Off The Edge Gardening

With a touch of yellow and green.

A little battered, a little bruised, a lot beautiful.

My dreams were invaded by a knock, knock, knocking followed by a small voice “its 9 o’clock”.  It took a few seconds to remember where I was, for what reason and what I had left to do before I headed home.  So I sprung (tumbled) out of bed, abluted and breakfasted at top speed, soon ready for my tour of The Farmer’s Wife’s garden.  I have visited this garden several times before and each time it is a joy and an education.  Although TFW is cruelly self critical, this is an indication of her modesty and dedication.  It is a wonderful garden and open for the National Garden Scheme, get there if you can, for details see http://www.ngs.org.uk .

After a quick cuppa, we loaded my car with some generous donations, including three large pieces of gunnera, a Miscanthus “Cosmopolitan” and Lysimachia clethroides  (eek!), and headed off in convoy back up the motorway.  We were on our way to Holbrook Garden and their nursery Sampford Shrubs, http://www.samshrub.co.uk/ horrah!  I was given a head start as TFW drives a reproduction of the Bluebird whereas my car is a cast off from the clowns at Billy Smarts Circus.   Luckily we arrived just about the same time.  We then wandered around this lovely garden where we enjoyed treats such as the little species tulips above, swathes of lenten daffodils, blossoms of cherry, rhododendron and magnolia.  We were then treated to an alfresco lunch of home made bread, artisan cheese, chicory, celery and cherry tomatoes.  Followed by carrot cake with cream cheese icing.  Just perfect.  So very kind and so very much appreciated.  Then there was purchasing.  Just to be polite you understand.  I further fuelled my salvia habit (I don’t care what you say five more is not excessive) and bought a phlomis for Max’s garden. TFW found some gems for her new alpine bed and to fill the colour gap.  And all too soon it was time for goodbyes and until-next-times.

It was a wonderful couple of days.  All my senses had been vigorously assaulted, in the best possible way.  But the image that has stayed with me is a meadow at Holbrook.  We emerged from a wooded pathway to discover a thick quilt of snakes head fritilleries, the sight of which evoked gasps of disbelief and cries of glee.

 

As promised yesterday here is the first instalment of my story, although I believe a few of you had doubts it would come to fruition.  Perhaps that was just me.  Anyway, if you are all sitting comfortably I will begin.

Wednesday began quite normally.  For me anyway.  Digging and weeding and planting and the like. The afternoon however was quite different.  Making my excuses to Max and his Dads I rushed home, pulled a twig through my hair, put on my second best smock and headed off.

What followed was a rattling drive down the Link Road and onto the motorway on what appeared to be the occasion of the annual outing of the Bloomin’ Enormous Lorry Club.  It was a glorious afternoon and although the “mended” jammed heater was giving me a healthy glow bordering on imminent spontaneous combustion, a good supply of giant jelly beans kept me going.  I was headed to see my friends, The Farmer’s Wife and her hubby, at Little Ash Garden, not far from Honiton in East Devon.

Strangely, this was not ostensibly a horticultural visit, although unsurprisingly, as you will discover tomorrow, there was some garden fun involved.  The truth was that I had come all this way to watch The Farmer undertaking his part time hobby.  This unusual past time involves sequins, feathers and making a lot of noise.   You’ve guessed it, he is in a Samba band!  Not dancing you must understand, but a vibrant band of percussionists who perform all over the country bringing a little sunshine to our often dull world.  The Farmer himself plays a drum, although we must not call it a drum but a surdo.  I am writing about them for Devon Life and had been looking forward to seeing the band in action.   And I was not disappointed.  As I arrived I was handed ear plugs and wondered at first if they thought I was a bit of a sensitive soul.  Then they began and I was pleased for the protection they afforded. What followed was two full hours of unremitting enthusiasm and energy. Forty or more people played a variety of exotic sounding instruments, often while moving to the beat and always whilst having a whale of a time.  As was I.  Well the last two anyway.  Shame I had to join in at the end and spoil it all!

Then it was off to the pub, for further “research” and to subject them to my scorching interview technique.   Dragged out by the Farmer we drove back to the farm arriving shortly before I turned into a pumpkin.   Here I enjoyed a deep sleep broken only by dreams of full of rhythm and colour.

My head is full of tales to tell.  Over the last couple of days I have been on my adventures.  Not the walking single-handed to the Antarctic unassisted type of adventure, more the doing something new and getting past Barnstaple type.  It has been uplifting and exhausting.  So, in a pathetic attempt to build up the drama and with the serious risk of a later anticlimax, I am going to wait until tomorrow to recount my stories.

In the meantime you can admire the stained glass leaf.

The rain lashed down and Young Mr G battled galantly against fuchsias and hailstones.  So impressed was I by this bravery, I took the tactical decision to leave him to it and undertake some greenhouse work.  Of course this is also very courageous, but in rather more understated way.

Mrs G was kindly gifted some assorted herb seed, most probably from Sasha Distel.   The more astute of you might have noticed that all the instructions are in French.  So for those of you who did not benefit from my exemplary education, here is a translation.

“When you get around to it find a pot, pack it nearly full with seed compost, sow some of the enclosed seed on the surface, sprinkle a little compost to cover, remember that you should have watered before you sowed the seed, water anyway and squidge the emerging seeds back into the compost, cross your fingers and hope for the best.”

As they say, voilà!  Luckily I am fluent in winging it.

It was an indulgent day yesterday.  I reserved a whole day solely for working in my own garden.  An enormous bronze fennel was dug up and the space filled with a Grevillea victoriae that was waiting patiently in the wings.  Both the commonplace and more unusual were sown, unnamed tagetes, Papaver “Patty’s Plum”, Canna braziliensis and Alcea ficifolia.  I potted on any cuttings that survived a winter of neglect and dampness, and optimistically planted out a few over-winterers such as Geranium maderense.  It was a day to re-engage and remember.  The sun was warm and there was enough of a breeze to dry the washing that the weather forecast necessitated.  All this whilst being ably assisted by Fat Ol and Daisy, who nipped over from next door to purr and lounge in the fragrant warmth beneath the rosemary.

Today we have returned to torrential rain and howling winds.  Never mind, it gives me a chance to catch up with indoor chores.  The peace ruptured by the doorbell and a gentleman bearing a box full of treasure.  Not chocolate eggs this time, but horti goodies.  Packed into this package of potential were two types of galtonia, martagon lily bulbs and plugs of Asclepias tuberosa.  This is the very reason that I love spring, even the rainy days are great!

My garden is too small to house gunnera.  Well I suppose I could fit one in, but there would be little room for anything else.  This makes me appreciate all the more the Jurassic gunnera emerging at Trewidden Garden last week.  They will probably be enjoying the return of the wet weather more than most.

This is getting ridiculous.  I will have to speak to the Union.  First there were pygmy goat kids and a Devon Longwool lamb.  Next foil wrapped chocolate eggs in a multitude of colours.  Then sowing seed and potting on and pricking out whilst singing/dancing along to Abba in the greenhouse*. And all that all before lunch.  I am going to have to consider a change of career.

ps  If it makes you feel better, it has rained all day.

pps Sorry for poor photograph.  I don’t think I would ever make Wildlife Photographer of the Year. These darned critters move much quicker than most plants!

* Further to unsubstantiated rumours, Abba have not reformed and moved to North Devon.  I was actually listening to them on the greenhouse gramophone (or 21st century equivalent).