Off The Edge Gardening

Faith

During our early morning tour of the garden I asked after the hollyhock youths that were due be planted out. “Oh” said Mrs Bun “I’m not sure, I haven’t been in the greenhouse for ages”. The hollyhocks were doing just fine, and later were relocated to their new playground, which is more than can be said for the pelargoniums. They were in an advance stage of decay, being consumed by a severe case of grey mould, otherwise known as botrytis. The North Devon dank is the nemesis of these South African natives and best friend to fungus. Although destructive, the mould was strangely beautiful and, I thought, rather seasonal in appearance. As if the Snow Queen had visited and cast an icy spell. At every touch the “ice” threw up a puff of spores and I tried very hard not to breathe it in. I’m not sure there have been any confirmed report of Gardener’s Rot but I wasn’t going to risk it.

So whilst Mrs B took care of housely duties, I spent a happy hour picking over the potted plants, removing the furry, soft and blackened vegetation. It was strangely therapeutic. I sung a couple of Christmas carols to myself which I believe was much appreciated by Big Bertha the voluptuous chicken. Eventually clean bones were all that remained (of the pelargoniums not the chuck), but I have faith that they will make it through the winter to display their cerise beauty next summer. Mrs B has strict “check for mould regularly but barely water” instructions. She won’t let me down. I told you, I have faith.

Options

Is there anything better, on a bright winter’s day, than to go for a walk in the woods? Drinking hot chocolate in front of an open fire would also be nice, especially if you had a Cadbury’s flake to dunk. However on this occasion we opted for Option No. 1 and a very good choice it was too.

Sway

We have a thing about teasels in our house.

When we lived in Bristol we grew a monster teasel. In truth we neither planted it or nurtured it, it just appeared. Then one day it was so large that we could watch the goldfinches feast on the seed from our first floor bathroom window. It was truly a monster teasel.

When we moved to North Devon a seedling piggybacked on one of the many pots we brought with us. This seedling in turn has spawned others that appear regularly in our front garden. Now they have moved next door, much to the amusement of my lovely neighbour. “What is it?” she asked, “Don’t worry” I said “It is son of Monster Teasel and it will bring you good luck and feasting birds.” She agreed this was reason enough not to dig it up. When the northerly winds visit they sway in unison, spreading any remaining seed far and wide.

We love teasels in our house.

Crazy Name

Crazy name alert! This is Coronilla valentina subsp. glauca ‘Citrina’. I would suggest calling it by its common name but as this is Bastard Senna I won’t. Shall we call it Coronilla ‘Citrina’?

This winter to spring flowering shrub has delicate bi-coloured pea flowers which are gently fragrant. It tends to be a little unruly in habit but if necessary will respond to a good hard prune to get it back into shape. Another bonus is that it is evergreen, with gorgeous glaucous pinnate leaves. Native to Spain, Portugal, Croatia and Malta, it enjoys a sunny site and is especially useful for coastal gardens. Add to that the fact that it is rarely touched by bug or beast, I wonder why we haven’t all got one?

When shopping with Max’s Dad I spotted a pot of this loveliness and I persuaded him to buy it. This I achieved through a combination of guile, logic and reasoning “go on, go on, go on, go on, go on, go on.” Eventually “go on, go on, go on” he reluctantly conceded “go on, go on”. “You can shut up now”. The coronilla is now planted in a sunny spot at the top of the drive and on occasion I catch him giving it a sideways glance. True, at the moment it is singularly underwhelming, but it has great potential and I am certain he will be convinced. Eventually.

Not done yet

I haven’t been very well. Now I am much better but not best.

I am a gardener. It is not a job. Of course it my job, what I mean it is not just my job, it is me. My identity. Who I am, what I am. For a while I thought I might not be able to do it anymore. This could still be an option. Not yet though.

Is it this that sets us apart? Is it this that merges the division between amateur and professional to almost imperceptible? A passion, a yearning, an impulsion. For money, for pleasure, for money and pleasure. It is all the same.

Don’t worry, I’ve not done yet.

