Off The Edge Gardening

To be honest I was determined not to work for Lord and Lady Mantle, AKA Phil and Brohna.  They live a fair drive away, just on the edge of Exmoor, traditionally where the rain and wind of North Devon practice their evil ways.  To get to their home you must face fledgling roads, not grown enough to be called lanes, liberally scattered with escapee sheep and farmers.  I also had a full calendar and didn’t really have space in my working week. Then I met them and I was hooked.  I made space.

Brohna is an artist, all wobbly lines and fantasy. Phil is an engineer, all straight lines and facts. Together they make one great big lovely whole.  They are known as Lord and Lady Mantle due to Brohna’s love of, bordering on obsession with, Alchemilla mollis.  This is a trait mirrored elsewhere on my rounds, yes Lavinia, you know who I am talking about!  My drive across the moors is never a chore and I always come away feeling a little bit happier than when I arrived. They make me bacon butties with homemade bread.  Hard working, star pupils, if only they could grasp the labelling lark ……

When I asked them to write a blog for me, I didn’t expect the following masterpiece (including the cartoon above, look carefully and you will see my knee pads and working boots).  

ps In part explanation, some of my friends call me Mouse (pronounced Moose as in the Wee Mouse).

Mouse’s adventures in Wonderland and the Mantle’s Tale

They enticed her with muffins, she doused them with lice.
They retaliated with mustard and cress.
They plied her with jam and asked for advice;
Posing conundrums and making her guess, expecting an answer, more than less.

She scattered seeds, then no labels on plants Lady Mantle did tie,
Mouse was confounded, and pulled a long face.
She beat Lady Mantle who started to cry
You can whip me severely she sobbed in her tea, but pretty please agree to rescue this place.

Lord Mantle doused the plants with strong poison he found in the shed.
He blamed Lady M, she threw mud in his eye,
Said flowers fell over and by morning were dead.
Mouse looked on in despair as she munched on a fly; I am off out of here she was heard cry.

Lady Mantle cried it is this, it is this, we have had it before,
Mouse grunted indignantly and then brutally said,
You promised me labour you promised me more
You are no gardeners, you have no shame, it is this, it is that, it is this that I dread.

An argument started, t’was long overdue
You speared the slugs, trod on the snails, that’s not the rule,
Your coffee is rotten and so are you.
Back and back and forth it went on, one side then the other, each to be cruel

(It got out of hand and the dragonfly took a ringside seat in anticipation of more)

They punched they spat they sniffled and dribbled and then they made up.
They ate bacon sarnies followed by cake and other sweet fare,
They drank some good coffee out of a cup.
Mouse looked out at the garden and smiled, it’s just not true that I do not care.

But you are both absolutely barking mad!!
And with that she drove off down the lane.
Is it true, is it true this has happened before, are we mad mad? Or are we just bad?
Tis a lie we are sure, why only the other day the Hatter said we were all sane.

Gill slowly opened one eye and winced against the sunlight. She stretched her limbs and let out a yawn. A piece of grass tickled her arm. Her dream floated, then tiptoed away quietly from her side, as she lost all memory of it. I must have been tired to fall asleep like that in a client’s garden she thought to herself. I’d better get on with it before they get home and find me lying on the grass.

 

Torrential rain by 10.00, they said.  Undaunted I set off to Lord and Lady Mantle’s, optimism played a part, as did the fact I overslept and was on garden autopilot.  A cup of their finest Costa Rician brew was beckoning me across the moor.  When I was so close I could almost smell the coffee, my route was blocked by the local farmer.  Holding sway over his kingdom, in tweeds and Landrover, he insisted on telling me a joke about last night’s football before he would deign to let me pass.  As tolls go, it was relatively cheap.  I won’t repeat the joke, you really had to be there to appreciate the fine nuances.

Fortified by my cuppa we started Operation Plant Out The Three Thousand Coreopsis tinctoria That Lady M Had Been Tending before moving on to a similar operation involving poppies.  Lord H continued his battle with the weeds and roots of many seasons and looked natty in his homemade wet weather gear.  I really think you could start a sideline there, Your Lordship.  Better than the usual ermine.

The rain began in earnest at about noon and we struggled on gallantly for an hour before enjoying well-done (not burnt!) bacon butties and a good old chitty chat.  Not a bad day for what was meant to be a wash out!

