Off The Edge Gardening

Hopefully

Today is a day of celebration. I am happy to announce that overnight I have become a proud mother to a dear little Carthamus tinctoria seedling. Hang on a moment, what is that coming up behind? A double reason to celebrate, we’ve got twins! Hopefully.

Actually I am planning for a much larger brood of the safflower or false saffron. I first came across this stunning yellow thistle a couple of years ago, and was instantly smitten, as you can see here in a previous post ID . Still I haven’t managed to grow one myself. Yet. This will be the season. Hopefully.

Last year I made a feeble attempt, but they suffered from parental neglect and came to nothing. In my defence, their preferred conditions which are “arid, poor soil” is hardly North Devon’s default climate. This year I will try again, hopefully in tandem with Mr Kingdom at The Rivendell Garden Blog, who I shared some seed with. Mind you, I’m not sure his South Wales environment is any more Kazakhstan-y than we are. This is not a competition. Just a scientific experiment. What do you say? A packet of chocolate hobnobs for the first one in bloom? After all it is going to be a fantastic summer and the dry and sunny weather that is on its way will suit it perfectly. Hopefully.

A Day in the Life

After an uncommonly frosty start it was business as usual at The Farm.

We kicked off with a little rabbit herding (domestic), then went on to some rabbit cussing (wild). The better part of the day was spent undertaking the wondrous triumvirate of weed, chop and mulch. This very rewarding work was interspersed with a little plant shuffling, wheelbarrow hill climb, taking my coat and hat off, looking for my hand trowel, putting my hat and coat back on, finding my trowel, losing my gloves, pulling crocosmia, finding my gloves. On repeat.

I also admired a lone flower of Teucrium fruticans.

Shared a joke with Pip (unrepeatable).

Was pleased to see the that honesty seed had flown, the punctured pods empty.

Finally, I was sad to see that the red oak sapling had been severely nibbled but very happy that our willow sculpture was flowering. When I told Farmer Tony about the salix he asked “is that good?”. Anything this beautiful can’t be bad, surely?

The Early Bee

If I were a bee, hunkered down against the winter gloom, I would have risked a short foray out into the big bad world today. The blue sky and the fragrant mahonia flowers, advertising their wares with perfumed wafts, would have been provocation enough. If I were a bee I doubt I would be one of the more restrained variety. However, even the strictest “I’ve set my alarm to spring and I refuse to leave this burrow until it goes off” type would have been sorely tempted.

Although I have been known to do a little pollination, I am of course not a bee. But still I was very pleased to be outside amongst the early blooms and the sunshine, warm and content.

Revenge

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.

Recollection and reflection

This dreary weather has caused me to reflect. Not in a maudlin way, but in a curious self-scrutinising manner. As I said, it was raining. I got to wondering quite why I blog. It is after all a rather bizarre occupation. Sharing your thoughts with a virtual audience made up of strangers, acquaintances and friends from across the world is surely a little odd. Some of these folk have names, some have voices, some watch silently. I have no wish to educate, there are plenty worthier than me to fill that void. I am no expert, but neither am I a novice. I have no wish to preach, or dictate fashion, or influence. So why exactly do I do this? The fact that my Mum checks every morning to see if there is a post is not a valid reason, after all I could just email her, or even phone. Then it dawned on me, the answer is obvious, I do it because I do it. I started and now I can’t stop. It is called inertia, I believe. That is all. Except I enjoy it and it is mine and I can do what I want, within reason of course. And that is enough. Well I’m pleased we sorted that out.

On such a dismal day I have resorted to memories from last summer. This is Polemonium caeruleum, Jacob’s Ladder, a European native which was used by the Ancient Greeks to alleviate toothache and by 19th century physicians to treat rabies. It is a charming, trouble free, violet beauty and everyone should grow it in their garden. Oh dear, it seems I might have just “educated” and “influenced”. Don’t worry, it won’t happen again.

Hypocrite

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.

Trudge

A trudge up to the high street in the driving rain and who should catch my eye but this little chap. The sight of his cheery face lightened my load and quickened my step. More please.

Tadpoles

Over the last couple of weeks three very welcome packages have dropped onto our door mat. Firstly my Hardy Plant Society seed, secondly my Royal Horticultural Seed and thirdly my Hardy Plant Society Seed. Yes, so good they named it twice. For those of you not in the know, I will explain. Each year the HPS and RHS provide a number of packets of seed for their members, at a nominal cost, which you must select from a tantalising list of temptation. An additional option offered by the HPS is that for an extra £1.50 you can receive 20 further assorted packets. These I imagine are made up of the unloved, the lost, the underdogs. Surely this offer would be irresistible to any green blooded gardener? Well it is certainly is to me. It is like a horticultural lottery, who knows what the gods of chance will deliver to your muddy hand? What new chlorophylled delights will you be introduced to? And let us not forget that re-homing the rejected is a noble pursuit.

In the interim between order and delivery I invariably forget what I have requested. This is possibly because I have whittled my choice down from 374 “maybes” to the designated 20. You don’t always get your first choice as they are served out on a first come first served basis, so all arrivals have an element of surprise attached. The last package containing the truly unchosen is pure, random, revelation.

Today I sowed some of my new seed including the wonderful Clematis integrifolia. I have grown this scrambling clematis before, with its wonderful pixie-hat violet-blue flowers. The world definitely could do with a few more. Good luck little tadpoles!

First Day of Term

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.

Horror

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!