Off The Edge Gardening

One way to limit weeds in the border is to cover every square inch with plants, strangling any intruders before they can get a hold.  Lavinia and Lionel are masters of this method.  So what do I say when the lovely Lav presents me with a new purchase and says “Now where shall we put this beauty?”.

The Rules.  Mostly I dismiss them with a quasi-rebellious flick of the hand.  “In your face, conformer!” I shout, on a daily basis.  Orange next to pink – you just watch me!  Sowing in July when the packet says no later than June, yes that is me, forever a wild thing.  I don’t even wash my pots out after use, no exaggeration, I am truly that extreme.  There is one Rule, however, that I haven’t been able to defy, although I have been desperate to do so for a long time.  I haven’t been able to defile the sacred tenet.  But today I did.   And now I don’t know quite how to feel.  Am I relieved, scared, proud or perhaps feeling a little deflated?  Yes it is true, today I planted some marigolds in a group of four and then, just to cast the dye, in a group of six.  Those of you who know The Rules will probably be wincing, some may have fainted, a few of you may get together to start a petition.   I am referring to Horticultural Rule No. 364 “Thou must arrange each and every plant in groups of odd numbers, definitely not even but always odd, until yea reach the grand total of ten whence yea can do whatever yea feels like.   Disobey this at your peril.”.  I am yet to be struck down, but if you don’t hear  from me any more you will know why.  It was nice knowing you.

This weigela is planted in a “one” which is plenty with its boughs heavy with its candyfloss flowers.

Ephemeral is one of my favourite words. It could be used to describe the brief but beautiful life span of love-in-the-mist.  It also accurately sums up this evening’s internet connection.  Better post this now while I’ve got the chance!

As promised here is a picture of one of yesterday’s dragonflies in all its newly emerged glory.  It is yet to make its maiden flight, holding tightly on to all that remains of its subaqua life.  I believe this beauty it is a Southern Hawker, an inquisitive creature and common to much of southern and central England.  The empty nymph shell is called an exuvia.  These facts will undoubtedly impress all your friends, and would make an excellent opening gambit to someone you want to be your friend.  Or perhaps not, on reflection it is probably best to stick to talking about the weather.  Above all exuvia is a very satisfying word to say out loud.  Go on try it, you will thank me.  And I thank you for the photo Mr H, your perilous positions were definitely worth it.

Not everyone relishes working on a Bank Holiday.  Myself, I don’t mind at all.  Not when it is a day like today.  So I decided to make a scrapbook of my adventures for your delectation.

The drive to work began with skittish sheep in a hay meadow.  Interlopers, making the most of an exotic diet of buttercups and plantains.

The road then opened out to dramatic views across to the sparcely clothed hills of Exmoor National Park, exuding the perfect amount of gloom as befits such a moorland.  There was no gloom in my heart at the sight of these wild and wonderful vistas.

And then down a medieval lane, tunnel-like and tempting, contained by classic Devon banks strewn with stitchwort, campions, bluebells and ferns.  Today’s journey to Kemacott was especially enjoyable in the certainty that I would not meet the recycle lorry, with his fearless driving, on this national holiday.

In the garden we were intrigued by monsters, crawling out of the deep in their tens and transforming in front of our wide eyes.  Slowly and deliberately, mesmerising and diverting us from the job of picking planting places for all the shining new specimens bought last week.

We potted up orange gazanias into blue planters and devil faced violas into an old tin baths.  We took cuttings from an ancient Viburnum bodnantense and moved a misplaced hydrangea.  And we found a fair maiden emerging from a patch of stinging nettles.

Slowly, slowly the monsters turned into pale ghosts, yet to develop the colour of their final incarnation.  For the fully formed beauties you will have to wait for the contribution of the intrepid professional.  Faint heart never won fair photographs!

And to round it all off there were bacon butties.  You will have to take my word for this, they didn’t last long enough for a photo!

 

 

A lot has been written about planting combinations, I believe books are out there to help you in your hour of combo need.  Here is my contribution.  Take a look.  Does it please the eye?  Then it works.  The End.

A little bit battered but still beautiful,  a quince in bloom.

Most gardeners get followed around by a chirpy robin.  So why do I get the chicken?

It is the time of year when any semblance of control evaporates, if indeed it ever really existed outside of our bubble of optimism.  The warmth of the sun and the spring showers have conspired to produce the perfect environment for all the weed seed in the universe to germinate.  At least it seems that way.  This seed was always there, lying unseen on the surface and just below, like some noxious germ.  Produce of weeds that flowered, ripened and scattered last year, or perhaps the previous, or the one before that, or up to seven years ago if you can believe the old gardener’s tale.  These may have come from your own patch or flown in airmail from a neighbour’s.  Or perhaps a small piece of pernicious root was missed whilst removing past adversaries, even though you searched for every scrap as if for golden sovereigns.  Seemingly over night, they emerge like monsters from the deep; stickyweed strangles and tangles like evil velcro around the cultivated softies, anaconda bindweed twines around emerging herbs,  the dandelions whose transition from mane to clock to empty glass happens in the blink of the eye, the mat forming ground elder stifling and relentless.  But do not despair, this exuberance will slow and as we approach mid summer the pendulum will swing back in our direction again.  Those released from the dastardly clutches will spread to swamp the interlopers and a delicate truce will be formed.   Until next time.

I could just lie down in the soft sedum and have a snooze.  Like this little chap.  Wouldn’t that be nice.  You may have guessed I am weary and short of words this evening.   This could be a good or bad thing depending on your viewpoint.  This reticence is unlikely to last.   Again this is open to debate.