Off The Edge Gardening

Fallen Leaves

Liquidambar leaves — Leaves of Liquidambar styraciflua

In my world death has lingered close this week. More than one special friend has been touched by the great sorrow of loss. Although once-removed from these sadnesses, it has caused me to be rather more reflective than usual.

Today I drove a friend to North Devon Hospice to pick up his car, left there after the passing of his friend yesterday. This was my first visit to the hospice. Like many of these oases, where the compassionate help the vulnerable in their final days, I have heard nothing but fine things about the care provided here. But I had also heard wonderful things about their gardens.

As rain had decided to rest for ten minutes, I took it as a sign, and did not even attempt to resist the temptation to have a quick look.

The autumn garden was, as you would imagine, looking its best. A large Cercis canadensis “Forest Pansy” looked stunning against the navy sky. After last night’s gales the leaves of Liquidambar styraciflua, the American sweet gum, carpeted the lawn. The cinnamon peeling bark of Acer griseum smouldered in the sun, with wheaten grasses and cyclamen providing a worthy under storey. In the reeded pond a swamp cypress, Taxodium distichum, with ginger needles, paddled in the shallows.

This was just an illicit taster, just a small section of the grounds. On three days each year they open these gardens to the public and I am determined to return to appreciate it fully. Us gardeners know all too well the beneficial effects of a garden. How much more can this be for those at crisis points in their lives? Healing, soothing, calming. Even a momentary escape from the harsh realities of life and death must repay a thousand fold. A beautiful distraction to allow the batteries to recharge, to strengthen, attune, accept.

Before we left we came across a seating area, looking across the lawn to the trees beyond, protected from our fine North Devon weather by glass walls. This shelter was etched with sayings, both apt and uplifting. We walked around reading them out to each other. Like a soothing mantra. One in particular stuck in my mind. We could do worse than to remember this.

Seed Addict

I have a tiny garden.

I have one meagre plastic greenhouse.

I have a large biscuit tin full of seeds, some collected, some gifted, some purchased.

I have little time for sowing, pricking out, potting on, tending.

So what did I do today? I ordered more seed. Twelve packets. Not only did I order more I ordered the unsuitable, the tender, the needy. The azure Willow gentian, Gentiana asclepiadea, the milk chocolate foxglove Digitalis parviflora, the red hot flame nasturtiumTropaeolum speciosum, the golden pea Lathyrus aureus, and an old friend, the cape wattle Paraserianthes lophantha. The words alone are pure poetry.

When the packs eventually arrive I will sit and carefully examine each in turn, imagining all the beauty that is contained within. I will praise them. I will flatter them. I will coo.

Then they will go in the tin, with the others, who no doubt diverge the sordid truth.

Spindle

As I parked my Messerschmidt in the village car park, on route to Mr and Mrs Bun’s, my eye was caught by something gleaming bright in the corner. Squinting in a most attractive manner, I tried to fathom what this could possibly be. Drawn like an anvil to an industrial strength magnet, I wandered over to investigate the shining phenomena. Part hidden behind a large white van, I gasped as I spied the most wonderful spindle I had ever seen. The spindle, Euonymus europaeus, is a native British tree with an autumn display to rival any cultivated specimen. Cerise pink fruit open to reveal jaffa orange seed, a colour combination that warms my soul. The leaves turn burnished mahogany before they fall. I wondered how many others had spied this beauty and drooled.

As I have a tendency to over-share, I rushed to the Bakery demanding that The Buns come forthwith, at once, with all haste, to appreciate the glorious burning bush. They did and made all the right noises of appreciation. I don’t think they were humouring me. In fact I’m sure they weren’t. 80% sure anyway.

Mr B brought his camera with him. As you can see, Mr Bun is an accomplished photographer. A man of many talents.

Unrelenting

The unrelenting flowering cosmos. On a day that couldn’t be bothered to get properly light, these floral gems were a candle in the gloom. For us softies in the south it was also chilly. It was the first day this autumn that my coat remained tight closed for the duration. Perhaps I wasn’t working hard enough. Slasher had a fire on the rise above the vegetable garden. Myself and Junior inspected proceedings and warmed our bones at the same time. We weren’t alone in taking advantage of the flames. The Dexter cattle lined up at the field edge to benefit from the warmth and the ponies came even closer. There were no marshmallows, but they were discussed at great length along with roasted spuds and bacon wrapped bananas. Next time perhaps.

