A Host of Hostas

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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!

An Education

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It is good to learn.  When things seem to be getting increasingly mislaid in the brain cell department, it is nice to know that some new information is being entered into the computer. This small shrub in Max’s garden had me flummoxed.  Each time I passed it, I peered and poked and puzzled.  Sometimes it was on the tip of my tongue, more often it remained deep in the realms of mystery.  That was until a visit from a clever chap who revealed that it is Vaccinium cylindraceum, the Azores blueberry.   Now can anyone guess where it comes from?  Quite right, you at the back, it is indeed from the Azores!  Like others in the Ericaceae family it enjoys an acid soil.   Plant it in full sun to part shade and, although pretty hardy considering where it comes from, it doesn’t take kindly to exposure to harsh winds.   Later there will be oval blue/black fruit which are apparently edible but just how tasty they are is not documented.  For the sake of science I may have to try one, obviously with permission from the owners.  If they are watching.  Otherwise I will blame the blackbirds.

Kalmia Karma

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This is the flower of a kalmia.  I don’t know which one it is, but what I do know is that it is outlandishly gorgeous.  We have yet again been reminded of the evil that skulks in our world. Perhaps today we can find a little solace in the natural beauty that surrounds us and which also thrives in the good souls of the many.  We don’t need to know their names.  We just need to remember that they are there.

Loud

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We get our eggs from a farm a few miles down the road.  It is worth the drive.  When you have had an omelette made from these golden beauties there is no turning back.  Boxes of eggs are piled in the farmhouse porch with a washed out yoghurt pot as honest box.  You serve yourself to the soundtrack of a yapping dachshund silhouetted behind a frosted glass door.  As you leave a silent elderly Alsatian follows your exit with a steely gaze from behind the house.  I prefer to think of this as curiosity rather than menace.  On our last visit the dachshund escaped its confines and rushed to the wooden fence accompanied by an adorable puppy.  A duet ensued with junior’s alto yap counterpointing his mothers fine contralto.  Their bark was not as good as their excited licks.

This giant aquilegia also poked his head through a gap in the fence.  The colours are almost as loud as the canine chorus.

All Horts Away Day – Little Ash Garden, The Truth

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As promised here is my exposé of the All Horts trip to Little Ash Garden near Honiton in East Devon.  This is the garden of my friend Helen Brown and her husband Brian.  Those of you who are concerned that this report might be biased because she is my friend have nothing to worry about. In fact she gets on my nerves a bit because she is so clever.

We arrived a little early.  I had estimated the travel time on journeys previously undertaken in my Reliant Robin. As we were in Max’s souped up Silver Shadow this took a good 2 hours off the journey, in fact we nearly got there before we started out.  One advantage of being unfashionably early was that we got first dibs at the plant table, and dib we did.  Cephalaria, smilacina, ariseama all were bagsied and bagged before the locusts other All Horts arrived.  Soon familiar faces rolled up looking as sophisticated as ever, they had arrived from all corners of the earth, some from a far away land known Oxford and others returning for the occasion from Costa del Dorset.  After polite handshakes and pleasantries, all washed down with a nice cuppa and piece of cake, we were ready for the tour.

So we wandered and we wondered at the spectacle.  Botticellian borders bursting but not over stuffed, packed with interest for the curious, the academic or the aesthete.  From the colour themed borders where self-seeders are encouraged and weeds have no place, to the newly constructed alpine bed dotted with miniature marvels.  Patches of rattle strewn meadow, shrubs and trees that are never quite what you imagine they might be.  Foliage as vital as flower; variegation, golden, aubergine, all skillfully placed to enhance both themselves and their neighbours.  A deep dark aquilegia against buttercup leaved acer.  Purple cotinus entwined by a ruby clematis.  Then to the alder grove and monster caltha, gunnera and candelabra primulas the colour of opal fruits.  Every turn there were questions.  What? Where? And how?  When we got to the end we could have started again and spotted a myriad of missed gems.

After another pit stop at the unrelenting cake-feeding station, Helen announced that if anyone had seen anything they fancied that she had excess of she would dig it up.  I must tell you folks, the resultant maul was not a pretty sight.  Elbows out, the old and infirm crushed to the ground in the rush of the lustful. True to her word, and yet another indication of the kind and generous person she is, she set off down the garden. Like the Pied Piper the hopeful trailed after her dancing to the mesmerising horti-tune.  On the uphill return trip the gallant David pushed the full barrow, which was quite fair as it appeared that most of it was coming home with us.

The rain held off until just as we were leaving.  So who ever was in charge of climate control, I thank you.  Just before we left Helen said “no one ever notices the Vallea stipularis”.  There it was, in all its Chilean glory, flowering its blooming head off.  A very special way to finish this very special day.  Thank you Helen (you big swot). x

For those All Horts who haven’t yet been one of the organised trips I encourage you to do so.  The ones I have been on have been wonderful for many reasons.  You meet like-minded, gorgeous and very friendly people, you learn stuff, you see beautiful things, you are both inspired and encouraged.  And you eat cake.  Really, I don’t know what is keeping you away.  See you next time.