I do not know either the scientific or common name of the bracket fungus which is encircling the waist of Buddleja “Black Knight” in Lionel and Lavinia’s garden. It has therefore been dubbed the Tutu Fungus, Tutuious maximus. Or was that one of the later Roman Emperors? Happy weekend everyone!
The renovation/rediscovery of the vegetable garden at The Farm continued today. Slasher is on holiday, so that left me and White Spot the chicken to dig over the plot and try to extract some of the unwanted inhabitants. The area being reclaimed is a hotchpotch of excitement. If you happen to be a glutton for punishment, that is! The central area had been a bonfire site for many years so was full of 4 inch nails, barbed wire, half burnt wood, polythene, plastic of various shapes and sizes and a lot of charcoal. Girdling this area is lush turf, 3 inches below this turf is carpet. This carpet must have been laid as a weed suppressant many years ago, it is obvious who won that battle! Linking these disparate areas is a tangle of thick nettle roots and dock weed. It was challenging, to say the least, and I have got about half way through this monumental task. White Spot really didn’t contribute much to this exercise in extreme clearance, except to keep me company and eat a few worms. I did appreciate the little she did and I have found her to be an excellent listener. It would be preferable if she cut down on the worm eating, and concentrated on the bad guys such as mollusc eggs and other root munching larvae. The plan for next week is to finish the digging and improve the soil with some of the spent mushroom compost that was delivered a couple of weeks ago. It the wind stays fair, we are on schedule for tatties by mid summer!
We have been away for a few days. Not for a happy reason. It one of those times when you must do your best to do what is right. It was not, however, a wasted weekend. In many ways. It was a time to reconnect with family, a time to ponder our mortality, a time to weigh up what is important and dismiss the insignificant. For a little while anyway.
This might sound bizarre, but the crematorium so impressed me that I must mention it. Newly constructed, the architecture was modern without trying too hard to be radical. When I spotted the cloud pruned conifers at the entrance I was an instant convert. Mature trees had been retained, beech hedges had been planted and herbaceous borders of, from what I could discern in the depths of winter, red hot pokers, rudbeckia and asters. Inside the beautifully designed picture window looked far out into the Warwickshire countryside, a view that demanded contemplation. The welcome sunshine poured through windows clothed with sensitively placed blinds to save our squints. Unlike many such buildings, death did not rule here. As so often is desired at this sad time and seldom achieved, this building enhanced the celebration of a life much-loved.
Previously, wandering past the ancient buildings of Rugby School I spotted this tree, naked but resplendent. There is nothing like a tree to humble you.
Yesterday there was an unexpected frost. In this neck of the woods even if they forecast one, it is met with doubt until it actually manifests itself. This is why I was surprised when I arrived at The Farm to find a white smattering over the evergreen plants and mulch in the Welcome Border. A little later, after my “site inspection”, it appears it was the only spot affected, but it is a lesson indeed. This is a vulnerable spot. We live and learn and this will influence any future planting. Probably.
It was a good day, if not a little crazy. This is after all The Farm. The weather was intermittent sun and showers. Master G has begun the main vegetable garden project earlier in the week and this was continued by Slasher. He bedded in recycled paving slabs to act as both a boundary and a path. Being the seasoned engineer that he is, he even used a line and tape. Further up the garden I dug nettles and creeping buttercup out of the sweet pea bed whilst Mrs G pruned the blackcurrants. We prefer to use The Force for our measurements. Turf was shifted, potatoes chitted, cannas repotted, verbena sown. At all times we were closely supervised by White Spot the chicken.
As I drove home, in an outrageous downpour with the low sun blasting in my rear view mirror, the most magnificent rainbow appeared above the Devon bank. I took that as a very positive sign.
My camera has gone a bit weird. Please don’t tell anyone. I am going to pretend that it took me hours to set up this arty shot of a rich purple crocus.