 

Flaming June, perhaps not.  Flaming marigold, definitely.

Everyone needs a hand sometimes.

A day full of artisan pottery, smokehouse fish, hand crafted willow coffins and medieval history. Still I managed to find you a flower, self seeded amongst the ruined walls of Mulcheney Abbey.

I have two brothers.  One older.  One younger.  Once they made my life a misery.  Now they make my life a joy.  

Today our Guest Blog is from the younger lad.  A couple of years ago I posted some of his photos and they were very well received, so here we go again.

When he was a small boy, and I was a slightly larger girl, I loved to read stories to him. One day, when I was encouraging him to read the words of his Tarzan comic himself, he said “but I don’t need to, I can tell the story from the pictures”.  I was a little miffed, what is the point in trying to hone your teaching skills on your little brother when he can’t see the point in learning? He was right though. His brain was attuned to the visual as opposed to the verbal and these skills have done him proud.  From aeronautical technical illustrating, through archaeological reconstructions to computer visualisations for architects, he has excelled.  Now he has turned his artistic eye to photography.  In my, totally unbiased familial, opinion he is extremely talented.  On a regular basis I nag him.  That is my job as big sister.  Self appointed of course.  

His pictures of landscape and family are special, but where he comes into his own is in the confines of his small garden.  You won’t find pretty flowers or sweeping vistas in his virtual album, but rather the smaller inhabitants of his plot.  A small garden in a quiet street in a large town in southern Holland.  Nothing remarkable.  It is here that he captures in these creatures in an intimate, intriguing and, on occasion, spine tingling fashion.  Indeed remarkable.  They need no words of explanation.  You can tell the stories from the pictures. 

 

 

 

 

I think we might have a sawfly problem on the Solomon’s Seal!

Today myself and Max’s Dad staggered up the hill to The Round House.  This garden is a joy, full of wonders and, luckily for us, owned by some old friends.  We were on a hunting expedition, and our quarry was some of the special plants that live here.  But we weren’t armed with spade or trowel, we were here to take cuttings, naturally the full permission of the guardians of these treasures.  Some time later we tripped back down the hill with plastic bags full of promise and heads full of names to remember.  Seedlings of a white Begonia evansiana and a yet to be identified tree sucker (apparently fragrant and begins with a “C”), cutting material from a variegated Erysimum linifolium, Fuchsia splendens, a buttercup yellow halimiocistus, an optimistic single piece of Pseudowintera colorata and five sturdy shoots of  Echium candicans.  These were processed and potted up in the persistent rain that had taunted us all day.  A few words of encouragement and over to you chaps for a bit of serious root growing.  Please.

The Round House always has wonderful tubs and planters and this year is no exception.  This fragrant little nemesia caught both my eye and my nose.  Buxom dancing lady by sight, vanilla ice cream by scent.  Delicious!

Rodgersia flowers.  Thought you might need cheering up.  Midsummer has passed.  Its all downhill from here on.  What do you mean, you were quite happy until you read this?

My friend Chambercombe Bob asked if we could find a home for some hostas. I like hostas. I like their succulent leaves which are often washboard ridged; lime and chartreuse, avocado and absinthe, glaucous and steely blue, with variegations of cream and gold.  I also like their spikes of sometimes scented flowers, mauve or white or palest pink.  I like that in Japan, where they are known as urui, the yet to unroll leaves are harvested for lunch.  I even like their original name, funkia, which never fails to raise a smile. What I am not so keen on is the heart break they so freely deal out.  Just one night and the green goddess is transformed into a perforated wreck, perfection has been turned into despair.  I think you know what I am talking about.  Those demon molluscs.  There is an attraction so strong that they will scale the steepest pot, pull their slimy bodies over desiccating soot or skin ripping gravel, risk electric shocks from copper bands and dodge poisonous pellets just to get a taste of the most delicious of them all.  One tiny chink in the defences and they are there, munching like there is no tomorrow.  Which is quite likely if I catch them.  Don’t worry, when slugs die they go to Hosta Heaven and gardeners aren’t allowed there.

Do not fret, this doesn’t mean we said no.  Two will be staying with us, to be potted on and watched night and day.  The others will be part of my planting dating agency.  They are strong and hole free specimens.  CB tended and protected them well.  Let us hope we can keep them that way!