Off The Edge Gardening

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!

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.

Just off out (yes again, I have a very hectic social calendar).  You will have to make do with this lovely lupin to admire.

I’m off out.  These little chaps will have to keep you company until I get back.