Off The Edge Gardening

After a morning attempting to oust some more of Lavinia’s disreputable friends, I went shopping.  I am not talking spuds or sausages.  I am talking proper shopping.  I am speaking of discount store purchasing!  We have a local general store which excels in the naff, their plant centre included.  Glittered heather, 1m high plastic gnomes, plastic flowers and, I am cringing as I type this, ornamental cabbages.  All these can be found in this cathedral to bad taste.   Far worse, they do not appear to care for their plants, I would even doubt whether they actually like them very much.  It was in this very same place that I overheard a discerning customer asking a member of staff if a certain specimen would do well close to her pond.  The reply was “Sorry, I don’t know anything about plants”.   I feel we need a dramatic pause to digest this comment.  It is a plant centre and you don’t know anything about plants!

Whether or not I should frequent this evil establishment is open to debate.  In my defence I must mention that it is here I have purchased Anisodontea capensis, Edgeworthia chrysantha and Rhodanthemum hosmariense, amongst other gems.  In amongst the dross there is always the potential of treasure just waiting to be discovered.  Tucked behind, or underneath, pushed to the side, looking a little thirsty.  This in itself is irresistable.  The thrill of the horticultural chase.  Today, amongst the vibrant displays of chrysanthemums I found an Acca sellowiana and a variegated Olearia traverii.  The sublime nestling amongst the ridiculous.

Working in several different gardens for a variety of characters poses many challenges.  “Where I am?”, is one of them.  “Who are you?”, is another.  However, one of the trickiest things has been remembering individuals’ tastes and preferences.  And there are a surprisingly varied range of these requirements; they are indeed a singular bunch.  Standing in the garden centre, like a rabbit in the headlights, I rack my brains trying to remember who likes what.   This matching has to be right, disappointment is not an option.  I  feel like the MD of a horticultural dating agency.  Was it Tracey who adores yellow flowers or did she say she can’t stand them?   Does Humphrey loathe grasses or desire the prairie way?  Did Cristabel say anything but roses or any roses?  The exception is Lavinia,  as far as I can see she loves them all, the more disreputable the better.  Except perhaps for dahlias, but I am sure she just hasn’t met the right one yet.  When we come to weeding and the hazy area of self-seeders it gets further complicated.   What is Morris’s take on aquilegias, thumbs up or down?  Would Felicity scream if she saw me removing this fern or cheer?  Would Desmond cringe as I carefully weeded around another foxglove.  It really is each to his own, and of course no one is right or wrong, the problem is I have so many “eaches” who are the proud owners of so many “owns” that I can’t keep up.  Writing it down would be one option, granted, but not quite so exciting.  Surely, however, no one could object to a self seeded verbascum? Surely?

This Parahebe catarractae was flowering well today at The Farm.  Coming originally from my own garden as a self-rooted runner, it was cut back hard to help it cope with the stress of being wrenched from its mothers arms.  Seems to have got over the trauma!

Look up, go on, you never know what you might see.

Autumn may well have begun …..

Another dodgy start to the day.   A car crash meant my route had been blocked not far from my destination, necessitating a U-turn and finding an alternative route.  Although this was the back road I was not alone in my plight and a large queue was quickly forming.  All however was well-tempered.  A kindly man rolled down his window and said “We had better go through Shirwell, follow me”.  I’ve never been to Shirwell so I thought why not, something to add to the travel section of my CV.  A rather nifty three-point turn later and I was following a soft top Audi up and down lanes perhaps more suited to quad bikes.  With those in front and those behind we formed an undulating snake hoping not to meet someone attempting the reverse journey.  With just enough room for my little car, 2m Devon banks tight on either side, it was like driving down a drainpipe.  There were a few ominous pauses, at which point I was amused by The Boomtown Rats playing “Rat Trap” on the radio.  After 20 minutes we were back on a mainish road with such modern accoutrements as white lines and lanes, always a bonus in my book.   To put your mind at rest, the driver of the turned car was not seriously hurt.

Later at Lionel and Lavinia’s all was much calmer and definitely more beautiful.  Mauve gladioli, repeat flowering azaleas, shining japanese anemones and most striking, this vibrant lobelia enjoying the welcome sun.

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.