For those of you bored by yet more bluebells, to liven things up a little, I have invited a guest star to the tableau.
Drum roll please …..
At great personal expense (two apples) and especially for your delectation, here is the lovely Pip to further enhance the already splendid scene. He is looking very fetching in a matching 80% dark chocolate brown mane, tail and coat set.
I hope you all agree, it is a very pleasing combination.
My heart is aflutter.
For various reasons, many of which may appear to be a product of my fertile imagination but are in fact quite true, I haven’t tended Mr and Mrs Bun’s garden for a month.
The upshot of this was that my visit today was full of discovery. Some things have bloomed and bolted. Much has grown, as is only right at this time of year, and a few have succumbed and gone to the great compost heap in the sky (well bottom of the garden actually). The lilac was in full regalia, the forget-me-nots overstretched, the wildflower meadow was showing great promise and the foxglove/camassia/vinca combo an accidental triumph. The blackbirds chicks have fledged the nest and fearlessly accompanied us around the garden. When they weren’t rustling in the vegetation they were nagging their parents for food.
But most arresting of all were these tulips, their name lost in the depths of the recycle bin. I don’t care what the stunners are called, and nor does the ecstatic bumblebee filling his tank at the pollen station. We both agreed, these peaches and cream peony flowered blooms made our day. Well I’m sure that is what the bee would have told me if he wasn’t so engrossed in his food finding business. Just lovely.
An interesting start to my day.
I was driving along in my automobile, my baby beside me at the wheel. That last bit isn’t true. I was all by myself, heartily accompanying “Daniel O’Donnell Sings Iron Maiden”. Mind you, one is never alone with the big O’D. If my memory serves me correctly, at the time he was doing a fine job of a Gaelic version of The Number of the Beast.
But I digress, let’s get back to the tale in hand.
I was on my way to the Mantle Estate, enjoying the scenery and wishing I could whistle, when I spotted a fat little lamb jammed between a gorse bush and the fence. So I did what any good citizen would do, no not film it and put it on social media, I attempted to help the innocent chap. I screeched to a halt (after having a bit of a ponder and checking my mirrors beforehand), leapt out of my car like a springbok, did a judo roll whilst changing into my Wonder Woman outfit (which has been languishing in my car boot for such an occasion), arriving at the poor distressed mite with a “ta da!”. He was so overcome with emotion all he could say was baaaaaaaaaa.
Releasing Larry was the easy bit. This involved a technique similar to the one implemented when I got caught in the turnstiles after the 2012 Kemacott United v Mortehoe Town derby. A very disturbing incident, I still have dreadful nightmares. After extensive research this accident was thought to be caused by one too many pasty sandwiches. As I had no goose fat on me, a rooky mistake I know, we had to forgo that stage. Still it worked. He was liberated from his thorny prison.
Then the trouble began. He did not want to return to whence he had come. If you were being generous you would say his mother was nonplussed, I would say she was verging on the disinterested. So I chased, I cajoled. I strongly suggested the enormous gap below the gate as an entry solution whilst he preferred to stick his head through the wire, getting stuck again. I even shoved a little.
At this critical point a hero arrived to help me in my endeavour. That is if an old men in woolly hats that look at you in a skewy way are your idea of a superhero. Woolly Hat Man, it has a certain ring to it. After the obligatory “where you live then?” he picked the little blighter up and chucked him, unceremoniously, over the fence.
Right, then, best be off.
We may now be engaged to be married.
You can all be bridesmaids.
My kind of lawn.
A few months ago I was dismayed to hear someone on the television, allegedly a wildlife expert, say “I hate grey squirrels” and then proceed to character assassinate this creature who never asked to be introduced to this country and is just trying its best to survive like the rest of us. It is not evil. The problem is that it is more adept at living, reproducing and therefore colonising this land than our native Red Squirrel. Unfortunately. It may be an anathema to our fauna, and often to gardeners, but to “hate” is emotive and counter-productive. This is especially true when espoused by someone who should know better and has a fair amount of influence.
I spent a large enough proportion of today digging Spanish bluebells out of Max’s garden. Much has been written about this interloper, often snarling, bitter texts. There have been those who defend this Iberian import, but mainly the reviews are toxic. Unfair perhaps. True they are thuggish compared to our natives and hybridise at the drop of a hat, a very real threat. But I don’t hate them, even though I have ached my back removing them today. They are just doing what they are programmed to do. Yet again another problem caused by the “oh so clever” humans.
After work, actually a little before “after work”, Max’s Dad asked if I would like to go for a walk in the woods. How could I refuse? So we did. As you do. And I am very glad I did. It reminded me how much I love this habitat. We need to protect it.
