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.
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.
Going out. Pretty Picture. Adios!
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.
It was the sun that burned bright today, and Fat Ol was looking for shade. Luckily his next door neighbour had a jungle in which to keep cool and maybe have a nap for a couple of minutes. Just five minutes and then he would be back on his mission, top secret of course. Just five minutes.
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.
Mundane montbretia? I don’t think so, not today anyway. Today they were a refreshing, floral St Clements. Delicious.
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.
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!
Off The Edge Gardening