Hydrangea quercifolia – The Oak Leaved Hydrangea

Before I moved to this neck of the woods my opinion of hydrangeas veered between ‘ambivalent’ and ‘unimpressed’. Slowly, however, I have been won over, especially by some of the less grown varieties. One of these is the oak-leaved hydrangea, Hydrangea quercifolia. Above is a toothed leaf, yet to succumb to autumn metamorphosis, set-off beautifully by its far more advanced bronze colleague below. Anyone who is hydrangea-phobic should test their resolve by taking a closer look at this North American native. Impressive deeply lobbed leaves turn shades of red and purple and bronze in the autumn, upside down ice cream cones of pure white flowers which fade to pink appear in summer. It is far more tolerant of both sun and dry soils than its cousin the more common mophead, Hydrangea macrophylla. Both beautiful and adaptable. Irresistible.

Canna indica – Indian Shot

When you see the seed it suddenly becomes obvious why it is called Indian Shot!

Trauma

Mr Bun has pruned his privet hedge. Quite rightly he waited until the bird breeding season was over. Unfortunately he inadvertently disturbed the nest of a rare pink-backed green turtle. He was, and it is a male as the females don’t have spots, left exposed to elements, terrified. We returned him to the midst of his preferred habitat where hopefully he will find a place to snuggle up for the winter. Mind you, he does looks pretty jolly for all his traumas.

Salvia curviflora

Salvia curviflora, just about holding its own against the rampant lilac heliotrope. A fine battle.

A Culinary Essay

Yesterday Lionel and Lavinia gave me a big bag of bramley apples. Very kind and very welcome.

There is something I must do today, or at least make a good start, it has to be finished by the middle of next week. As a masteress of procrastination, I have decided that before I begin this important task I must first bake something with the gifted fruit.

OH nearly fell off his perch when I told him that I would be cooking a pudding. Such hysteria should not be encouraged. Surely I have cooked a pudding before? Although I can’t quite put my finger on when or what it was.

I dusted off the cook books and decided on a recipe from the spendid Lorraine Pascale. We have so much in common, me and Lor, and not just in the looks department. The delicacy I chose was called Chausson aux Pomme*.

This culinary opportunity is too good to miss, don’t fight, there is no escape, I am going to share my baking adventure with you**:

Peel, core and cut 1.3kg of apples into bite sized pieces.

Weigh apples. Wonder if it is important that there are not quite enough? Of course not. What is a couple of hundred grams between friends? Start to peel and cut into bite sized piece. Decide I need music, go upstairs and fetch my iPod, put Chas and Dave sing Leonard Cohan on shuffle. Continue peeling and chopping. Then realise that I should have washed them first. Mind you if they are going to be peeled does it really matter? Give them cursory rinse anyway. Continue to peel and cut. I should have tied my hair up first. Go upstairs to find hair tie. Realise I should have washed hands first. Enjoying apple scented hair. Taking so long the first apples are turning an unattractive brown. Rearrange so I can’t see the beige ones.

Sprinkle with 1tsp each of cinnamon and ginger. No problem, although I forgot to take into account the short fall of apples. It won’t matter. We like tasty food in our house.

Add 3tbsp of water. Easy peasy. We’ve got plenty of that, it is North Devon after all!

Then add 75g of soft brown sugar. Look for soft brown sugar. Find demerara, dark brown and muscovado. Frown. Look in sugar pot, convince myself it looks soft and brown and it is definitely sugar. As no one in this house take sugar it has probably been there for a while. Never mind, sell by dates are for wimps. Weigh out sugar, remembering to put a little less in. I may be learning. Unlikely as it may be.

Find stray apple in the sink, peel, core and add to others.

Stir whilst singing loudly to celebrate my triumph.

Cook on low to medium heat for 8 minutes. Ponder “low to medium heat” and decide on “low” as it is a new pan and I don’t want any accidents.

Set doggie to 8 minutes.

Have a little dance.

Check after 4 minutes, nothing much happening so turn up heat to medium. Reset doggie to another 8 minutes although this timing thing has gone a bit pear shaped now.

Cook until soft but not mushy. What do you do if some pieces are mushy and some are hard? This is why I don’t bake. Stir and hope for the best.

Retire to read “Calculus for Dummies”. Wake with a start as the darned doggie goes off again.

Grate in the rind of one lemon. Lemon? Oh dear. I do have some limes but they are strictly for my medicinal G&Ts. Maybe I can spare one. They aren’t as big as lemons so perhaps I will need two. Two is a bit much to ask. I know let’s compromise. Rind and juice of one lime. Admittedly Lor doesn’t mention juice but she may have forgotten. Too late now.

Add a big knob of butter. Big knob of butter, sorted. Stir again and then lick spoon. Delicious.

Leave to cool completely.

I spend this time making full butter puff pastry, rolling, folding and turning, chilling in between each careful working.

If you believe that you will believe anything.

Line a baking tray with parchment paper. I am surprised as anyone that I own parchment paper. It must have been a mistake. Perhaps I thought it was tracing paper. Happily accepting one of the enigmas of life, I duly lined a baking tray with parchment paper. Who would have thought it?

