Off The Edge Gardening

Yesterday was the inaugural day of the second incarnation of The Heavenly Gardener.  Self employed again, released into the wild to ply my trade for the unsuspecting public of North Devon.  I admit I was a little daunted, after eight years wearing the cosy slippers of Cliffe I wasn’t really sure what my new footwear would be.  I was hoping for something comfortable and stylish, perhaps a leopard print ballet pump, but there is every possibility I could end up with a pair of corn-inducing, misfitting white stilettos.  The night before was restless, with regular awakenings to check the time and dreams involving past clients, catastrophe and shouting.  Do we ever get over that “first day of school” feeling?  The dread that no one will like you, you will get lost, you will be exposed as the ignoramus you really are, prey to the sadistic teacher.  There is no antidote except to get on and do it, once the first day is over you must move onto the second day. That is a universal truth.  There is also no shortcut to nurturing a relationship with the garden’s owner and the garden itself.  Usually I can quickly ascertain if I am going to get on with someone, there aren’t many folk that leaved me stumped for something to chat about.  I am bilingual, my second language is small talk.  However, in order to get the most of out of a garden it is important to get beyond the pleasantries, you must learn its intimate secrets.  It is impossible to understand how best to approach your task until the soil has been worked, the resident plants surveyed and the mood assessed.  This can take months if not years.  As I have got several new gardens to learn it feels a little like speed dating.  My initial impressions of yesterday, I rather like this chap and his home.

For those of you who live in the UK, it is unlikely to have escaped your notice that this season is an uncommonly long and confused one.  Raspberries are flowering as are some rhododendrons, daffodils are up and the country generally seems to think that spring has sprung.  Wandering around the bounteous garden at The Roundhouse this morning, there were many late/early bloomers, including hebes, salvias, abutilon and Mexican orange blossom.  Undoubtedly it is a welcome bonus to have so much colour so late in the year, but my eye was drawn not to bloom but to the decorative bark of the myrtle.  Its peeling skin like layers of cinnamon, talcum powder and green tea.  With all this befuddlement I am slightly worried that Father Christmas will get equally disorientated and not turn up!

Our garden is a disgrace.  Sincerely, a disgrace.  Not a “fishing for compliments” disgrace but a “hang my head in shame” disgrace.  When we bought this house eight years ago it certainly wasn’t for the garden.  We had left a narrow but very long garden at our last house which, over the 25 year we lived there, had been transformed from a long narrow nothingness into an extension of myself.  It was the place that I discovered my love of, nay obsession with, horticulture.  It was my creation, my schoolroom, my solace.  Every spare hour of daylight was spent out there and a fair smattering of crepuscular ones.  I found a new friend in my equally devoted neighbour and we enjoyed mutual encouragement and mischief.  When eventually I walked away I didn’t turn my head, excited by prospects of new projects.

We searched our new home town for many months before we found, and bought, the kind of house I never imagined we would live in.  Sea views, large bay windows, period features, all too wonderful for the likes of us.  There was one downside to this dream, what lay behind; small, reached by treacherous brick steps, heavy on the hard landscaping, over-generous on the planting, measly with the imported topsoil.  It was a compromise but we convinced ourselves that bijou was good, it would make life easier, taking the pressure off.  But we have not bonded, me and the new garden, there is no love, no loyalty.  I have soothed my hortie itch by working for another, I have lived vicariously through other people’s masterpieces.  There is guilt, there have been promises, there have even been short-lived flurries of work.  As a wise man once said, perhaps the only answer is to “Rip it up and start again”.

Every piece of wasteland must have a buddleja and we are no exception.  Not quite the usual invader of nook and cranny as it is a cultivar planted by the previous owner, probably “Black Knight”.  Today its felty, icing sugar-coated leaves mocked me as I once again resolved to sort out this wilderness.

If only every autumn day was like today, what a happy lot we would be.

