Off The Edge Gardening

Although I haven’t undertaken a controlled scientific survey, my initial observations would suggest that those who visit gardens are generally of a “type”.  These fine folk are generally middle aged and above, sometimes coast path walkers or family groups complete with sulking teenagers.  Anyone under thirty is rare, except under duress (see sulking youths).  There are complex reasons for this anomaly.  Some are understandable, retired folk have more time, and some more unfortunate, gardens are often perceived as not places for the young and trendy.  As my philosophy in life is inclusion not exclusion I was pleased to see this couple in the garden today.  The rewards of horticulture should not be confined to a certain demographic.  Share the love. Whether they just wandered in on a whim or took a wrong turn, I don’t care.  All that matters is they arrived and they took photos and they said nice things, just like many other visitors.  I’m not sure which particular tribe this couple belong to, if any at all, perhaps they would like to join mine.  The Edge Tribe, we are a diverse lot, but jewels each and every one.

Very tempting; but include these sumptuous berries as one of your “five a day” at your peril.  The fruit of Arum italicum, Lords and Ladies, contain needle-shaped crystals of calcium oxalates which as you might imagine are not good for the constitution, causing severe discomfort from throat to lungs to stomach.  Their taste is so acrid that they are seldom eaten in quantity, which is just as well as if enough are consumed it can lead to heart failure.  Let us not forget that we are not the only consumers in the restaurant, it may be our poison but it is food for others.  The plant’s utmost desire is to spread its seed and in exchange for providing food for the birds, they will happily do this job for them.  It should be sufficient for us that this is a feast for the eye, a flaming torch set against cool verdant ferns.

 

I seem to make a habit of living next door to, working with and/or being friends with a progression of smartypants.  You know the sort “Did I show you the proton reactor I knocked up this afternoon?”, “Must rush, the Dalai Lama is popping by for a cup of tea and some advice”, “Of course that was before I played Ophelia to Gielgud’s Hamlet” and “Would you like to see the model vegetable garden that I created in just a few weeks?”.  This final quote refers to a gentleman who has grown some impressive monster (certainly not monstrous) specimens in his recently constructed raised beds – cartoon carrots, fantastic fennel, lettuce leviathans, squashes like small landing craft, it is like a scene from Land of the Giants.  Annoyingly they are also delicious, no bland beans or cannon ball beets here!  I cannot help thinking there may be witchcraft involved, I have heard tell that a large hound with shining red eyes and a deathly howl has been roaming the area ……

ps This is one of his artichokes which are so prolific he has allowed it to flower.  I rest my case.

Warning:  This post includes minimal references to plants, gardens or any associated product.  Emotions may be involved.

As we make our way through life we gain badges to sew onto the sleeves of our souls.  Some badges we win and some we are given.  There is one for “first love” and another for “first heartbreak”, two more for “leaving home” and “feeling lonely”, the “success” and “failure” ones lie side by side.  As we mature our sleeves fill up with our experiences and the contents make us the people we come to be.  One of the hardest to accept is “loss”.  The word bereavement is stern and unforgiving, dark and harsh like grief itself.  There is no humanity in this word, but it is the one used to describe the monumental event that defines the act of being human.  As Benjamin Franklin said “There are only two certainties in life, death and taxes”, if we take into account the avoiders and evaders that leaves only one inevitability.  Last week one of my fellow bloggers wrote, touchingly and truthfully, about the death of her father.  This woman’s words struck a chord with me, in fact it struck a whole symphony.  As she talked about this difficult time, the similarities to the loss of my own adored father were unavoidable.  They shared the same profession, same obsessions and both their lives were shortened by an unrelated operation.  Memories were stirred in the great tea cup of life, memories of alternating numbness and acute anguish, memories of guilt and fear, but most of all memories of a man who I miss every day and I know I was lucky to call My Dad.  So to you PG, with your raw and cruel pain I can offer perhaps a little solace. Kind words may temper and an embrace console, but they will not give you the two things you want most; your father back and the hurting to stop.  What I can say, with faith, is that in time the balance will be regained and you will be able to celebrate the man and not mourn his loss.  The badge is in place, it will make you who will come to be.

Running in tandem with my life as a grubby gardener and one of only two living Grand Masters of the little known Burnham Cartwheeling Technique, I have to confess to a third more sinister existence.  Actually it isn’t sinister at all, I was just trying to get your attention.  For almost two years I have written a monthly gardening article for Devon Life magazine.  This diversion from mud and acrobatics was not in the master plan; ha! I just remembered there was no master plan.  Although I hit the ground sprinting and at times it has been overwhelming (comfort zone, what comfort zone?) it has been and hopefully will continue to be extremely rewarding.  I can only compare the experience to entering a horticultural sweetshop.  It has enabled me to meet many interesting people, all doing diverse and creative things across the county.  The subjects have ranged from country estates to private gardens, from coast to moor, producing cut flowers, fruit, seeds or just beauty. There were black jacks, flying saucers and winter mixture, a few salt liquorice and a smattering of acid drops, each and every one of them delicious.  So yesterday, in my guise as garden writer, I had another assignation.  This required me to sup delicious americanos whilst lounging on a sofa in a trendy art centre in Exeter all whilst interrogating a lovely young man about his life as a designer.   Admittedly this was no chore, as someone whose first school report said “she has a natural inquisitiveness” which my father eloquently and accurately translated as “she is nosy”, prying comes as second nature.  After I had sucked his brain dry we wandered through the local (splendidly planted) park for a photo shoot in the sunshine and a notebookless chat.  If I had to pin him down I would probably say “lemon sherbert”.  It certainly is a hard life!

Today I ate an asian pear, a first for me.  A hand reached up into the boughs of the small tree I was standing next to and picked one of these golden fruit for me to try.  We were a long way from the orient, standing in the Permaculture Garden at Tapeley Park near Bideford, a cornucopia of edible delights.  As I bit into its flesh I was confident that no toxic chemicals had been used to protect it from pest or disease or to boost its yield and yet it was healthy and bountiful; I knew also that it has been tended with loving hands. Known also as the Nashi pear, my lovely guide, the encyclopedic Perma Queen, told me that in Japan they wrap these fruit individually and give them as treasured gifts.  Crisp and delicious it tasted good.  What I mean is that if Goodness had a taste this is what it would be like.

Periodically an ominous looking chap in a CSI white boilersuit and poison filled knapsack wanders the streets in his fight against vegetation.  This bold and beautiful antirrhinum stands defiant, in prime attack zone.  I hope he will be merciful and give it a stay of execution.  Perhaps I should cover it with a glass dome like the rose in the The Little Prince, or leave a note pleading its case.  This little snapdragon should be a lesson to us all.  It shows that plants want to grow inspite and despite of the intervention of man.  A seed, one of perhaps thousands, landed in a miniscule amount of dust or leaf litter.  It then did what it was programmed to do, germinate and grow, flower and set seed and start the process all over again.  I am going to get nothing done as I lay in wait for the exterminator, catapult in hand.