Off The Edge Gardening

Roots
When a phormium bursts out of its plastic pot you know it is ready for action.  More accurately it is time for your action.  Last week this constricted monster was divided and planted out in various areas of Max’s garden, where it is sure to flourish.  The strength and versatility of these feeding, anchoring, storing and propagating organs is immense and admirable.  Lying below the surface, supporting the show boys and gals, it is not often they are examined or appreciated.  We should remind ourselves once in a while that they are both the beginning and the end.  They should be respected and nurtured if you want vigorous, healthy plants.  Once you get past the idea that they look like a heaving orgy of Amazonian snakes, the turmeric coloured roots are quite beautiful too.

Routes
Didn’t serve me so well today.  On my way to the du Maurier’s I came across a “Road Ahead Closed” sign part way into my journey.  A handbrake turn later and I was faithfully following the diversion signs until, 14 miles later, I ended up at a sign saying “End of Diversion” followed by “Road Closed”.  Concerned that I had inadvertently become embroiled in some kind of avant garde film, possibly Swedish, definitely in monochrome, representing the meaningless of life in mime form, I made my pathetic excuses, “I can’t get there!”,  and went home.   A little Miss Marplesque investigation later and it seems that the “Road Ahead Closed” actually meant,”Five Miles Ahead, Well Past the Place You Are Destined, The Road is Closed and If You Follow the Diversion Signs You Will Only Reach the Other End of the Closed Road and With It Intense Frustration”.  In their defence, I suppose they didn’t have a large enough sign.

This osteospermum has over wintered in the relatively balmy conditions of the greenhouse at The Farm.  Last autumn I dug up a few “just in case’s” which have turned into “just as well’s”.  The harsh winds have scorched those that were left to fend for themselves, their frazzled leaves painful to behold.  How well they will recover is yet to be seen, but if they have succumbed then we have back up.  As the days and nights get warmer, and encouraged with either a repot or dose of organic fertiliser, soon the pampered few will be sprouting new cutting material.  I can then propagate enough to grace the garden for another year.  The text book tells us to remove these flowers so the plant can concentrate on foliage rather than expending excess energy on frivolous flowers.  These early season blooms are worth a thousand later in the season, so bah sucks to you text book, I will take my chances!

I have dedicated the past ten years minutes of my life to undertake a far reaching anthropological and psychosocial study.  This has involved heated debate, probing interrogation, international espionage and a barely sharp pencil.  It is a two-fold study.  The aims were:

1.  To examine the emotional and physical affects on a nominated person (me) of working outside on a warm but bracing spring day.
2.  To examine the same affects on said person (still me) who has throughout that day been planting potatoes, potting on tomatoes and building badger defences (with a little help from my friend and Strauss).

After careful interpretation using revolutionary analytical procedures, many new to academia, I have come to the following conclusions:

1. Brilliant
2. Better.

A full report will follow.  Thanks must go to my mentors at University of the Bloomin’ Obvious.

These are radish seedlings.  To germinate these peppery balls takes all the skill of a brick.  Still, the sight of their leaves popping out of the ground is an unfailing joy to me.

It is not only plants that are waking as the days lengthen and the air warms.  This newt was roused from his slumbers in Max’s garden today, perhaps a tad prematurely.  Fear not, soon he was safely relocated to a new home to wake gently. Later a big fat toad was found dozing in the wood pile and swiftly joined his fellow in Amphibian Towers.  Others, such as chunky slugs and root chomping weevils, were met with a less compassionate welcome.

On my drive to work this morning, whilst meandering in the general direction of the Grand Estate of Lord and Lady Mantle, I glimpsed the above scene.  An emergency stop later and some darned fine reversing and I was stepping out to wonder at its beautiful other worldliness.  A dank and dark tunnel of lichen encrusted, stunted twisted trees collapsing over a murky brook, which on occasion is most likely a torrent.  Dry stone walls repossessed by vegetation bordered the scene as a crocodile creeped silently through the gloom, preparing to pounce.

Then I jumped back in the car and continued on my way, back into the sunshine and a glorious spring day.

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.