Off The Edge Gardening

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.

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.

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.

Today we had a brilliant away day at Little Ash Garden with All Horts.  This amazing iris is a tantalising preview.  More to follow tomorrow when I will tell scandalous tales of intrigue and heart rending romance.  I may have spiced up that up a little.  There was however cake and lots and lots of wonderful plants.

The rain held off until I was home safe and sound.  Then it was proper rain; butt filling, ground softening, plant nourishing rain.  Thank goodness for that.

It was a scorcher today.  Perhaps as hot as yesterday which was classified as “absolutely roasting” on the UK Woosy Weather Scale. The difference is that yesterday I spent the day in Somerset woodland. Today I spent a fair proportion of the my day in a Devon greenhouse where we were planting up tomatoes, cucumbers, water melons and sweet potatoes.  When we had finished I carried watering cans up hill and down dale tending to the very thirsty newly planted.  You might think there was no comparison but there were advantages to my toil today.  It was much cheaper than sweating it out in a boot camp, I have faith that the rain will come soon to share the job and it gave me a chance to check on the newbies in the far reaches of the Farm.  And each slop of cool water splashing over arm or ankle was like balm.  I may have been a little less careful than usual on occasion.

 

These words and picture are brought to you by the lovely Mary who lives in southern France. Mary is Dutch by birth and her husband Ant is an Englishman.  They are blessed with cosmopolitan souls and kind hearts.  And they are the official guardians of my straw hat.  I bought the hat in question in a Portuguese market over 30 years ago.  Shortly afterwards we parted company and I have not seen it since. At the time of the adoption Ant and Mary were in the process of renovating a house in a small hamlet in the Cévennes region of France, an area famous for silk and chestnuts. Their son Mike (my boyfriend at the time) and myself stayed in this still basic but beautiful house for a few glorious weeks at the end of our European adventures.  It was extremely awkward to carry, so when we headed home I left my trusty hat in their safe keeping.  Quite reasonably I assumed that when we returned to the UK the need for sun protection would minimal. Shortly after our return the great romance ended and we went our separate ways. Through the years I have kept in touch with A&M, but I still haven’t back been to retrieve my hat. Last year they sent me a photo to prove the hat was still alive, wide brimmed and a little lonely perhaps.  To be honest I wouldn’t have known if it was an interloper, but it certainly looked very healthy.  I think it is happy just where it is.   Over to you Mary ……

I adore Queen Anne’s lace or Fairy lace or Spanish Lace.  The name alone evokes delicate extravagance.

Long before it’s popularity at Chelsea, I was nurturing it as an exotic garden plant not realising that to anyone who knows about gardening it is an annoyingly successful weed. Only annoying when you want to grow other things, because a path in spring sunshine, bordered by this lovely airy plant is a delight and an experience to lock into one’s memory, as it is brief and it will be a full year before you will enjoy it again.  By that time the plants will be bigger and better… and will have thrown around all that seed and unless you root out young seedlings in the places where you might want to experience other horticultural extravagances your gardening will become monotonous……..or so I have been told as I still adore it.

Perhaps if I call it Cow Parsley or Badman’s Oatmeal or Rabbit Meat I would feel differently.