By rights I should be a waif. I barely eat a morsel and am on first name terms with each and every personal trainer at the gym. Admittedly this is mostly in my dreams. OK, totally in my dreams. Instead I am sturdy. Which is possibly a better physique for digging out agapanthus on the most humid, treacle-wading, head-thumpingly oppressive day of the year. If not the century. Definitely in living memory and since records began.
It has left me feeling a little drained.
I said to Max “We will stay in the rain until the thunder starts. We have our waterproofs, mine man-made, yours standard canine issue.” Then the storm cracked and we ran for cover.
There was a lot of humming going on today. Join in if you know the tune. Join in anyway, I’m sure you will pick it up as you go along.
This afternoon, at The Bun’s abode, I was greeted with a concerned “What shall we do? The potatoes are growing too well!”. The strange phenomenon of plants growing in the spring is something I have come across before. However, it has never previously been considered a problem, especially when they are doing it “well”. Needless to say, Mrs B was given one of my stern looks.
The look was soon on the other face.
As someone who has spoken previously, and possibly for too long, about the increasing need for spectacles, you would imagine I would be especially careful with them. Wrong. Approximately half an hour into my visit I realised I had mislaid them. How difficult could it be to find them again? Well the rain was pouring, my eye sight was diminished and the glasses were green rimmed. Tricky. We retraced my steps (which turned out to be a bit of roundabout route, it appears that I am easily distracted) and found nothing. Never mind, they were only a cheap pair. Perhaps best to avoid any precision work. Like gardening. No problem, I would wing it.
A little later a scream rang out from Mrs B. I imagined it was of horror (she had perhaps found my sans-specs pruning) but was in fact one of delight. Inside the compost bin, amongst the grass clippings, the dead armeria and althaea off-cuts, were my glasses. How on earth did they get there? I blame the chickens. A quick wipe on my trousers and all came back into focus.
And yes, there was a retributional look. And much deserved it was too.
In an attempt to clear our stuffed-up heads we took off for a little walk after lunch. Nothing too strenuous. Just enough to raise the spirit but not to break the body.
First we nipped along the boundary of the rugby/cricket pitch where these wood sorrels nestled in a wide margin of unmown grass. I am hoping that this strip had been intentionally left to the wildflowers, not just a stay of execution. Perhaps the mowers were having a tea break, or had run out of petrol, or had nipped down the road for a pasty.
Then down, past the community orchard to the beach and a blissful paddle in the sea.
Then up, up, up,
past the thorns in full bloom,
with occasional glimpses to the hills,
skirting Hillsborough’s buttercups and campions,
emerging with a bird’s eye view of the town below.
That will do.
I’ve got a cold. Yes another one. Yesterday I felt grim, today I feel grimmer. I probably cast my clout too early or something. As one of those folk who believe gardening is the cure for all ills, I ventured out despite my ailing body. Deluded maybe but perhaps not. As it was half a day was quite enough. Some potting on, a pathetic attempt at weeding and a fair amount of top quality mooching was achieved. I also managed to fit in some pondering and scheming. It didn’t kill me. But disappointingly I don’t feel much stronger. I will have to have a word with whoever thought that one up.
Our Six on Saturday this week comprises of newbies and surprises. Hopefully all will become clear, although this is not a certainty. Of course I must first of all introduce our Meme Master, The Propagator, who guides his ever-expanding troupe of SoSer towards oblivion. Or something like that, you had better take a look at his blog to find out the truth of the matter.
Let us begin with a newbie, one of two little bargain bidens I bought last week. They are both Beedance hybrids, but as that is as far as the pot description goes, it is therefore the limit of my knowledge. Except that they are gorgeous, but I think you could work that one out for yourself. Now planted up in terracotta pots they are brightening up the back door step until the osteos recover from their harsh cut back. It might even inspire them to get a move on.
I grew the above plant from seed, believing it to be a moraea of some persuasion. Last year it eventually sent up a flower spike and consequently I became very excited. When I saw the bloom I was less so. Say hello to my first surprise, Libertia grandiflora. Although a lovely plant in its own right, I cannot help but feel a tinge of disappointment whenever I see it. For this reason it might be relocated to a client’s garden. Sorry Old Chap. Not a good surprise.
Last weekend I went to the Post Office and came home with three new alpines for my diddy little clay planter. On Ilfracombe High Street there is an antique/collectables shop that from time to time has a small table of plants at the front. As I walked on the other side of the street I could hear them calling my name “Gill, Gill” they whispered, “cross the road, come and see how beautiful we are”. So I did, and four came home with me. The three planted here are Phlox sublata ‘McDaniel’s Cushion’, Iris setosa (Dwarf Form) and Veronica prostrata ‘Carrapit White’. The fourth was planted elsewhere and will have to wait for another day.
This dark veined geranium was a sport on a plain pink plant in a client’s garden. With permission I brought it home to nurture. It seems to be healthy and upright and has lots of flower buds. A nice surprise.
For a change this year I have bought some nemesia to join the “out the front in Windy City, Shady Land” gang. Not their recommended planting position, I would agree. However, they are strong plants, grown locally, and I liked them. And I wanted them so I got them. So far so good.
Lastly another newbie I couldn’t resist. In fact it would have been wrong to even attempt to. This little darling is Salvia ‘Joy’.
Right, a quick tot up and it seems I have the requisite amount of contenders. Haven’t heard anything from Mr K yet, hope he has a note. Thanks again for your omnipresence Mr P, happy Six on Saturday to you all!
The coin has flipped from heads to tails. We have begun, yet again, to say “the rain is good for the garden”. Let me translate for you. From my point of view, anyway. At this exact moment in time. Don’t expect the same response later. “All the watering is worth a little sunshine on my back.”
Something that gives me great joy is getting to know a garden. Becoming better aquainted. Learning its nuances, accepting any weaknesses, enjoying strengths. Both forgiving and celebrating. Like a special friend.
That is exactly how I felt today at Max’s.
I felt the love.
The whole that is so much greater than the individual parts.
We have spoken before (when I say “we” this obviously means “I”, but like to imagine supportive back-up in any argument, if only from my imaginary friend) about Lady Mantle’s “interesting” approach to labelling plants. Of course His Lordship is beyond reproach, no need for any tutting there whatsoever. However, the Lady of the Manor is rather eccentric in her approach. For ease of comprehension I have divided her misdemeanours into four categories, all equally punishable with a stern look. They are as follows:
a) No label at all – couldn’t be bothered, tough luck.
b) Label in place but with nothing on it – it didn’t wash off, there was never anything written on it, took “make sure you label that plant” far too literally.
c) Wrongly spelt – usually a rough estimation, or an anagram, good for those who enjoy cryptic crosswords.
d) Frankly ridiculous – not even close, laughable.
Penstomen ‘True Blue’, above, falls into the latter category.
Cloudless skies, pink shoulders and an unnatural yearning for cornettos. It must be our peri-summer. Let the watering commence.
This may or may not be a golden elm. What is not in dispute is that it is a very beautiful tree. I rather like the sound of golden elm though, and until corrected it is what I shall continue to call it. Over to you.
Off The Edge Gardening