Off The Edge Gardening

What is the opposite of Internet Troll?  Could it be Pixie or perhaps Elf or how about Nymph?  A creature that is benignly mischievous but definitely one of the good guys.  I need to know because I am trying to introduce my latest guest blogger, Archie the Wonder Dog.  Yes, that’s right, a dog.  

AtWD has been my on-line champion.  Always ready with a kind word, a like or a share.  What is more she is an accomplished sewer, making clothes, patchwork quilts and other such mysteries, the secrets of which have passed me by.  You can find tales of her amazing crafting at http://archiethewonderdog.blogspot.co.uk/ . Quite how those little paws manage to thread the needle is amazing.   As for reaching the sewing machine pedal ….. well perhaps there are special doggy adaptions.  Just between you and me, I am not absolutely convinced that Archie is really a dog.  It doesn’t really matter, Archie is lovely.  See what you think …….

When Gill asked me to write a guest blog (so long ago that I can’t remember when it was *hangs head in shame*), I hadn’t a clue what I’d write about on a gardening blog? And one which frequently makes me laugh out loud or marvel at her succinct way with words? Okay then *laughs nervously*

After a few days, a glimmer of an idea formed and I started writing in my head. I’ve continued to do so up until the very point where I forced myself to sit down at the laptop and get typing, and here’s the thing: I’m no longer going to write what I thought I’d write.

I thought I’d write about how my two hobbies (sewing, particularly quilting, and gardening) have a lot in common: you start with an idea, you add lots of pieces, you faff around a lot and worry that you haven’t got things quite right, you add some yellow (or white), you move a few things round, you ask friends and loved ones what they think (and sometimes you even listen to them!) and, eventually, you step back and either realise it’s marvellous as it is or you know exactly what to do to make it marvellous. And then you start on the thing and the joy is undiminished by having done it before. In fact, the joy seems to grow with your experience!

Instead, I find myself thinking of what sewers and gardeners have in common; the people rather than the skills.

Sewers and gardeners are very friendly and approachable: there is, on the whole, no prickling of backs when someone mentions that they, also, dabble a little in sewing or gardening. Instead, that person is embraced wholeheartedly and introduced to lots of other friendly sewers/gardeners. If you go to a sewer’s house and admire a piece of fabric, you will, more often than not, leave with a piece of it (along with many others) in a bag; if you visit a gardener’s garden and admire a plant, you are bound to leave with a labelled cutting, some seed or even part of a plant which has been dug up and split so you can take some with you, and maybe some spare pots so you can grow on some of the seedlings you’ve been given. Both sets of people have a generosity of spirit at their heart. Perhaps it’s because both skills are often passed down the family and learnt from each other? The skills and knowledge are shared, and shared freely. Neither sewers nor gardeners feel that knowledge is to be hoarded zealously and eked out to only the highest bidder. No, it is to be shared freely and joyfully, and there’s a reciprocity inherent in both loves: even a beginner has an insight to offer, be it some seeds they got from a plant someone gave them, their granddad’s tip on how to water in new plants, or a nifty way their mam showed them to set in a zip or tie a knot.

The only thing I’d say when going between the two sets of people is this: wash your hands before touching a quilt you admire – generosity of spirit is all well and good, but if you get manure on someone’s fabric/embroidery/newly-finished silk shirt then you’d better have a good tip to share about getting rid of it!

The Hilton rather than Travelodge, methinks.

Plans are afoot at The Farm.  We have decided to plant an orchard in rough patch of land adjacent to the vegetable garden.  Gorse and bracken are perhaps not the ideal starting point, but much has been cleared already and don’t forget we have Farm Force at our disposal.  For this is not to be any old orchard but a heritage one, full of old Devon varieties.  A worthy attempt to give a home to some of the rarer fruit trees, grown for years in this county and especially adapted to our unique environment.  It is unlikely the fruit they bear will be air brush perfect, or uniform in size, but they will have personality, to my mind a far preferable trait.

This morning Slasher and myself did some test pits on the potential site and the results were better than expected.  The sun shone and we imagined blossom filled trees full of pollinators, seating areas full of appreciative guests and the severe scrumping controls we would have to put in place (tigers perhaps?).  We talked logistics and protection from beasties, access and diggers. Emails were sent to specialists, research began in earnest.  Cider may have been mentioned more than once.  It is beginning to look like it might happen.  We shall try very hard not to choose varieties purely because of their name.  Except of course Farmer’s Glory and Fair Maid of Devon, and naturally Spotted Dick.

Later this afternoon the ponies showed their approval of this soon to be idyllic spot, although I think Tiny may have have gone a little over the top in his enthusiasm.

Delicious!

One of the great things about being self-employed is that it is my party and I can cry if I want to. What I mean is my life is flexible.  Today it rained.  I said “I don’t mind if we don’t do any work”. So we drank coffee and ate cake whilst listening to old vinyls. We sat on the big sofa and chatted and laughed and watched whilst Max acted the fool.  Sometimes there is more to life than gardening. Strange but true.

It didn’t seem to get light today.  All day long it threatened to downpour but only managed the odd spitter-spot which did nothing to alleviate the oppressiveness.  And I didn’t feel on top form.  A slightly out of focus day.  Nothing I could quite put my finger on, but the edges seemed blurred, the air like treacle, any spring in my step was reduced to a scuff.  Still good work was done and Mrs Bun’s chocolate fridge cake went a fair way to remedying my inertia.  Without its boost I may have lain down in the mint jungle and snoozed the afternoon away.

It was good.  I sang tra la la quite a lot and it was heavenly (the experience not the sound).  I attempted inappropriate songs.  I sang as loud as I could.  My teacher didn’t scream (out loud anyway).  I am smitten.  I just wondered, has the moniker “The Singing Gardener” been taken?

My Dad was not a gardener.  Valiantly he went through the motions, mowing the scrappy lawn, growing a few tomatoes, hacking back every now and then.  His favourite job was leaning on his spade whilst laughing and joking with the passers-by.  On one occasion he thought he would try to grow mushrooms.  After getting an appropriate book out of the library it was soon decided that it was far too complicated and much easier to pop across the road to the Spar.   That was my Dad, all or nothing.

After he was taken devastatingly ill, suddenly and unfairly, I wandered up to the greenhouse at the top of the garden. Previously I had believed this ramshackle self-build was for newspaper reading and escaping non-specific stuff. Much to my great surprise, languishing atop the bench in a plethora of pots, were hundreds and hundreds of marigold seedlings.  Earlier that month my Mum had mentioned that she rather liked marigolds.  He must have sown the whole jumbo bag in one go. That was my Dad.  All or nothing. For his Peggy.  For hours I stood and pricked these little love tokens out into pots, most probably weeping, clinging to the fact that somehow I was helping. Just keeping things ticking over.  In denial of the fact that he would never come home again to plant these treasures in the garden.

My Dad was not a singer.  This fact never held him back, in fact it underlined his resolve.  He loved to sing loud and he loved to sing hard.  All or nothing.  Today, would have been his birthday.  To mark this occasion I am having my first singing lesson.  I am going to sing loud and I am going to sing hard.  I shall give it my all.