Off The Edge Gardening

Today I have been pruning roses, climbing roses no less.  Actually it started as rose pruning and descended into rose annihilation.  The shrubs in question were growing (notice I say “were”) on the edge of a parking area in a strip (I am loathe to use the exaggeration “border”) approximately 15cm wide on top of a stone wall.  They were supported, in their valiant attempt at growth in these less than ideal conditions, by a tatty piece of trellis.  This trellis is to be replaced.  “Do you really want to keep these roses?” I asked Lady Mantle, AKA The Queen of Hearts.  “Not on your Nelly” she replied “Off with their heads!”  So rather than the measured and tender reshape planned, it became a massacre.

Today roses have been clinging to me, snagging themselves onto any vulnerable spot.  Long spiny arms spun round and clawed me at like demented krakens.  My nose bled, my legs were punctured and hands gnawed at, and yes I was wearing clothes at the time.  On one rather embarrassing occasion I had to ask his Lordship to remove a particularly persistent one that had attached itself to my posterior.  He may have sniggered.

Revenge, that is was they were wreaking, sweet revenge.  And I don’t really blame them.

I wish I could tell you which euphorbia this is, enjoying the ever warming sun in my garden yesterday. Unfortunately I couldn’t find a label.

Sometimes I think my name should be the Hypocrite Gardener.

This day, the 32rd of the year, has meant many things to many people.  On this date, had they still been alive, Clark Gable, Stanley Matthews and Muriel Spark would have been blowing out candles on their respective birthday cakes. Contrarily, Mary Shelley, Mondrian and Buster Keaton all took their final breaths.  In 1884 the first volume of the Oxford English Dictionary was published (A to Ant, you would have to wait quite a while for “zebra”).   In Turin, Puccini’s opera La Boheme was first performed, whilst in 1920 in Canada the Mounties came galloping across the horizon for the first time.  1st February 2017 and it was Back to Work Day for me.  It is unlikely that this will go down in the annals of history, but still I was ready for it.  I would have been far keener if it was not for the after effects of a cold, namely a rip-roaring, gut-wrenching cough.   It is always the same with me, a gentle cold for 2-3 days, an evil cough for 2-3 weeks.  Still I am glad to be back and full of enthusiasm, looking forward to catching up with gardens and their owners.

This rhododendron bud is pumped up for action.  With its snowy eyelashes, it is primed for the year ahead.  And I for one, can’t wait.

Brace yourselves folks: today I worked in my own garden.  But there is more shocking news: I worked in my own garden in the morning and in the afternoon.   I have been worrying about getting up early when my sabbatical ends next week; “less action, more sleep” has been my catch phrase throughout this extremely short month.  It might be tricky getting back into my old routine. There may be a few wardrobe malfunctions and dramatic wheel spins out of the drive.  No need to worry, there was help at hand.  Very kindly next door’s builders began knocking out mortar just below the bedroom window at 8.00am this morning.  Luckily the incessant banging could be heard all through the house, so no lolling about in my PJ’s, outside was the only escape.   Remind me to thank them.  They could have chosen a better day, it was grim and grey and blustery.  Safely thermalled up, I ventured forth into the wilderness we call “garden”.

At a vague point in the dim and distant past, we were somewhere I can’t recall where someone equally as mysterious had used corks to dress their pots.  And I can’t remember quite why they had done this.  Was it snail deterrent, a weed suppressant, a bin?  Anyway, we thought it brilliant. Again, quite why I’m not sure.   Unfortunately this meant that we had to increase our wine consumption in order to replicate their ingenious idea.   Sometimes it is necessary to suffer for the cause.  Just a minute, that might have been the reason we thought it was so great.  Today, however, it didn’t seem so clever.  One of my, self-allocated, jobs was to give the pots a late winter MOT.  As you may have gathered we have a lot of pots.  What we lack in garden space we make up for in container ambition.  We are not quite as potty as some, but still we have plenty to be getting on with.  So in turn the four acers, liquidambar, callistemon, Forest Pansy, two oleander, three bamboos (1 golden, 2 black), sophora, brugmansia and magnolia “Heaven Scent” underwent the following treatment.  They were weeded, pruned where necessary, the first couple of centimetres of compost scraped off, a handful of pelleted chicken manure scattered and fresh compost applied. But of course before this could be done the dratted corks had to be removed, then when all was done those darned things had to be returned.  To ring the changes I thought I would amend the previously random design to a sunburst affect.  I was rather pleased with the result.

Later, as the southerly wind got into her stride, OH said to me “did a cork just fly past the window?”.  Oh well, that is the transient nature of art.  Mine anyway.

I’ve found a snail that I would love to have in my garden.