Off The Edge Gardening

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.