebells, our tulips were not as numerous as last year and it seemed they finished earlier too. I was correct in sayign numbers were down, but I was mistaken in thinking they gave up sooner. Checking my Google Photos, April was the only month we were cutting tulips in 2025.By May, they were blown, despite purchasing bulbs that the supplier assured us range in flowering time from March to May.
One month is worth it, though. And while there might have been fewer blooms, we really made those tulips work. Throughout April we were supplying bunches to our lovely local farm shop outlets at Kimbers’ and Buffalicious, where they have been enthusiastically received. It was hardly the Tulip Mania of the 1600s, but they sold well.
As we cut the last tulips, Mrs B expressed concern that we were running out of flowers all together. But she need not fear, as nature (and a reasonably well-organised gardener) finds a way, with Hesperis and Honesty stepping up to the floral plate and (whisper it low) the mighty Ranunculus are finally showing some buds.
Holne Wood English bluebellLovely garden at Dartington HallTulips and Table Decs for Kimbers’Tulips in the Flower FridgeFlower bucketsThe Orange EmperorsWedding Day FlowersFancy FrillsLemon Beauty
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 SpringWhitebeamAmelanchierHow close is that Oak?2020: The fine art of Social DistancingJob DoneWinter on Crawford LaneCandelabraCandles A few weeks earlier
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 MarchNot quite ready for the WeddingTable Decoration and Bud VasesBridal BouquetsA Welcoming DisplayGlorious PersianaPrepped for the serviceSpring Wedding Pew EndsAnother delivery of table decs and bouquets to Kimbers’Freshly cut
The business buzz word amongst some of my self-employed friends at the moment is “pivot”, to describe a changing of direction in one’s business or lifestyle and some have suggested that we might be mid-‘pivot’ in the Midlife Garden. It is true that ever since the ‘Invitation To Leave’ from my previous employer (I see it as an ‘inflection point’ in my life), I have been searching for an income stream that could be rewarding financially as well as emotionally. Clearly, this blog is never going to cover both those bases, so I knew I would have to be a ‘change agent’, taking a look at what I enjoy (apart from scribbling random words) and find something truly ‘transformative’ to ‘add value’ to my life (and bank balance).
Regular readers (both of you) will know how I find enormous emotional rewards in gardening. But after the success of the cut flowers on show at the 2024 WOTY*, I’ve joined forces with a neighbour to explore ways to monetise our blooming commodities.
First we decided to ‘segment’ this down, to ensure we had flowers for the whole summer. We took a deep dive, drilled down and, thinking outside the MLG box, we invested in dahlias. Previously regarded as blousy, ostentatious dandies that evoked memories of dreary seventies mixed borders, these could yet prove to be a game changer, producing blooms throughout autumn.
To move the needle for early blooms, we took a punt on tulips. We were ‘down on all fours’ with this, looking at it from the client’s-eye view and decided on Luxury Tulips: stems to mark us out from the ten-for-a-fiver supermarket types in dull hues of red and purple. So, posh tulips became the ‘moat’. We ‘swept the sheds’ to make it happen, to ‘action this solve’ and November saw us raking compost on then off, then onto the front bed to get the 500 bulbs to the perfect depth. We waited for April with crossed fingers.
We chose a price point, to give the customers ‘snackable content’ hoping they will be back for more when spring turns to summer. Unfortunately, the first stems were snackable to the point of stunted, but, they eventually reached their full potential, proving popular, if unprofitable. But not all stems will have the same base costs as posh tulips, so our ‘runway’ is longer than it might appear. The tulips were a loss leader, but a striking one at that.
We will take a ‘kaizen’ approach to improve all that we do as we try to get this thing off the ground (after mulching and watering it first).
By the end of the summer, we might have an answer to the question: is this just a side hustle or could I be pivoting from Ed Biz to Flower Biz? Only time, ‘brand positioning’, ‘demand generation’, ‘revenue performance management’ and the power of ‘the flywheel’ will tell.
