Directly outside of our back door there is a small courtyard, jammed with pots, a small plastic greenhouse and a bench. A set of red brick steps lead up from this area, to the main garden above. A couple of years ago I fell down these steps. I was carrying the dried washing and attempting to stroke Fat Ol, next door’s cat, at the same time. A classic case of multi-tasking gone wrong. There is no doubt in my mind who the villain is here, Mind Your Own Business. No I am not being rude, I slipped on the invading tyrant Soleirolia soleirolii, the scourge of many a garden. I have been fighting a battle with this monster ever since. Sadly, I must confess that I am coming a very poor second in this contest. It is invincible, Stephen King should make a film about it. I am not exaggerating as to how cruelly encompassing and relentless it is.
So it made me chuckle when I saw this sign at RHS Rosemoor.
It may have been a chuckle, it may have been a sob. Hopefully this label was educational rather than celebratory!
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.
There have been complaints. There have been mutterings that John’s comments are longer than my posts.
Be careful what you wish for.
Yesterday I cranked up the new charabanc and chauffeured a select few to RHS Rosemoor. It couldn’t have been a better day. A glorious morning, sunglasses on, unruly passengers sedated with liquorice and blackcurrant sweeties, hyper-drive engaged and off we headed down the frost edged roads of Devon. Soon, with little if any screaming, we safely landed and those of us who had remembered our membership cards entered with little drama.
After obligatory reviving coffee, we headed out into the sunlit garden, trying hard not to squeal in anticipation (that might have just been me). And what a treat we had.
We had cleverly (fluke-ily) coincided our visit with a sculpture exhibition. So our horticultural journey was interspersed by octopuses, birds of prey and dinosaurs.
But it wasn’t all metal, plastic and carved wood, as wonderful as it was. There was plenty more to see.
Around every corner a parrotia was in full flower, hellebores were getting into their stride and the snowdrops were not waiting for the appointed Snowdrop Day. Daphne bholua ‘Jacqueline Postill’ filled the air with syrup. A cultivar new to me, Daphne bholua ‘Garden House Enchantress’, was equally as fragrant, also being enjoyed by an early rising honey bee. The sarcococca and witch hazels were in full flourish, my favourite being the dusky Hamamelis × intermedia ‘Diane’.
And we watched staff lay out the new Devon heritage orchard as the sun thawed the icy ground.
Then I spotted a shrub at the back of a border, a mystery, one I didn’t recognise, the label hidden by vegetation. I really needed to know what this was. Really, really, really. Being the evil temptress that I am, I encouraged (mainly by pinching) one of our innocent party to investigate. Just as he was returning hot foot from his illicit foray a faithful RHS employee appeared. To this day I can only imagine she teleported in as I was on full security alert. We even had a warning sound (“hoot, hoot” since you ask). But there she was, suddenly scolding. Of course she was quite right, you shouldn’t walk on the borders, for all sort of reasons. I confessed that it had been all my doing and I had persuaded the Perp to do the devilish deed. I am not convince this helped. As it is, I can’t remember the name that he shouted out to me. My head is yet again hung in shame.
Soon after we spotted this flowering cherry, two pink flowers, standing proud and rebellious amongst the white. Surely we need a rebel, every once in a while. Or perhaps more often.
I can’t tell you the exact name of this tree as I couldn’t read the label properly. Strangely there were no volunteers to venture forth and uncover it.
I have my favourites. There are quite a few. But one that is forever jostling, elbows akimbo, to reach the front of the queue is the crab apple. Undoubtedly I have mentioned it before. There is no question that I will feature it again. All hail to Malus sylvestris, Champion of Trees!
Forgive me, I am going off the horticultural piste again, but rest assured it will be fleeting.
Today I watched the inauguration. Under duress. It was an important moment, I was told. So I sulked and half read my book whilst barracking from the cheap seats.
When the shenanigans were almost over they rolled out the religious representatives, ensuring that God was on their side. A rabbi spoke first, forgive me I didn’t make note of his name. As I imagined they were all on the pay roll I paid scant attention. Then I caught a few of his words “A nation’s wealth should be judged by its values and not its vaults.”. Wise words. Let us hope others were listening.
Bergenias, now there is a problem, do I like them or not? Well, the jury is out having a cup of tea and a lengthy chat, possibly not about the issue in question, and definitely not in a rush to come to any conclusion. These robust perennials, also known as elephant’s ears, have always left me a little perplexed, I feel I should like them but can’t quite get up the enthusiasm.
This morning, as I was waiting “patiently” for my beloved to reverse out onto the road without knocking down the over-stuffed green bin, I dawdled over to my neighbours’ house. Some might call this nosy, the harsher might even say trespass, I call it checking all is well. Lifting a mishmash of cordyline leaves and its own foliage I revealed the shy flowers beneath. I don’t blame them for cowering, this aspect is north-, in the teeth of the icy wind, east. Peering intently to see if I could solve the quandary, my head admitted that they are indeed very pretty, especially at this bloom-dearth time of year, but my heart was silent. Strange.
Does anyone remember elephant’s foot cakes? Enormous profiteroles the size of a, well an elephant’s foot. They scared me. A custard slice, or doughnut, or even apple turnover, yes please. This was just too much to take. I feel a little queasy just thinking about it.
That in turn reminds me of neighbours from my early childhood who had, and I can barely spit the words out, an umbrella stand made of an elephant’s foot. I thought it gross at the tender age of five, I find it abhorrent now.
Did this trauma put me off over-sized cakes and sturdy plants? Perhaps. I like my elephants whole. In a world where tens of thousands of elephants are killed each year for their ivory, we should do whatever we can to make sure they remain that way.
So I started with a flower and ended with conservation, not quite the road I thought I was on. Amazing where a bit of wittering will take you.
And who was here to greet me? None other than my recent acquaintance, Mrs Stinky Sick Migraine. Her visit left me unable to do anything today except languish in self pity. This unwelcome guest would not take the hint (“be off with you”, “must get on”, “hasta la vista, baby”) and hung about until slightly earlier this evening. A wasted day.
I am going to use this wonderful Podocarpus salignus, admired in a Penzance public garden this weekend, as a metaphor for my day. Droopy, blurry and green.
Off The Edge Gardening 