Rudbeckia “Summerina Orange”

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When I get home each evening I am generally asked what I have been up to all day.  For the past few weeks I have said the same thing “weeding”.  Of course I have done other things too, but the main stay of my work at present is ousting the unwelcome.  This is not a complaint.   It is optimum weed time and they must be kept on top of to avoid chest beating and heartbroken wailing.  Warm and wet; the perfect germination conditions for many of annuals, ideal growing environment for our perennials.  It should not, therefore, come as a surprise that much of our working day is spent trying to remove the sneaky blighters that nestle in the skirts of our border plants, or tugging out every last strand of gleaming white Enchanters Nightshade root.  Actually I quite enjoy it, most of the time anyway, unless barbs or stings are involved.  Whilst footling about in the soil I have been doing a lot of thinking.  Was it about the current economic situation, perhaps the Olympic doping dilemma, or even pondering on the likelihood that Girls Aloud will reform? No, I have been considering the subtle nuances of this under-rated skill.  Before charging headlong to your borders, fork or hoe in hand, there are a few things to consider.  It is important to know the difference between an interloper’s seedling and a fledgling verbena.  Decisions have to be made whether we really need another foxglove in this position.  Deep rooted persistents have to be extracted without damaging your prize specimens.  Checks must be made beneath, behind and through.   Most importantly, you must gracefully accept that by the same time next week, these tenacious customers will have returned.

When I got home this evening I was asked what I had been up to. “Weeding” I said, “and for a bit of variety I did a little planting”.  Salvia “Love and Wishes”,  Geum “Tequila Sunrise” and the above Rudbeckia “Summerina Orange”.  It is true, it is the spice of life.

Balance

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Today there was a heinous crime at The Farm.

Having nipped out of the office to check on the whisky still, Annie Admin returned, barely five minutes later, to find a stealthy chicken tucking into one of the the freshly picked tomatoes.   It was The Evil One.  The one that pursues me around the garden.  She douses herself with soil, like a feathery Cleopatra bathing in asses’ milk, whilst destroying all in her fat little breast’s way.  Her wicked claws are used as daggers to spitefully slash plants.  Her devilish eye, quick to spot weakness, takes advantage of any gap, newly planted specimen or sickly seedling.  And when I ask a holidaying child which is their favourite animal they invariably say “the chickens”.  “Wrong” I say “Try again”.  Temptress, sorceress, beguiler of small folk.  Now she is a thief.  She shows no remorse.  We may have to have an exorcism.

The photo is of an angelic scabious with godly golden bottomed bee.  There is always balance.

Hopeful

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This is the second season for Heliopsis helianthoides ‘Summer Nights’ and it is only now getting into its stride.  Last year it staggered along in a very mediocre way and I feared for its future. It fared slightly better than its partner, it failed to make it through the winter to sprout another day. The combination of rabbit snacking and being a bit of a wimpy specimen was too much of a disadvantage.   In the past I have tried to grow the false sunflower from seed, but have always failed to get it to the “stride” stage.  Perhaps they are tricky.  Perhaps I am rubbish.  However, my first success has not disappointed me.  Aubergine stems hold up the solar powered daisy-like flowers, a petite 5cm across, the golden intensified by the dark.  It stands 1.5 high, but it is lax in habit and elegant in form.  At The Farm it is using the rich purple-pink and robust Salvia involucrata as a crutch.  This colour combination is yet to be truly tested, but I am hopeful.

Rest

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This photo, taken in my garden a few days ago, is of a watsonia hybrid enjoying the sunshine. The brick red of the flowers is enhanced by the whitewashed wall behind.  Colour, shadow, definition, contrast, darkness and light, all disappeared with the sun.  Now all is faded and subtle hues of grey.  This blip is giving our eyes a rest for a little while, until the next high summer dazzling onslaught.

Happy August

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As expected it rained.  Contrary to popular belief I don’t mind when it rains.  Not always anyway. Once in a while it is a welcome relief to have a day to catch up on stuff.  This is the day you dream about “if only I had a spare day I could alphabetise my collection of Death Metal CD’s and perhaps then I could tidy out the family crypt and then maybe take the boa for a slither around the block”. What happened in reality was cooking, tidying, administration, then driving to a physio appointment in the pouring rain past a million (at least) waterproofed holiday makers trying to make the best of it, returning via a supermarket where another million (if not more) dripping holiday makers were buying indulgence (chocolate and beer) and looking on the bright side.   I felt I should apologise to them.  Welcome to the British Summer!  Happy August!

Timing

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Today I was stuck in all day, tapping away at the keyboard, chasing words and losing out to that harsh master Time. The weather was glorious, thing were happening, exciting things, things that involved food and fun, my garden wept. Tomorrow when I am due to garden all day it is set for heavy rain.  Again I will be confined to home, mourning the lost day.  I think I may have got my timing wrong.

Pampered

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After the unfortunate demise of the champion baby watermelon last week, I was determined to give at least one of its siblings the best chance of reaching maturity.  As watermelon novices at The Farm we decided to increase the odds of success by putting our plants in several metaphorical baskets. Three were planted outside in a large container enriched with mushroom compost, another in a growbag alongside the tomatoes and tended as such, whilst one was stuck on a shelf and forgotten about.  It will be no surprise to those accustomed to contrariness of the world, that the largest remaining fruit is on the disregarded plant, the weediest most pathetic specimen you could wish to meet.  Another lesson learnt perhaps, but it goes against the horticultural oath to neglect plants.  So I carefully potted Mr Muscle into a slightly larger pot, breath held tight, the potential for disaster was great.  I then wrestled some straw from the guinea pigs, again a dangerous exploit, and stuffed another pot full (of straw not guinea pigs) to make a cosy cushion for the chosen one. He looks very safe and secure nestled atop, however it is early days, my chickens are not yet counted.