Off The Edge Gardening

Things I thought I’d never say – Part Two

“I love this escallonia.”

The Rector

The Rambling Rector was in his prime today at Lavinia and Lionel’s. Not only was he in clothed in a cloak of purest white with a central saffron boss, he smelt pretty darned good too, in fact he was intoxicating!

Running up the Down Escalator

I love working at The Farm. It is always fun and a bit bonkers and unexpected things tend to happen. I especially love the animals, each and every one of them. Well not quite. Today Slasher Shorn said to me “I used to love chickens until I came to work here”, glad it’s not just me. These are evil chucks, they have no fear, take no instruction, they hunt in packs and with their demonic claws rip plants out of the ground leaving them to suffocate and shrivel in the sun. Where they have learnt this bad behaviour I could not hazard a guess.

Just as I was leaving this evening Mrs G walked up the lane towards me holding some raggedly vegetation in her mitts. “I have dug up the docks” she proudly informed me. My face in a rictus grin said “Those are the verbascum that I planted last week”.

Is there any hope?

The salvias are doing well.

So far.

Idiot

My drive to work this morning would have been perfect for the opening credits of a spooky melodrama; Dickens, Poe, Conan Doyle would have been in their element. The initially patchy fog intensified, in a spine-tinglingly daunting way, as we approached Exmoor and the garden of the newly monikered Lord and Lady Mantle. All began well and as we set about our work clearing another area the mizzle abated and we felt we were achieving something. Optimism prevailed. We even attempted some amateur archaeogocial exploration. We found what I interpreted as the final resting place of an ancient Celtic king as evidenced by a thigh bone, his precious shield, a golden hoop for a quick post-death game of croquet, and the remains of his store of mead and honey for his journey to the afterlife. Lord Mantle had a different explanation however, the artefacts are apparently as follows: the remains of someones lamb roast (bone), a broken shovel (shield), some smashed crocks (grub), a tent peg (hoop). Not sure what he based these assumptions on. Then a splash, a cry and Lord Mantle leapt into the pond to the rescue. No, and I am sorry to disappoint you, it wasn’t me it was my long-suffering camera. After some delving into the icy deep he found my now sodden camera, raising it into the air like The Lady of the Lake held Excalibur aloft (but obviously in a very masculine way). There had been a velcro malfunction. Still I am truly an idiot. I knew the velcro was dodgy after The Nettles Incident so I should have replaced the pouch. Idiot!

ps It went straight on the aga and is now continuing its drying out at home. The prognosis is not good.

Art

This week summer arrived in North Devon. Quite how long it is going to stay is unclear. On past experience we cannot depend on it hanging about for too long. It must be made the most of. It has been a week when any gardener worth his salt has a good hat. You will be pleased to know that I do. I now have a rather attractive line across my forehead. How we suffer for our art.

Mixed Bag

I am not usually a fan of mixed seed collections, call me an unadventurous coward if you must, but the lottery of colour and form is usually disappointing. This californian poppy came from one such collection and it is the first of the bag that has caught my eye. The folds of the petals, ranging from burnt orange to deep yellow give depth and distinction to the flower. Almost corrugated, pleated with a natty central twist, just like the Issey Miyake dress I haven’t got. Just beautiful.

Where Angels Fear to Tread

There has been much written in recent months about toxic garden plants. The ones that kill dogs, cats and children, seemingly willy-nilly. At the end of last year there was the tragic tale of a gardener who lost his life after coming into contact with aconites. Admiring this beautiful flower earlier in the week I was reminded of this young man and wondered what he would have thought of the ensuing witch hunt. At the time, and indeed since, the media have recounted many tales of horticultural horrors and demons. Another big bad bogie man (or woman) just waiting to harm us. To many in the gardening community reports that merely “brushing past” could result in death were held with some skepticism. Incidents of poisoning are few and far between in our profession, unlike accidents involving ladders, lawn mowers and (eyes squeezed tight) chainsaws. The world is a dangerous place, so we must teach our children not to walk in front of cars, not to put their hand in the flame, not to jump in the deep end if they can’t swim. We must also teach them not to eat plants unless they have been told it is safe to do so. Mistakes inevitably happen, with sometimes catastrophic consequences, and I am sure this unfortunate event made us a little bit more careful, for a while anyway. It is terribly sad that this son, husband and father’s life was cut short but I am sure, as a gardener, he would not have wanted his poignant story to make a pariah of these wonderful flowers. So do not lock up your daughters (and sons) safe from the dangers lurking outside, let them out into the wicked world and have some fun!

Enough

Sometimes a nasturtium is enough.

The Note

When I arrived at the House on the Edge of Exmoor this morning my first task was to wander around the garden. The early sun was warm and I took a few photographs and observed what had been happened since I was there a week previously. The amount of work The Beasts had done in my absence was impressive. I admired the freshly cleared areas and the new planting, I cooed over the baby courgettes and marvelled at the splendid spinach, the previously rescued areas were weed free and the plants looked healthy and the well-loved. All was in fine fettle.