Tomorrow is a big day in the Bun household. Madeleine will be wedding Gary Baldy. The traumatised scarlet flax have rallied, managing to produce a glorious red flower just in time. One is enough. There are plenty of others to fill the jam jars. Wishing you all a wonderful day and the happy couple an amazing life together. x
ps Thanks to Mr Bun for the photo, I didn’t doubt you for a moment!
“The grass is greener”, is not a valid excuse!
Albitzia julibrissin f. rosea, the pink silk tree, has been jettisoning its flowers for the past few weeks. Most have fallen on the tarmac drive or are resting atop ferns and foliage. One dropped into the black bin now serving as a water reservoir, floating above the darkness, the end of each tassel glowing like a fibre optic light.
Today I had a postponed birthday breakfast with my lovely pals Hero and Betsy Bee. It was wonderful. It has inspired me to write a poem entitled Friends.
Friends are good
Friends are ace
Friends are welcome round my place*
Friends are lush
Friends are cool
Friends are even better if they have a swimming pool**
Friends are special
A friend always cares
Friends will never hesitate to lend you their flares ***
Friends are kind
Friends are clever
I’m a lucky lass and I’ll love them forever!****
*bring cake
**still looking for one of those, please apply in writing
*** or their tank tops
**** true
Ceratostigma willmottianum, the Chinese plumbago. Blue incarnate.
I have never been a big fan of chrysanthemums, although I have tried for years. Persistence may have eventually paid off.
Today we started in autumn and ended with summer. It began by wiping windscreens and ended with wiping brows. We are in between.
As I slammed the door behind me this morning I realised I had forgotten to pick up my waterproof. Time wasn’t on my side, so with my usual misplaced optimism I thought, “they said there might be showers this afternoon, they are probably wrong”. And they were. It rained incessantly.
In spite of all the wet stuff it was a very productive day at The Farm. It began with a long list entitled ‘Aims for Next Year’ or something like that. I do love a list, although it has not always been that way. Once that was off my chest and onto the white board, and I had explained the fine detail to anyone who would listen (the chickens were the most attentive) the gardening began.
The morning was a refined affair. Vaguely neglected gooseberries were weeded and mulched, the radishes from hell were composted and agapanthus heeled into their temporary position (see AFNY item No. 14). As I wandered off for my lunch I heard Slasher start up the chainsaw. This roar heralded a far more rumbustious afternoon.
Farm Force were reunited for a trio of tricky jobs which luckily were all shouting distance apart. An out of the way border has been ignored for the season awaiting a new lodge which has to be trickily manoeuvred behind in the autumn. It has become hard to ignore now. Time for a cheat’s weed, removing only the most heinous and seed laden. Any serious work is bound to be undone by cranes and lorries and their drivers, builders and other assorted workmen not known for their twinkle toes (AFNY No. 9). A seedling sycamore, now more of a teenager than a baby, was casting shadow and encroaching upon the vegetable garden. Slasher made short shift of this intruder, but also long mess. It is incredible how bigger trees are when horizontal rather than vertical. Although this task was pre-planned, it unfortunately did not make the list, so non-cross-out-able I’m afraid. I would blame the author. Young Master G cut back an exuberant willow, the extensive prunings of which we plan to use to construct an architectural wonder over the winter (item 3). Mr G tractored the Gurt Big Trailer to where were were working. Together we loaded the rubbish to be carted away, dragging boughs and foliage from the vegetable garden and forking in bundles of pernicious weeds. Mrs G pulled weed and brushed rubbish. We then moved the willow lengths to a safe place to loosen their leaves before we bundle them up and design our building (No. 13).
When we had completed the work in hand, and the last load had been removed, we strolled down the lane towards the office. Around the corner came Mr G towing his new vintage wooden trailer “I thought I would take you for a ride” he said. So we all climbed in, some more elegantly than others, made ourselves comfortable, as we taken on a tour of the site. The smile didn’t leave my face.
Tricyrtis hirta, the Hairy Toad lily was looking splendid today. It is not however looking like any toad I’ve ever met, hairy or otherwise.
In ten days time it is the wedding of Mr and Mrs Bun’s daughter to her beau. It is to be held in the village church, not one hundred meters from their house, and is bound to be a grand affair. Although most of the flowers will be supplied by the wonderful Pat the Field and arranged by an accomplished florist, Mrs Bun has also been growing her own contribution. This has been not without its stresses, there have been bugs and inertia to overcome. This week the garden was full of bloom and she will undoubtedly have a plethora to chose from on the glorious day. The sweet peas have recovered from their early season blip, dahlias, larkspur and cosmos are thriving, fragrant herbs are lush, and the scarlet flax is just about to flower.
Mr Bun had been rummaging in the cellar and found the bulbs that had been stored after being removed from planters and the borders earlier in the year. The amount and condition of some would suggest that it was more than one year’s haul. So myself and Mrs B sat and sorted and gossiped, removing desiccated vegetation and discarding any damaged or rotten bulbs. Naturally there were no labels so a fair amount of guessing had to be undertaken. Paper bags were located, in which they were stored for replanting in the next few months.
Halfway through our task Mr B returned from the vegetable garden to say he wasn’t quite sure what he should be weeding and would I take a look. As I approached the spot where he had begun his unhindered weeding, my heart baulked. Each and every one of the scarlet flax were missing! I stifled a scream, or perhaps he put his hand across my mouth when he realised his mistake. A deep breath later, I delved into his trug to retrieve the ousted young plants, a rapid replant, copious water and fingers were crossed. “She will notice” I warned “you better confess”. Mrs B took it very well considering. When the hottest day of the year got into its full scorching swing we used an old umbrella to shade the decidedly limp looking specimens. You never know, they might survive …..
Off The Edge Gardening