Off The Edge Gardening

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.

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!

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.

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.

It is difficult when, as much as you want to, you can’t do anything to help a fond friend.  So instead you do something that is unlikely to do any good at all, but the performing of this meagre action makes you feel a little less impotent. It might be to bake a cake, or do a bit of shopping, or feed the tortoise. It might even be to post a photo and say that you are thinking of them.

Here it is, and I am.

Over the past couple of weeks I have depended greatly on the kindness of friends.  In my exhausting and tedious attempts to keep this horticultural ship on the high seas they have ferried me to mechanics, picked me up from mechanics, tailed me at a safe distance to mechanics, worried about me as I kangerooed into the distance, listened to my incessant moaning, soothed my frazzled nerves and generally been the bestest.  No tutting, no sighing, no hesitation.  The Favour Chart is full of gold stars and I owe lots of returns, but as a stopgap here is a very nice helenium for you to admire.  Of course this is not much of a reward, especially to Max’s Dads as it is their plant and they can just pop out into the garden and see it at any time.  It will however have to suffice until I manage to persuade Mr Branson to lend me Necker Island and one of his planes to get us all there.  Thanks marvellous mates, you are stars!

ps car is still in the garage ……..