Off The Edge Gardening

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 …..

Lord and Lady Mantle have guests in residence, the Royal Pixie Highnesses, Princess Maia-Rose and Princess Elizabeth-Daisy.  You may have heard of them, they regularly grace the pages of Hello magazine.  They had decided that whilst holidaying on the estate, they would immerse themselves in local traditions and watch the servant toil in the garden.  Unfortunately the maid had forgotten to pack their Burberrys’ so Lady Mantle made them some dapper reproductions out of bin bags. Very chic they looked too with their customised hemlines and sellotape fasteners.  Wellied-up (spotty or flashing heels, take your pick), punk coats donned and we were ready.

I take back all the things I have said in the past about princesses. They worked hard and enthusiastically. Sweet peas were cut, seeds were collected and sown, we smelt things both good and evil, we planted and watered, weeds were tugged and new friends made.  It rained incessantly and I heard not one mutter or moan.  Mud was their friend, they were curious and carefree.  They scooted about the garden, bare headed, soaking up much more than the North Devon mizzle.  There was an unfortunate incident which was the result of a combination of running and wet grass, but this surely is a horticultural rite of passage.  Some magic ointment and bumps and bruises were soon soothed.  I really must get some of this salve for my first aid kit. Luckily it was almost butty time and combined with a glass of hot milk the poorly leg was quickly forgotten.

The photo above is of Princess M-R holding Johnson the caterpillar who later “escaped” his plant pot home which had been lovingly lined with nasturtium leaves.  He shared this temporary home with Johnson, Johnson, Johnson and Johnson.  Princess E-D also nurtured some of these cabbage whites who were named Charlie and Cuthbert (several of each).  These were also later liberated before they suffered too much trauma.  We really don’t need rampaging gangs of butterflies bent on revenge.

How do we get young people to choose horticulture?  Do we make it trendy?  Do we make it financially attractive?  Do we need gimmicks?  Or bribes perhaps?  No, we make it fun.

I have been thinking about next season for a while now.  Making, mainly mental, notes about what needs to be moved, removed or encouraged.  New projects are bubbling up and remedies sought for any obvious mistakes.  Although these are valuable exercises, I must remember to appreciate the now, to live a little more in the moment.  It is still going strong out there and if I’m not careful I will miss it!

There is always one impatient soul who can’t wait until opening time.

It was a magical drive to Lord and Lady Mantle’s estate this morning.  Too early for all but the keenest of holiday makers, the roads were gloriously quiet, a welcome relief from the crazy traffic of the last few days.  The sun was showing potential but as yet gentle and forgiving.  The views towards Exmoor a delight.  A lunchtime bacon butty and a frouncy poppy and my cake was well and truly iced.

The British summer is a peculiar event.  Much anticipated, much utilised.  For nine months of the year nothing happens.  Literally nothing.  We sit here, strumming our fingers and doodling.  Then June arrives and we are off.  For three months every wedding, birthday (sorry about that, blame my mum) and anniversary are packed in.  Parties, gigs, festivals, all arranged to fit into the narrow spit of optimism that we call summer.  If you are lucky enough to live by the the coast, visitors are suddenly keen to pop in.  If you are fortunate enough to be a gardener, stuff grows, things need watering and chopping and removing.  These are feeble excuses, I have been lax in my reporting. Here is another bee, they usually manage to soothe the disappointed.