Off The Edge Gardening

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).

Another hard days slog buying plants, eating crisps and admiring a two metre high inflatable Lindt rabbit.

One of the disciplines I try to instil on my clients is the importance of accurate labelling.  Let me give you an example.  The above is a tulip, no need for years of study to work that one out.  But what, however, is the cultivar or species name?  If I don’t know then it will be difficult to buy more/avoid like the plague/give this information to admiring passers-by, which ever is most relevant.  When this flower has finished its glorious display and died back into the soil until next year, how you will you know where is it if it isn’t marked?  Do you really think you are going to remember?  Well dream on Sunshine!  I promise you will soon be saying, with a vague sweep of the arm “I am sure I planted them over there somewhere” seconds before sticking your fork right through the middle of a plump bulb.

It is also imperative to carefully mark bags of over-wintering corms, tubers and the like as quite frankly one gnarled old bit of root looks pretty much like any other.  Without names you will be clueless as to where will be the best place to replant and when, how deeply and how far apart.

Of course your stash of garden collected seed must also be carefully logged, with full name, the location where it was harvested and date.

There are are good pupils.

This is an example of Lord Mantle’s labelling.

Some less so.

I suppose I should feel fortunate that there was actually writing on this bag, there were some that Lady M had kindly left blank for me to identify.  She is now in detention writing “I will label all my plants, I will label all my plants …” one thousand times!  Lord M is excused homework.

 

You have fair warning, there will be a substantial amount of joy within this blog.  Anyone looking for misery or heartache, turn away now, you are the road to disappointment.  Similarly, if you are likely to be offended by unabashed gloating, please retune your TV.

To be greeted by a bouncing Bobbie dog as you arrive at work is enough to charge the mood cells for at least half a day.  This is even taking into account her propensity to sits on top of the Armeria maritima, creating a curiously flat thrift plant.  Saying that, I am sure it is very comfortable and can we blame her?  What followed was a glorious morning spent chopping out frazzled viburnum, osteospermum and photina, planting out stocky broad beans plants and a mixed bunch of snakes head fritilleries.  For this (on top of my wages) I was rewarded with half a dozen of Big Bertha’s finest eggs and a sixer of excess beans.

Then on to the du Mauriers where pruning and mulching and feeding filled an equally enjoyable afternoon.  True, my identification tests fell on stony ground and my radical pruning techniques were mocked, but on a day such as this it could only be taken in good grace.   As I struggled out of the village, winding up the hill from hell, the car was weighed down with a boot full of kindly donated giant red canna, just beginning to emerge from their hibernation.

After such a day it would be difficult not to gloat.  A memory to put in the safety deposit box for those inevitable other days.

We seem to have slipped quite nicely into second gear.  Spring has officially sprung and trundling along in first gear will not be possible any longer.  Soon hyper-drive will kick in and our faces will be doing that attractive g-force thing.  Luckily we have all spent the winter months wisely; preparing, planning, scheduling.  After all it is the same each year, isn’t it?  So we know the rules. We wouldn’t be so foolish as to have wasted time faffing or prevaricating or moaning about the weather?  Never!

Today I have been mostly digging out celandine.  I paused for a moment to admire its pretty green stained flower.  Then I dug out some more.