Off The Edge Gardening

It was a funny old day from the start.  Not something I could put my finger on, or attempt to explain, but somehow it felt misaligned.

It began by waking a little later than was planned.  The upshot was I didn’t have the benefit of a slow and gentle adjustment from dreamland to what I occasionally call reality.  After a manic rush I was again on schedule, albeit with the prospect of cheese and jam sandwiches for lunch and my pants on my head.  Off to work.

As I approaching The Farm a rabbit ran into the Triangle Bed (my pride and joy) causing me to slam on the brakes and leap out to chase the little beggar out.  At which point I discovered that Bunnyfluffytail and his equally cute extended family had been having a feeding frenzy since I was last in town.  Later I found a dead frog which had obviously been foolish enough to get in the way of their voracious orgy of destruction.   Now I was softly growling (the most scary type), pants were still on my head, and I had developed an alarming twitch.

Calmed somewhat by a cup of caffeine, and pant malfunction kindly pointed out by Mrs G, I was given the Farm update.  This included the sad news that Mrs Duck, who had been doing so well to protect her young, had lost every one of them in the last couple of days.  We suspect a mink.  Grrrrrr!

So boldly out into the fray.  Whoever suggested that we would have showers today should go and look up the meaning of the word.  “A torrential and persistent deluge” would have been a more accurate description.  The soil was cloying and looked sickly, making any attempt to work it both a battle of conscience and deeply unpleasant experience.  Grrrrrrr!  Still some progress was made and although I felt a little guilty leaving the vulnerable (and tasty) plants to their fate, in between “showers” I had managed to dose them with anti-bunny spray.

Homeward bound I was amazed to find myself in some kind of, even now it is hard to believe, “traffic jam”.  This was a blast from my city past.  Then I remembered, it is Carnival night and the whole of North Devon were heading in the same direction as me.  Grrrrrrrr!  Luckily they weren’t actually going to my house.  I couldn’t have coped with that, not all of them, not after the day I have had.

These illicium fruit are trying their best to ripen in the sporadic sunshine.  Their quest may be in vain but they are looking stunning as they try.

It the time of year when gardeners begin to eye up seed harvesting potential.  Of course this involves our own gardens but also includes the plots of our friends and neighbours, and sometimes perfect strangers.  Ever vigilant, ever watchful, we earmark the prey and use all our wiles to win the bounty.  We slip into conversation how much we love the plant in question, we wonder aloud how easy it is to propagate and sometimes we ask directly for a contribution, perhaps promising some of our produce in return.  This weekend I have returned from the Midlands with a small bag of french marigold seed, a compact and floriferous little gem that caught my eye and my imagination.  Redistribution of the flower wealth is all well and good, the trouble lies after the chase, when we have gained the prize.  This is our downfall, the weak link in the chain.  It would seem a little presumptuous to travel with seed packets and a marker pen so we have to make do with what is on offer to store the seed.  “Don’t worry” we say “I will remember what they are and deal with them as soon as I get home”.   It may surprise you to discover that my life isn’t that organised, I have given up hope that it will ever be, so this rarely happens.  Thrusting a chilly hand into a pocket I invariably come across some unidentified pod floating about.  Looking for a hanky to mop my fevered brow, secreted black pearls will scatter on the hushed museum floor.  When searching through my handbag for smelling salts I make the sticky discovery of a napkin squashed with over ripe berries.  Rarely do I have a clue as to where, how, or why they are there.  Sometimes I sow them anyway, sometimes it is a missed opportunity.  This cartoon shiner of a hollyhock is on my acquisition list, I will definitely remember this one.

“Today an emu showed me what he had just eaten for lunch”

Fuchsia and friend.

After yesterday’s wall to wall sunshine today was the flip side of the coin, floor to ceiling rain.  Unfortunately this meant I had to cancel my visit to Max’s, disappointing as we are only just getting to know one another.  He had bravely been out for his constitutional and luckily agreed that it was a little soggy today for digging in the soil.  So it was a day confined to barracks.  Soup was made, a writing project completed and the chores list is now a little shorter; prevarication was also indulged.  This beautiful grass, Hordeum jubatum or squirrel tail, was yesterday shamelessly waving its silver pink tassels in the balmy breeze.  Today I am guessing it will be looking a little more like a water rat!

Sweet peas, the scent of which takes us back to summers past and gives us hope for those to come.  These fine specimens have been tended by Lady Mantle who has taken her role of guardian very seriously.  She has diligently removed tendrils before they could contort and sully the blooms, tying in the now anchorless stems to sturdy canes.  She has picked on regular basis encouraging a steady flow of flowers and scanned for foes who wish to nibble on the new shoots.  The upshot of this dedication is that the Mantle ancestral home is full of fragrance and there have been plenty to share with friends, neighbours and serfs.

Arbutus unedo is strawberry by name but definitely not strawberry by nature.   Admiring the peeling cinamon bark, ivory bell flowers and luscious looking fruit will have to suffice as the Strawberry Tree is not a tasty specimen.  Pliny the Elder apparently commented after tasting just one of the tempting berries “unum tantum edo” meaning “I eat only one”.  Enough said.