Goats cheese and aubergine, pheasant and lentils, pear and almond, coffee and truffle.  Another magnificent lunch at Broomhill Art Hotel near Barnstaple.  The food they serve is, as far as possible, sourced locally.  They create their own charcuterie from free range meat and grow vegetables and salad on site.  All these factors add up to a friendly, welcoming gastro-treat.   They are advocates of the Slow Food Movement, in contrast we are followers of the Eat Quick Society.  We do make a special effort (as they have proper tablecloths and napkins) and try to come up for breath at least once between courses.  After a relaxing and delicious meal, we staggered outside into the golden autumnal afternoon and agreed it would be remiss not to have at least a cursory look around the sculpture garden.  This in itself was a feat of great endurance as we could barely walk.    It was the perfect digestif, reacquainting ourselves with some old friends and meeting some new exhibits.  This tatty red admiral butterfly, who had apparently been in the wars, was finding the low sun and scent of mahonia irresistable.  I hope he enjoyed his Sunday lunch as much as we did.

It makes passers-by smile, it isn’t a car park, it recycles, it is productive.  Why not?

In the next few weeks there will be some new characters in the Off the Edge Show.  Let me introduce you to one of them.  His name is Ram.  In case it has escaped your notice, he is a lifesize (if not larger) sculpture of a male sheep, he has a rather mischevious glint in his eye and is generally rather wonderful.  Ram was adopted by Odette Bodette and brought back to North Devon for a life of love and the ocassional oiling.  He resides in the front garden of Mrs B’s new home, “Waite ‘n Sea”, with little to enhance his burnished flanks but a carpet of weed, a grisellina hedge and a hydrangea.  My job is to create a seaside garden for the lady’s delectation.  As Ram has been concreted into place (to avoid liberation by local rustlers) we will have to design and build this garden around him.  Imagine him as a salt marsh lamb, grazing on samphire and sea kale.  There is a fair way to travel before his new pasture is complete, but I am full of optimism and ideas.  Of course I will not improving Ram’s environment on my own, you will be pleased to hear that none other than Superbaz will be in charge of hard landscaping.  It promises to be very interesting ……

My natural style is carefree and careless.  I try to make my posts light-hearted, fun and hopefully a little bit cheeky.  Although acutely aware of the existence of Quentin Tarantino I prefer to spend most of my days a la Doris Day.  Occasionally however I feel the need to write something a little more serious, perhaps without a happy ending.  This time it was inspired by my fellow blogger Under the Pecan Tree (link to the right).

In truth I should have written about this gentleman before.  A quiet and unassuming man, I had been told he was a talented wood carver.  As it was my other half’s special birthday the following January, and thinking that a year would be ample time, I asked if he would create something special for him.  Lots of secrecy followed, with furtive phone calls and visits.  We poured over books and magazines but when I set my eyes on a picture of The Green Man I had no doubt what I wanted the subject to be.  The Green Man; a mysterious spirit of nature, connected to both paganism and early Christianity.  So I left the craftsman to it, I was confident and excited.  Glowing with the warm and slightly smug feeling you get when you are hatching a surprise for someone you love.  Something which will be unexpected and wonderful.

In the August it was my birthday.  Unpacking my gifts from my other half I found a wood carving, a beautiful arts and crafts stylised tulip.  I looked up and said “Ian?”.  Of course it was, and I cried good tears.  At the same time as I was planning my surprise for him, my man had been planning a similar surprise for me.  As soon as I could I called to thank Ian and begged forgiveness for the stresses inflicted by our demanding family.

Come January, the revealing of the wonderful carving above (apologise for bad photograph) was met with similar joy.  At long last we could all come clean.  The dreadful/delightful deception was over.  Poor Ian, not only had he the pressure of producing two separate pieces of art, he had had to juggle the pair of us for months.  He didn’t complain, he just smiled his gentle smile.

He died suddenly a few months later.  He truly was a gentle and talented man.  And sadly missed by a world that could do with many more of his kind.

After the yesterday’s gales it is a miracle that there is single leaf left on a single tree.  This bashful beech however wasn’t quite ready to reveal all and has clung tightly on to her folial underskirt.  Not for long, though, not for long.