Roll Out The Barrow

22, Feb, 2012 1 Comment

The more attentive and sober among you will remember the blog I wrote in this very place last week. The one vaguely about snowdrops until it whittled off in a different direction. It is just here if you are feeling a bit confused.

I had decided to return, briefly to the subject as I received a press release from Thompson and Morgan about a snowdrop that has fetched an eye watering £725 for a single bulb. This breaks the existing record by quite a lot and I assume that T&M will cleverly propagate it and eventually what was a rare bulb will become widely available and commonplace. This may, or may not, be a good thing.

However, I have been pipped to the post. My learned chum Nigel Colborn has certain, elegantly expressed, views on the matter which he has posted here thereby scuppering my plans to expound on the subject.

Therefore I must find another subject upon which to embark. After much consideration and pacing back and forth I have decided that I will talk about Wheelbarrows.

The wheelbarrow is one of man’s greatest inventions. One day our ancestors are struggling under a load of rocks, the next some bright spark has stuck a wheel on a plank and life is suddenly simpler. I have no idea which bright spark first had the idea but whoever he was, I salute him. It is one of those perfect designs that cannot be bettered – like knives, the underpant, bricks, the egg, the polka dot bikini or the nape of Grace Kelly’s neck.

Sure it has got a great deal lighter (I used to own an old wooden one like this and you would not want to push it very far) but it is intrinsically the same.

Wheelbarrow facts:

In China they rigged sails to their barrows to take advantage of a following wind: nice idea but quite restricting in visibility.

The Roman emperor, Elagabalus, used wheelbarrows to transport women around the court*.

In the 1970s James Dyson, the vacuum cleaner man, invented one with a plastic ball instead of a wheel. A fore runner of his vacuum cleaner.

The wheelbarrow has appeared in a painting by Salvador Dali (Pantheon Formed By Twisted Wheelbarrows-1951)

There is a picture of a wheelbarrow (distinct from a two wheeled cart) in a tomb in Sichuan province which is dated precisely to 118AD.

So, Hurrah for the wheelbarrow. Much more useful than a yellow snowdrop.

 

 

* This transportation had little to do with either gardening or builders. Elagabalus was one of the racier Roman Emperors. He was married five times (once to a Vestal Virgin and once to a charioteer), in addition he slept with a wide selection of the remaining population and devalued the denarius. He was eventually assassinated and chucked in the Tiber in 222. He was eighteen when he died so you can appreciate his dedication to debauchery and the usefulness of having a wheelbarrow to ferry people around. If they had had to walk he might not have had time to get married so often.

 

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Not Really About Snowdrops

14, Feb, 2012 5 Comments

Did you know that the crime of nicking underwear  from other people’s washing lines is known as Snowdropping? This is why, when addressing a groups of snowdrop aficionados one must be careful not to call them Snowdroppers but Galanthophiles. This, obviously, comes from Galanthus which is the Latin for snowdrop.

Now I realise that both digital and print media are swimming in articles about these jolly white flowers at the moment: unsurprisingly as there ain’t much else out there to feed the horticultural fires. I have written some of them myself including one on this very blog, here.

The truth is, however, that unless you get into the details of the little green markings (which tends to involve prostrating oneself on wet ground) there is not a huge amount to say on the subject.

So….

let us assume that great swathes of snowdrops are very lovely things and instead spend a short moment thinking of other species of plants whose enthusiasts could also be granted the title of -philes.

Having just had this idea and sat for a moment, I have just realised that there aren’t that many. Is there a Clemophile, or a Rosophiliac or something like Delphiniophilia? I think this may be one of those moments when I have to ask for contributions or suggestions from you lot – which also gives me the chance to make sure that there is somebody reading this.*

I have come up with:

Dendrophiles: a bit more generalised meaning people whom love trees.

Orchidophile: Orchids but also a song by Katy Carr (about whom I know nothing)

Nemophiles: lovers of woodland plants

Cryophiles: lunatic people who like cold places.

