Off The Edge Gardening

It all began with one of those light bulb moments, the ones that my clients are beginning to fear. I was merrily working away at the du Maurier’s earlier in the week when my gaze strayed towards the Roman Colosseum, or rather Mr du M’s  almost full sized interpretation constructed solely from willow.  As they say “once an architect, always an architect”.  As I consider myself to be somewhat of a horticultural matchmaker it crossed my mind that perhaps I could redistribute some of the prunings.  And I had the perfect candidate in mind.   The Farm.   The du Maurier’s kindly agreed to let us have whatever we wanted, so the hot iron was struck.  Yesterday morning Mr G and myself headed over to pick up some neatly bundled willow rods, full of burgeoning potential.

The area I had in mind to renovate was a scrubby piece of planting above the pond.  It is essential to have some disincentive here as a safety barrier but the hodgepodge of thorn and cornus is both ugly and prickly.  Two characteristics most definitely to be discouraged.  What we need instead is a beautiful, sculptural, organic fedge.

The first thing to do was to make a plan.  Luckily for all concerned, draughtsmanship is one of my many talents.  It didn’t take long to produce an accurate drawing for us to work from.

As usual Slasher rose to the challenge, clearing the site and humouring me with equal enthusiasm. What I initially understood as looks of wonder at my amazing plan, from both SS and Mrs G, I later found out were in fact masks of utter confusion.  Happy in my ignorance we forged forward and once cleared the slate was clean and ready for the construction.

Armed with essential tools we were ready to create some art!  After a little head scratching (and more puzzled looks) we worked like a well oiled machine, with me as Executive in Charge of Cutting to Length, Slasher was Director of the Measurements and Holes and Mrs G String and Knot Monitor.

We were progressing well until Mrs G received a Loose Animal Alert.   This was followed by a prolonged interlude for some wild calf chasing, stock counting, an imaginary ginger heifer and Slasher encountering a giant cow.  As it turned out the escaped beast was not one of The Farm’s well behaved and orderly stock.  Naturally.

The programme was set back considerably, but luckily we had some contingency built in.  In my experience this is often a necessity.   So back to work and as the sun was beginning to dip below the horizon the job was finished.  Almost disappointingly no one had fallen in the water, the only casualty was the tape measure, which was fished out unharmed.  In the dimming light and the now persistent rain we patted ourselves on the back for a job well done.  Farm Force strikes again!

You must agree it looks exactly like my drawing.

ps This photo was taken today, as by the time we had finished it was too dark for a good shot  of the finished article.

pps  Watch this space for the next project, I am thinking Taj Mahal ……

A definite downside to all this mild and wet weather is that it is the perfect atmosphere for fungus. Magical fairy rings, sinister shaggy inkcaps, delicious ceps and athlete’s foot, all love these conditions.  This leaf is showing the signs of an advanced case of the rose growers least favourite spore Diplocarpon rosae, Black Spot.  Today I spent a merry half hour in the gentle drizzle removing each infected leaf and picking up every fallen one.  This outbreak is unlikely to be catastrophic at this time of year, the rose will be shedding its leaves soon enough.  What is important to is to lessen the chance of further infection next year by destroying all the bad stuff.  Burn it yourself or let the council deal with it in their supersonic composting systems which reach such temperatures that would melt Hades.  Of course we are kidding ourselves that it won’t return at all next year, but we can just hope it won’t be severe enough to stunt growth and disfigure our lovelies too much.  However, on close examination, I did think this leaf had a certain beauty, a little like an impressionist painting.  Perhaps I had been staring at it too long.

One of my favourite sculptures in one of my favourite places.

 

This is for anyone who has forgotten what sunlight on a vine leaf looks like.  Or indeed sunlight full stop.  Although this photo was only taken last weekend, it seems a dim, distant and dry world away.  It has to stop soon, surely?

I have been trying to get a half decent photograph of a ceratostigma flower for weeks.  My virtual bin is full of the pathetic, the out-of-focus and the unremarkable.  This photo is barely a quarter decent but I have given up trying for even near perfection.  Soon it will be too late to ask the question, “can there be a better autumn blue?”.

I am feeling much chirpier today.  This could be due to the fact that I haven’t ventured out into the continuing bleakness.  Today I am warm and dry, it is a very nice feeling.

It is still raining.  All being considered this shouldn’t be a surprise to anyone.  After all it is North Devon, it is autumn and I have a lingering Hammer House of Horrors cough to nurture.  Mr and Mrs G swanned off first thing telling me they had a very important meeting to attend, leaving myself and Slasher in charge.   There were many apologies and heart felt regrets that they would not be able to assist us today, there may well have been tears.  Instead they would be having an absolutely dreadful time in the warm dry “lunch included” meeting.  They leapt onto the No. 1 “going out to meetings and other important events” tractor and waved farewell.  I swear I heard Mrs G shout “QUICK DRIVE!” as they slowly screeched off into the distance.   Poor things, I thought as I stood alone in the drizzle.

Today, I decided, would be an excellent day to tackle the problem of the long raised bed.  This bed is very long.  I wish I had paced it out to give you some detailed information but I imagine that more accurately it would be regarded as very, very, long.  To accentuate this longicity it is also rather narrow, probably less than 2m wide.  The mythical previous owners had planted this raised bed with some very unsavoury characters.  These plants are not only invasive but, far worse and almost unforgivable, they are extremely dull.  “Walk past and not notice” tedious.  “Nod off half way through the conversation” boring.   I had been promised that Slasher could be my slave for the day (although I had been denied the badge that I wanted him to wear).  As always he seemed keen to help.  That lad has a very short memory.