Spring might finally be coming to the Midlife Garden. Despite the continuing cold, wet, windy weather, there are signs of new life. The seedlings are bursting out of the storage boxes in the greenhouse so I will have to hold them back in case of frost, and in the borders, the plum trees and Amelanchier are in blossom and the apple is just coming on too. The sound of chiffchaffs and blackcaps has joined the symphony of birdsong. It is a time of renewal and is a reminder of how the garden literally keeps me grounded and in step with the natural order.
Last week Mrs B and I attended the memorial service for Roy, one of our teachers at school. He was 94 and was, in the parlance of present-day pupils, a “legend”, having taught at the school for nearly three decades. He was a PE teacher and I remember him as a wily basketball coach, turning us into the best in the county; but he also taught maths. Even now, whenever I (frequently) cover a maths lesson I will think of Roy, of how he helped me understand and succeed in the subject, and whether I am explaining quadratic equations, surds, or simple multiplication, I can hear his voice saying “hence, thus and therefore…” before supplying the answer.
The memorial service was the celebration of a life well-lived, selfessly and often in the service of others, although it was tinged with sadness as Roy had latterly been the victim of Alzheimer’s. The church was packed with men and women of a certain age (somewhere in the 50s – 70s bracket) and there were awkward sideways glances and embarrassed smiles as we tried to second guess if we were looking into the ageing eyes of a former school chum. We should have worn name badges like a proper school reunion, but that would have missed the point of why we were there.
These days I view death as part of life. When someone passes, we grow our life around our grief, and learn to negotiate a new relationship with the deceased. The garden reminds us to get on with life and to accommodate death, even if we do not entirely accept it. Spring, with its blossom, new seedlings, and warming sunshine is the time to celebrate new life, building on, and remembering, the past lives that got us here.
While the debate continues about how long lockdown needs to be in place and we continue our social distancing, one positive thing that is clear around here is that the seasonal timing of this could not have been more convenient. When one is legally obliged to remain on one’s property for hours – and days – on end, domestic tasks are the unavoidable priority.
The Midlife Garden has never looked so trim and tidy. The grass is trim and the edges are sharp. Borders have been weeded and the seedlings are all in the greenhouse or potted on and hardening off. Green shoots are everywhere which give some feeling of hope in otherwise desperate times.
Also noticeable in the air is the sound of birdsong. Someone said that birds are singing more loudly, but that is not it. Ambient noise from planes, trains and automobiles, has reduced dramatically while birds continue to sing at the same levels. We can all just hear them more clearly now. I am not sure how much of a difference this makes in a small village, but we have been sleeping with a window open and have woken to the sound of birdsong every morning these past few weeks. Sometimes it is the cawing of a crow that has disturbed our slumber, but thankfully it has more often been a blackbird, blue tit or chiffchaff, or, for the last two weeks it has been the lilting song of the blackcap. The blackcap’s is my favourite birdsong at the moment, which makes me sound a bit geeky. But hey, I’ve said it now.
The sound of the blackcap is not only enjoyable, it is also a sure sign that spring is in full swing. I finally saw a couple of swallows, too, near the Old Place on Monday, and in the back garden we have a pair of blackbirds sitting on eggs. It has meant plans to trim the honeysuckle have been put on hold. Likewise, any thoughts of stripping the dead leaves off the Cabbage Palm were cancelled as we watched a pair of wrens building their nest there instead. The decibell levels have risen dramatically in the garden with the wrens, by turns, singing to each other and chitting their alarm at our presence.
It was an alarm call that stopped Mrs B and me the other morning while on the regulation dog walk. We attempted to locate the orgin of the noise and saw a pair of wrens. Suddenly, there was the flapping of larger wings and out of the hedge tumbled a sparrowhawk which sat on the grass, looking a little dazed, with its wings outstretched, peering over its shoulder at us. The bird fixed us with its beady yellow eye before realising social distancing measures were being contravened and flew off. The wrens survived the assault.
It was enjoyable to witness, but we don’t need to leave our home to be able to appreciate the vigour of the spring birds whether they are on their little wings or not.