Roll out pastry. Open packet of puff pastry. Roll. Pastry. Half hardheartedly measure with Mr Jewson’s metal tape. Lose the will to live. Cut random oblongy shapes and fill with gunk. Seal with egg wash. Sort of.

Bake for 25 minutes at Gas mark 6 and whatever the other folk use. They come out of the oven and are rather rustic in appearance. I fear that I may have taken pack full of apple filling past the point that my pastry could handle. OH examines them “I love spillage” he says. This is why I love him.

I am rather concerned about how I am going to remove them from the famous baking parchment. It seems to be welded onto the bottom. Also a little concerned that the bottoms are soggy. Put back into oven with the cauliflower curry. It may impart an interesting aroma.

Sprinkle with icing sugar. Call neighbour to see if she has any icing sugar. She is out. How selfish.

Icing sugar is so last year. Decide to forgo this frivolity.

Several days later, or does it just seem that way, the Apple Turnover is ready. Was it worth the trouble? Definitely not.

Now wasn’t there something I was supposed to be doing ….

* Apple turnovers

**Lorraine’s instructions are in italics. My interpretation in normal font.

*** Try to imagine it with a sprinkling of icing sugar, it would have covered a multitude of sins.

**** They were delicious.

The Hole Revisited

Autumn brings with it a variety of changes. Deciduous leaves begin to fall, the summer crew begin their hibernation, the weeds slow, the temperature drops, the days shorten. And the hard work begins.

This week has been physically tough. I am loathe to admit it, but I am becoming increasingly dependent on Old Age and Cunning, rather than brute force. But the old gal is a long way from hanging up her secateurs and I still relish these exertions. Nothing is better than getting to the end of the day with muscles aching, face glowing, and still in one piece.

No day was tougher than Wednesday at Max’s. In the evening I was so tired I could barely talk. That doesn’t happen very often.

Unusually for us, we had pre-planned what we were going to do. These tasks had even been divided up into morning duties and afternoon duties. It is unlikely this level of organisation will ever happen again.

Morning:

Max’s dad was to extend a border by removing some turf and relocating it to one of the bald patches. In this new extension he was going plant a Salvia microphylla. He did this with the addition of an interesting brick step affair that plummeted off into nowhere. Perhaps it is where he is planning to push me when I misbehave.

I was on pruning duty. A large and neglected weigela was to have a heavy, and most likely at this time of year flower-robbing, renovation. This mega-chop revealed a large variegated daphne, most probably Daphne odora ‘Aureomarginata’. I am sure I heard a sigh of relief from this elegant lady when she was liberated from her captor. Both of these shrubs were riddled with both ivy and brambles. A war ensued and, although victory will no doubt will be fleeting, I managed to dominate these thugs.

Then I had to transport the enormous pile of rubbish to the ‘bonfire that never burns’ at the top of the garden. And when I say top, I mean top. It all had to be pulled through a narrow gate (which had to be opened then closed, to temper Max’s bid for freedom) and dragged up slippery slate steps then up a steep grass slope with intermittent mud slides and cane chicanes. Then skid back down and start all over again. Five times in a row. Tired now.

Lunch:

Yum.

Afternoon:

Move a Lomatia ferruginea. This Chilean member of the tricky proteaceae family prefers an open sunny site, with lime free soil and moist deep soil. At the moment it is residing underneath a large Cornus ‘Porlock’, very dry and shady.

After the exhausting morning, this single task should be easy, especially as we would be working on it together.

A spot was chosen that ticked all the required criteria. More turf removal. More Frankenstein lawn patching. Then we started digging. “Nice soil” we said. “What is that?” we said. “Just some roots of an old tree, we will get them out”. More digging. Air holes opened to reveal gaping spaces. “Sink holes” we muttered. A bed spring. A metal stanchion. A tree, half burnt, half rotted. “We can dig that out”, we tried to convince each other. All thoughts of moving the lomatia had flown. Now we were on a mission. We levered, we smashed, we puffed, we cursed a little.

“I’ll get the axe” said Max’s Dad.

As myself and Max withdrew to a safe distance I wondered aloud. “Wouldn’t it be funny if it was the remains of a viking longboat, the bed spring was an amulet and the stanchion a sword, and you were smashing it to pieces with a big axe.” The axe came to a halt in mid air while we rushed for one last look “No, I don’t think so, I think we are OK”.

A piece of bark was pressed into the side of the pit. As I examined it I realised it had the distinctive look of conifer. Max’s Dad then explained there was an unusual covenant on the deeds of the house, as well as on others in the area, that pine trees should be planted in every gardens. This relic must be the remains of one that had been felled and the evidence burnt and buried along with other detritus. No one ever knew their guilty secret until now. How they explained the disappearance of their tree is anyone’s guess, Combe Martians perhaps?

Next week, top of the list, Move the Lomatia. Or perhaps create a plunge pool?