It was my first visit of the year to the grand estate of Lord and Lady Mantle. I was met with a cup of coffee and a barrage of excuses as to why absolutely no gardening had been undertaken in my absence. And I mean not even an itsy bit of weeding or a peruse or a passing thought or even a quick shufti. Most of their “reasons” were feeble – the flu, a back back, dodgy knees, monsoon weather conditions. Reading the disbelief in my flaming eyes, they even tried, “Christmas and family commitments”. As I said, feeble. Anyway, with hunched shoulders and dragging wellies they agreed to join me in the great outdoors for a mornings horticultural activities. We delicately pruned roses and ferociously hacked brambles. The hail hammered and the sun shone. These extremes took polite turns to be in charge, keeping us vigilant and incorrectly dressed. By the end of our session I think I may have won the Mantles back to the fold. As a reward there was no homework. Just this once. Don’t get used to it.
This crumpled emerging rhubarb leaf, although young, is leathery and took no mind to the attack of the bouncing hail stones. I, however, shrieked.
I am not sure I approve of naming storms. Is it (foolishly in my mind) to foist human characteristics on these tumults of skinny isobars? If so, I would say this Imogen gal is having one heck of a hissy fit. Definitely not bessie mate material.
What we need on days such as this is a furry magnolia bud. Luckily I was keeping one in reserve in case of such eventualities.
It seems a shame to remove these memories of flowers past, but it must be done. The first hundred are therapeutic, the second hundred are a little more challenging.
As I always strive to be considerate to the most sensitive of you creatures, I must advise you to consider carefully before you proceed. This photo is a little misleading. You will find no talk of camellias here, in fact there is no garden content at all in this post. No flowers, no trees, no compost, no soil. Turn back now if this offends, quick, flee before it is too late. Don’t be too hasty though, this is a tale of nurturing, growth and inspiration.
Last night we went to a musical production by Ilfracombe Academy at the Landmark Theatre. We were given tickets by our neighbour, whose lovely daughter was performing. The production was Our House, written by Tim Firth with music by Madness, a morality tale, centering on choices and their repercussions. The soundtrack is one of my youth, songs as familiar as Happy Birthday or Three Blind Mice. To those performing it, I would imagine, these tunes would be as alien as a Beethoven symphony. Never one to reject a freebie, the promise of a glass of wine and a gossip, off we trundled through the monsoon to the theatre. Little did I imagine how much I would enjoy this evening.
What impressed me most was not that it was a great production, which indeed it was. It was clever show, with polished singing, dancing, acting, displaying emotional maturity. I wouldn’t want to single out any one performer in particular, although it is tempting. The leads were undoubtedly talented and charismatic, their support equally so, smattered throughout the play were golden nuggets including the hilarious car wash boss, the charming tap dancers, the hiss-inciting baddies and the surreal nun and priest duo.
But it was so much more than that. What struck me most was the magnanimity. Each and every one of the cast was valued and were aware of it, that was evident in their performance. There were potential West End actors alongside those who may never tread the boards again, and they were all embraced into the fold. Every performer was valid and valuable. They hadn’t been press-ganged, they were there from choice and it shone forth like a heart warming beacon. To me this embodies the guts of theatre, the very essence. Slick? perhaps not, but surely slick is for unimaginative fools. It was joyous, celebratory and real.
When the curtain eventually came down, it was to the sound of cheers, whoops and horrays, the glow of unbridled pride and perhaps the odd tear. Every single soul in that theatre was better than they had been when they first walked though the door.
The lessons that these student have learnt during this production must be immense, immeasurable. Each and every performers’ talent was mined and exhibited. Their strengths were nurtured, be it comedy, pathos, singing, dancing, centre stage or in the chorus. Unabashed, unfettered.
Of course we must acknowledge and applaud their tutors, guides and mentors. I am under no illusion that at times heads were hit against (sometimes) metaphorical walls. Their skills in persuasion, encouragement, teasing out the last vestiges of talent, must have been monumental. And all whilst battling the fug of teenage hormones. Fair play to you, medals should be coming your way. Please accept one from me.
This event showcased everything a young person should be, and should be encouraged to be. Not constrained, less “calm it down” more “let it rock”. Channel all that youthful energy, shout, jump up and down, misbehave a little, dance, live. I don’t want to be you, but I loved seeing you being allowed to be you. Thanks.
Have we featured a primrose recently? Yes? Have there been raindrops? Yes? Has there been a cunning combo of both? I thought not.
Off The Edge Gardening