Spotlight

Basking under the sunny spotlight is the heronsbill, Erodium manescavii. This Pyrenean native is enjoying the recent cold snap, reminiscing about its chilly homeland. There are no Mountain Dogs here though, just Max who is half kangeroo and not interested in snow peaked mountains. Perhaps we could train him. He will need a wig.

Shadow

It wasn’t the carmine flower of the pineapple sage that caught my eye, but its crisp shadow lying on the white-washed wall.

I was surprised that this fragrant salvia was still standing after the recent sharp frosts. But it was, defiant to the last. And in a world of droop and desiccation it looked especially fine today.

Sleep

As the year rapidly advances towards the winter solstice, so my reluctance to get out of bed in the morning increases. The short days and long nights pander to my love of sleep. Sleep would be my specialist subject if I were ever on Mastermind.

This morning, however, if I hadn’t dragged my comatose limbs from my womb-like cocoon, I would have missed a wonderful day. Again “earth as hard as iron, water like a stone”, but fully thermalled-up I was as snug as a gardener in a rug. The sky was a single coat of Dulux Perfect Blue and a scant few magnolia leaves hung on and drooped down revealing grey mouse fur buds.

Myself and Max’s Dad did some remedial protection on thawed ground and dug up blackened dahlias for storage. We pruned water shoots from apples trees. One of us (not me) took little encouragement to climb into the open goblet to reach high stragglers. We drank tea and sat looking at the mirror sea until the cold forced more action, all whilst Max bounded around the garden chasing distant seagulls and a variety of sticks.

It was definitely worth getting out of bed for.

Scaredy Cat

They said it would be a cold night so we had been warned. The morning was icy and I was bound for Lord and Lady Mantle’s estate on the edge of Exmoor. As I am by nature a Scaredy Cat I was slightly anxious about this drive. Most of the journey is on decent roads, but the last little bit plummets steeply down a single track lane, across a ford and then up an equally steep hill the other side. Other arrangements were made. I parked my car in the rocky, gorse cleared area that passes for a car park in these parts and His Lordship transported me in his 4 x 4 Rolls Royce Silver Shadow the rest of the way. Of course I needn’t have worried, the road was quite clear.

Any of you thinking that I was feigning fear to avoid getting mud on my new car, can think again.

It was a beautiful day, cold and crisp and sunny. A Disney winter’s day. My only complaint, the low retina-incinerating sun. Much of the day was spent applying and removing layers of clothing as we moved in and out of shadows. The soil in parts was solid, the nasturtiums had taken the demeanour of over-boiled cabbage, the euryops flopped pathetically and the canna’s were blackened. Most however were untroubled and I felt like a milestone had been crossed. There is no turning back now, winter is inevitable.

The Gardener’s Car

I’ve got a new car. Yes, a new camera and a new car. No, I haven’t won the lottery. Admittedly I did win the premium bonds the other week, but I shared the whopping £25 prize with two friends. Yes a whole £8.33.33333333 each. This car is not an indulgence. It has been a necessity for at least nine shaking, spluttering months. In order to work I need reliable transport. In order to stay sane I need transport that doesn’t threaten self destruction at any moment. Driving the old banger is like being a contestant in the Wacky Races, and we are not talking about Penelope Pitstop’s sporty little number. Rather imagine the Boulder Mobile. So last week I got a new car. When I say “new” I mean “new to me”, that £8.33 didn’t go far. But who would have thought it? It doesn’t rattle in an ominous way. There are no odd burning smells. The heater isn’t jammed on. The boot doesn’t double as an indoor pool. It has a rear windscreen wiper. It has a CD player and electric windows. It is very shiny. It is very grown up. It is far too good for me. I suppose it won’t take long for me to wear it in. Before brambles scratches the silver lining. Before mud infiltrates the soft furnishings. Before the rural lanes splatter their welcome. Before it is christened as a gardener’s car. Which is exactly what it is meant to be.

Did I tell you about beeping reversing thingy? Brilliant. I wonder, can you turn it off?