Sumptuous carpets of bluebells:
Interspersed with orchids:
And stitchwort:
And nature’s sculpture:
It’s a hard life, but someone’s got to do it.
Lady Mantle went fishing today. More accurately she went skimming. The pond has become a little green in recent weeks, caused by a film of dastardly duckweed, not an ideal look for a healthy water feature. So Her Ladyship put on her wellies (for aesthetic affect only, she didn’t actually enter the water, although it was touch and go on occasion, and if she had gone in the wellies wouldn’t have helped much, but I did have my camera primed just in case, you really can’t miss these opportunities, and no I wasn’t wishing, well OK maybe a little) armed herself with her trusty fishing net and set to work.
Each net was examined for creatures which had been inadvertently transported from the depths to the light of day and these were quickly returned. LM left piles of aquatic vegetation poolside, giving easy access for the critters that were missed to return back to their preferred habitat. Here are a few that had a more exciting day than they perhaps were planning on.
A zillion tadpoles:
A dragonfly nymph:
A shiny water beetle (and friend):
Three newts, or perhaps one newt desperate for attention:
And most exciting of all, a fine example of the very rare Exmoor Frogus plasticus:
Keep this last one to yourself, we don’t want to cause a commotion.
I tend to divide my friends up into categories. As well as divisions of personality such as “sophisticated” (not many of these), “artistic” (quite a few), “dangerous” (enough) and “grown ups” (a couple), there are tribe types such as “sporting”, “virtual” “work”, “school” and of course “horticultural”. Sometimes they stray into more than one department, sometimes they are unclassifiable, occasionally we have known each other for so long I can’t quite remember how or why. My friends Venn diagram is extremely complicated.
Last weekend I visited a very good buddy who now lives Somerset. We have known each other for many years and she has recently placed one foot, or perhaps just a toe, from the “dangerous sporting” class into the “dangerous horticultural” one. This meant that I wasn’t as surprised as I might have been a year ago when she suggested we visit Kilver Court garden, of which I had heard but never visited. When she added that there was a nursery, restaurant and, wait for it ………….. designer outlet shopping, I was in the car with my handbag on my lap.
At this point I was going to recount some of the garden’s history but as I would just be copying it from their website you can read it yourself here Kilver Gardens. And no, this is not lazy, it is clever.
Anyway I wasn’t disappointed. It is a glorious garden. When we entered through a sturdy oaken door, with intricate ironmongery, it hinted of the charm that was set to come.
So here a few photos, and few words but not many, to celebrate our visit.
Everywhere there were large tubs of tulips in whack-you-straight-in-the-gob colours, here they enlivened the edge of the first millpond.
The garden is enhanced rather than dominated by the 19th century Charlton Viaduct.
An adorable duck, or perhaps coot, house in the middle of the lake. They used to have flamingos here, which necessitated slightly larger accommodation.
The rockery was outstanding and I surprised myself in how much I loved it. Those who are young enough to carry it off without sounding daft might say it had a “retro” feel, with its close clipped conifers and alpine planting. As I am not one of those people, I won’t. This part of the garden was constructed in the 1950’s when this style was outrageously modern. I think it’s time might have come again. For me anyway and, as everyone knows, I have my finger on the horticultural pulse. You in the cheap seats, stop sniggering!
A single red anemone stood proud at the edge of the stream.
The parterre had some lovely planting combinations including these deep mauve lily tulips and sky blue early geraniums. No picture of the actual parterre, must have been chatting.
Lastly there was a curious shrub, with a serious personality clash, that a kind soul on Twitter identified for me. It is a Poncirus trifoliata, or Citrus trifoliata, or the Japanese Bitter Orange. Take your pick. It has delightful cup-shaped white flowers (good news) and long vicious curved spines (not so good).
Kilver Court is not a large garden, nor does it need to be. At present they are in the process of creating new areas of planting, vast mixed borders which I am sure will be stunning once finished. Unfortunately the organic vegetable garden was closed the day we visited. So that is two good reasons to return another day. And they have pink wheelbarrows, I have bagsied already. Oh yes, and there is the shopping, but that is another story.
A day of ups and downs at The Farm.
Ups:
Downs:
If only they didn’t look so adorable, that is a weapon I cannot fight against.
From first til last the light was special.
On occasion, whilst driving through the Devon countryside, I marvel at the strikingly vibrant hues as I whizz pass field and garden. Then, slightly disappointed, I remember that I have my sunglasses on and what I am seeing is just an enhancement of the truth.
Today, sans shades, all around me seemed especially colourful. Strong but not harsh, fresh and buzzing with energy. As if, overnight, someone had polished my retinas.
The blue was blue, the white was white, the green was green and the orange, well the orange needed an accompanying health warning.
Off The Edge Gardening