The Cutting Room

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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!

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.