Off The Edge Gardening

The one line that is guaranteed to put fear into the souls of my illustrious clients is “I have had an idea”.   After the initial knee-jerk gasp of horror, one of the following occurs a) they change the subject, b) run for cover or c) start crying.  It is true that these plans often involve mud, sweat and more mud, and perhaps the odd tear. Mostly mud though.  I am not sure what all the fuss is about, it usually works out in the end.  “It is the journey” I tell them “not the destination”.  This doesn’t seem to help.

So you will be pleased to know that today I have had an idea that involves no mess whatsoever. One of the self-imposed tasks for this month is to catalogue my photographs*.  So to take full advantage of this monumental mission I will, as chaos becomes order, post photos from this confusion of shots. These pictures will undoubtedly be accompanied by some random musings and words of obscurity.

This photo is not from the archives, it was taken earlier in the week at The Farm.  It was about 3.30pm and the sky was already beginning to darken and a faint blush was appearing on the horizon.  The spent umbellifer heads formed a fine silhouette against the faintly clouded sky.

This picture has not been labelled and its fellows, the ones that do not come up to the mark and are destined for the bin, have not been deleted.  I will start tomorrow.  Honest.  Unless I get a better offer.

* Label the good ones, delete the embarrassing ones.

As my own boss (and might I say at this juncture that I have found myself to be exemplary in this role) I have given myself the whole month of January off.  Now before you all start tutting and back-chatting let me explain my reasoning.  I can, so I am going to.  It really is a simple as that.  Of course I have many noble pursuits planned for this extended holiday.  Actually I think I might call it a sabbatical, sounds much more refined and a bit clever.  So during my much deserved and extremely worthy sabbatical I will be:

• Sharpening and oiling all my tools.
• Getting all administration up to date.
• Cataloguing photographs.
• Sorting out the bottomless pit of my work bag.
• Work in my own garden.
• Sorting out the black hole of my handbag.
• Clearing my wardrobe of superfluous (read “too tight”) items and taking then to the charity shop.
• Ditto with books (except the “too tight” bit).
• Dubbing working boots and secateur holster.
• Dry out.
• Catching up with friends that have been neglected.
• Thinking about doing any of the above.

And when these things are complete I shall write my novel.  Don’t worry (or perhaps do) I will still be blogging.  So a Happy New Year to everyone.  I wish you all much courage, kindness and love. Here is some heather, I hope it proves lucky for you x

Conversations at the Farm

The week before Christmas I had a cunning plan.  Well not very cunning, but still a plan and not bad as plans go.

Me:  Shall I get something to go in the planters outside the office?  It will jolly things up for your guests who are coming to celebrate New Year at The Farm.  A few pretty flowers work wonders to lighten a gloomy day.

Mrs G:  Yes, good idea.

Time passes. Christmas comes and goes.  All is dandy. During the festive period I spend a happy half hour in a garden centre, selecting the brightest and best bedding plants without getting diverted by all the other sweeties in the shop.  This takes a lot of resolve.  Do not expect this self-control to last into 2016.

Yesterday I returned to work.

Me:  I got the plants, some lovely brightly coloured primulas.

Mrs G:  Are they orange? I dreamt about you and orange flowers.

Me:  Well a couple are, the others are pink, purple, yellow and white.

Mrs G: Fine.

Time passes.  I plant up the half barrels with said primroses, ensuring no two same colours are next to each other.  I carefully pack compost around them, water well and am pleased with the results.  The flower casualty is placed on the ledge above, so as not to waste its beauty.  I then went off to perform other super human gardening duties.

I return to base ready for my spam and marmalade sandwich.

Mrs G (in a state of joyful agitation):  They are wonderful!

Me: Puzzled look

Mrs G (still joyous):  They are real flowers!

Me: Even more puzzled look

Mrs G:  I didn’t think they would be real flowers, they look great.  I thought you were planting bulbs.

Me:  Sigh

See what I have to work with?

We went on a Boxing Day walk.  To clear the head and heart.  There were Boxing Day flowers along this walk.  A hot-washed pink, flowering quince was one of them.  I expect it is beautiful on other days too.

Yes, it really is Rudolph!  He popped into The Farm yesterday to say hello before he gets down to the nitty gritty “flying through the air and present delivery” stuff.  Although underwhelmed by the incessant rain, a juicy apple and a bit of fuss made it worth his while.  He said he doesn’t gets treated so well by Santa who can be a bit grumpy at this time of year and if there are any treats they tend to go Blitzen’s way.  Who would have thought Father Christmas would have favourites? Anyway, keep it to yourselves, we wouldn’t want any gossip-mongering at this time of year.

Happy Christmas everyone! I hope it is a good one and may your 2016 be peaceful, fulfilling and full of love and juicy apples.

The winter solstice must be acknowledged.  So we will celebrate with a flower that is actually supposed to be blooming at this time of year*.  A cyclamen.  Wonderful.  Nearly Spring!

* The Official Horti Rule Book, Chapter 7 Non-negotiable Flowering Times.

This is the time of year for forgiveness.  A season to clutch to your bosom those that have offended you over the previous year, or even years.  So, with that in mind, and much as it goes against my normal anti-cotoneaster stance, here is a photo for your delectation.  Seasonably scarlet berries, stretching far into the horizon, will be enjoyed by gourmet wildlife and discerning humans alike.

There, that is it, never expect me to praise that darned shrub again.

We are all struggling a little at the moment.  It was another sodden day at the Farm, quite miserable really.  We soldiered on, clearing and mulching, playing horticultural chicken, the first to cry defeat would be ridiculed.  Just as I had waved my white flag and was ready to go home I spotted this dainty rose bud.   Quaking in the wind, battered by the rain, the likelihood of it reaching it full blushing potential very slim.  Nevertheless there it sat, full of optimism and resolve, pretty in its peril.  This could have been a lesson to me, but no, I still went home.