Off The Edge Gardening

I was brought up by the sea and now I live within tsunami range.  Every day I study its plethora of moods from my window; the good, the bad and often the ugly.  But this familiarity has not bred contempt.   Quite the contrary.  On our road trip last week, when Max’s Dad suggested that we took a little stroll from our luncheon pub to the beach, I was eager to explore.

So different to our northern shoreline.  Pebbles and vast scapes rather than our macho cliffs and sandy beaches.  But just as mesmerising.  I doubt I will ever get enough.

Seriously Mr Bun, did you really think this wooden barricade was enough to keep me out?!  To an athlete such as myself this is mere child’s play.  Would it be Fosbury flop, Arabian flip or pole vault (using my garden fork as pole of course)?  Perhaps I could pogo stick over, or even rustle a horse to leap the obstacle (bound to be one around here somewhere), I might even use the jet pack I had been keeping for just such an occasion.  I had so many options, which would I chose?  In the end I decided upon scrambling over inelegantly, getting my foot stuck in the process and nearly coming a cropper.

Later I faced my mountain fears by helping to transport this barrier to the wood store.  The journey back was much easier.

There will be a procession of “firsts” in the next few weeks.  This is what happens when you have a stop and then a start.  Today was my first visit to The Mantle’s estate this year.  It began with a beautiful drive on ice free roads, on arrival I was greeted with a steaming cup of coffee.  Then, as Lady M was not long out of her winceyettes and still tucking into her morning kedgeree, we chatted for a while about the usual stuff:  fennel versus celeriac, thermals, Freddie Mercury.

Now a plan of attack.  Potatoes needed to be chitted, bare-rooted herbaceous plants were desperate to be potted up and then of course tomato seed had to be sown.  At this point Lady M gave me one of her looks which I translated as “can you do it for me?”.  This is a special tomato, the wonderful giant orange that was gifted to me a few years ago and I am intent on keeping it going.  Seed had been collected at great effort.  Unfortunately the tomatoes were so delicious they were being scoffed before anyone remembered to save some seed.  As I can never resist Lady M’s  helpless look, I agreed to take them away with me, returning with plants at a later date.  A small plastic bag containing a dozen seeds was handed to me, which I left on the table.

Boots on, outside and onwards with the tour.  An errant snow flake wafted past my nose, then another.  Her Ladyship and myself looked at each other and shouted “SNOW!” in a very unrefined manner.  His Lordship poked his head out the door and said “It’s snowing Gill, you better head off home before the blizzard takes hold”.  Really, there was no need to be facetious.

And that was it.  The extent of the snowstorm.  A more accurate description would be flurry-ette.

Which is just as well as we had a project to get on with.   I do so love a project.

The compost bins were to be moved from one side of the orchard to the other and two new pear trees planted.  Simple.  Not really.  Brexit negotiations seem straightforward compared to the heated altercation that went back and forth between The Lord and Lady.  Form over function, function over form.  Like a verbal ping pong match with flaming arrows.  True to my nature, I hid in the greenhouse, which was just as well as, if the Saharan conditions were anything to go by, no one had watered for a while.

Then Slasher arrived.  I tried to warn him, but it was too late, before he had time to turn and run he had joined the fray.  The new bins had to be both usable and pretty.  Easy.  Except that Her Ladyship does not consider pallets to be pretty.  That was a great shame as that was Plan A, and there was no Plan B.  With the help of Slasher’s, up until now hidden, diplomatic skills a compromise was soon found.  Before long four by twos, power tools and spirit levels had calmed the troubled waters.  Work progressed without further ado.

Soon it was lunchtime, cheese and biscuits and rooibos for some, cheese and pickle sandwiches with a mug of tea for others.  More chat, this time Emile Zola, skate parks and bargain hotel deals.  Then I realised that something was wrong, something not as it should be.   “Where is the tomato seed?”.  Everyone looked at everyone else until in unison our stares rested upon Lord M.  He instantly leapt up, did a double back somersault, landing at the bin.  A rummage later, the prize was in hand, followed by a further confession “I couldn’t resist popping the bag before I threw it away”.  The propagation diety must have been looking down on us, as by some miracle the seed were still in the (now popped) bag.  Clutching them to my pounding breast I made a dash for it.  Crackers, the lot of them.

Today was the first day of my horticultural year.  Although I cannot claim to have physically skipped out of the front door this morning, I was mentally frolicking.  Shiny and eager to get going again, refreshed and rejuvenated.   And it was wonderful.  At Nancy Nightingales’ we finished digging out the new beds, extending the Loch Ness monster border to completion.  Even the rubble filled soil, which on occasion seemed more like hardcore, didn’t bring the mood down.  True there was some hail and rain, but there was also plenty of sun and singing to counteract the negatives.  Needless to say I was less shiny by the end of the day.  It didn’t seem natural to be that clean.  Normal service has been resumed.

I nearly stood on Leopard Man on the way to the stack the turf, so I relocated him to a safer spot.  Here he can guard the cyclamen and emerging bulbs.