So we began, SS attacking some particularly gruesome grass with all the grace and elegance of a brick (not SS you must understand, the grass. SS is very elegant).  I was tackling one of the islands of Jerusalem artichoke, with its creamy quick release tubers, which didn’t even have the decency to flower this year.  As we worked we chatted about the joys of working outside, even when the weather was inclement.  We mocked the soft-handed office folk, we chortled about how a little bit of wet never hurt anyone.  As if testing our resolve the rain got steadily heavier, the wind stronger and gustier.  The persistent downpouring had found a weak link in my armour, discovering a gap where a gap should not be.  There was the sound of dripping water, from nose, sleeve and ankle.  A morass was beginning to form, the bed was fighting back.  Eventually we looked at each other “a bit heavy now don’t you think” and ran for cover.  Discretion truly is the better part of valour.

And it did.  And it wasn’t really a little.  Less shower, more downpour.  And I had left my waterproofs at home.  I know, “call yourself a professional” and all that, but I have not been my usual super-efficient self of late.   Mind you, I may have imagined that self.  The deluge began in earnest just as I was getting vicious with an out-sized cornus.  Perhaps it was for the best.  So I took my consumptive self inside to discuss plants and make plans with Max’s Dad for a couple of exhausting hours.  Looking through catalogues, googling, gossiping, swooning and dreaming, with me playing the devil on MD’s vulnerable shoulder.  Not a bad way to spend a morning.  Beats working for a living.  Mind you that cornus still needs some work, don’t think I’ve forgotten you!

“Oh yes”, I bragged, “we will be there at 10.00, forming an orderly queue or hammering on the door dependent on how much coffee I have drunk”.  So confident was I that we would be early than an illicit meeting had been arranged with Rusty Duck in the car park for the furtive exchange of “goods”.  You don’t need to know any more.  Anyway, as so often follows an outbreak of cocky-istis, our prompt arrival was scuppered due to some serious over-sleeping (me) and roadworks (North Devon). Hero had arrived on her motorcycle combination promptly but had to be entertained by Mr OTE (many would call it interrogation) until I ran down the stairs and straight out the front door. Changing from your onesie bunnie PJ’s into your special garden visiting outfit in a sidecar is a tricky undertaking, I can tell you.  Anyway, in the end we were only a little late, we completed our “business” with the Rusties and headed to the restaurant for our rendezvous with rest of the All Horts crew.   There they were, the Dream Team – organiser extraordinaire SDG, the Farmer’s Wife and Hartland Harry (wot no trousers) of course Hero, Mr and Mrs Rusty and myself.  With late arrivals of the out-of-countyers, who apparently had to contend with long queues at passport control so can be forgiven, Mad Cat, Didcot Dave and the Taunton Gardener.  After necking one of the best cheese scones I have ever had (and I have had a lot of cheese scones) and a large black coffee I was ready for adventure.

A detailed itinerary was devised (look around garden, eat, look around garden some more, shop, eat) and we were off.  November did its best for us and we wandered around in t-shirts and even in some very optimistic cases (or someone in training for a Christmas job with the Post Office) shorts.  The gods were smiling on us.  So much to recount, I will make it a snappy.  We saw the winter garden, with beautiful abutilon and liquidambar, the allotments with outrageously perfect salad rows, a hobbit house with hobbit cat, the still steaming Hot Garden and curiously abandoned pumpkin, the technicolour lake, the shining apple arch of the vegetable garden where gourds hang ominously.  Through the tunnel to Lady Anne’s garden, past Land of the Giant gunnera and bamboos, metallic grey monkshood, striking blue of decaisnea seed pods, the forbidding stare of the dolls eye cimifuga, impatiens, salvias and cannas.  Really it was all too much to compute or even recount.  Sustenance was needed.

Lunch was taken al fresco, and was without complaint until a slightly dodgy moment when Didcot Dave’s pud was a little tardy in arriving.  I swear I could detect a slight green tinge coming to his forehead.  Then, with renewed vigour and full bellies, we were off again to wander around the potager and rose gardens for more wonder and inspiration.  Scented pelargoniums tumbled with heliotrope and pink verbena, scarlet rose hips and terracotta nasturtiums.  Fennel and thyme, curving drystone walls softened with helianthemum and erigeron.   Informal, relaxed and useful, a good place to end our tour.

Then something wonderful happened.  There had been whispers but could it really be true?  It was!  There was a sale on at the Plant Centre!  Can my beating heart take much more?  The Farmer’s Wife, no messing about, went straight for the trolley.  And the dash began.   I bagged an astelia, Digitalis parviflora, something beginning with z that I had never heard of before but that TFW knew (swotty pants) and a well won Diascia rigescens that I had been admiring a little earlier (thanks DD).  I could have lingered longer, but when I got caught by a member of staff searching for scything pictures in the Poldark book I made a hasty, rather reddened exit.

Then coffee, cake, a final chat and then adieu’s until the next time.  Rusty had injured her ankle earlier in the week, whilst undertaking an extremely complicated move in the Argentina tango, but very bravely managed to hobble about for the whole day.  Her bravery may have in part been influenced by our keenness to push her around in a wheelchair.  I have a feeling she may not be the trusting type.

As always when in such esteemed company, this trip was an education.   I learned that Salvia discolor tastes like purple and that boys’ sense of smell isn’t as good as girls’ to save their sanity. Rather shocking was that Mad Cat is mad about cats and not actually a mad cat.  Disappointingly, that neither Rusty or the Farmer’s Wife can bake cakes.  And most impressively that SDG Skypes with his dog and can actually talk fluent Woof.

There is something about being with like-minded people.  These trips are the antithesis of an AA meeting.  We are addicted but we don’t want the cure, we relish it, and these meetings amplify it. It is joyous.  It is not a competition, it is about sharing.  I know this one, you know that, we learn, we laugh.   Stand up and be proud, we are All Horts!  Thank you everyone for making it a wonderful day.