Spudophile: chip lover.

Fileophile: somebody whose seeds are immaculately catalogued

BizzyLizophile: People who follow the Queen to every engagement.

Enough, I think.

And if you want to see some great snowdrop collections then try:

Thur 16 Feb Cherubeer Gardens, Dolton, Devon EX19 8PP

Sat 18 Feb Lacock Abbey Gardens, Chippenham, Wilts SN15 2LG

Sun 19 Feb Higher Denham Gardens, Higher Denham, Bucks UB9 5EA

Mon 20 Feb Boscombe Village Gardens, Boscombe, Wilts SP4 0AB

Wed 22 Feb Austwick Hall, Town Head Lane, Austwick, nr Settle, Yorks LA2 8BS

Thur 23 Feb Little Court, Crawley, nr Winchester, Hants SO21 2PU

Sat 25 Feb Pikes Cottage, Madford, Hemyock, Devon EX15 3QZ

Sun 26 Feb Magnolia House, Grange Drive, Wooburn Green, Bucks HP10 0QD

Wed 29 Feb Yew Tree Cottage, Penshurst, Kent TN11 8AD

There are lots of others on the National Garden Scheme website.

The photograph was taken by Tony Craddock: face like a haddock but nifty with a lens.

 

 

*The obverse of this is that if nobody responds to this then I know that my words are falling on fallow (or stony) ground. Sniff!

 

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Invasion Of The Turdus Pilaris

7, Feb, 2012 No Comments

It is the time of year when manufacturers of bird food start breaking out the champagne as the cold weather means than bumper sacks of seed and peanuts fly off the shelves.

This is generally a good thing.

I like our garden birds – of which there are many. When we first started building this house there were hundreds of starlings and some feral pigeons (not fat wood pigeons but a rather scraggy collection of doves who lived in one of the barns. They were a bit like Fagin’s gang huddled on rafters – except that they did not, as far as I was aware, have a predilection for nicking silk handkerchiefs from browsing toffs). Now we are beset with tits and nuthatches and all the usual suspects.

Highlight at this time of year is the Stripping of the Pyracanthas. we have, flanking the door, two very empty bits of wall (where the planners, in their infinite wisdom, refused to allow us windows).  I planted two Pyracanthas many years ago and they are now tall and neatly espaliered. They have transformed the entrance to the house and every time I come home they make me happy. At this time of year they are laden with gorgeous red berries: or at least they were yesterday.

Today they are stripped almost completely bare. About twelve Blackbirds and a whole flock of Fieldfares descended upon the place yesterday and ate hundreds and hundreds of berries. There are still lots on the floor but the branches are completely bare.: it was fascinating to watch. The Fieldfares (who have the unfortunate Latin name of Turdus pillaris – but I suppose they probably don’t mind) are winter migrants from Scandinavia* who swoosh  in around November and then go again in the Spring.

The Blackbirds are not at all pleased by this Viking incursion but at least it will prevent last year’s problem.

 

 

* I am generally very well disposed towards Scandinavian migrants having sat, enraptured, through two series of The Killing and one of Borgen.

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Hedge Fund

1, Feb, 2012 No Comments

Every morning we walk round the fields for half an hour as the sun rises. Today, after all the post Christmas mildness, there was a serious, bone chilling wind whistling across from the steppes.

Nowadays I spend much of my time talking and faffing about rather than actually wielding a spade. I feel I have served my time on the tools and anyway, given the choice, who would you rather have digging holes: me (a slightly weedy 50 year old) or some strapping chap (or chapess) in their twenties with rippling musculature, taut calves and a song in their hearts? But I have fond memories of planting hedges on days like today: well, mostly fond provided I had remembered to put on enough layers and dug energetically to keep the circulation going.

I chuntered briefly about bare root roses a couple of weeks ago so it seems sensible to take this opportunity to do the same. Now is the time to be planting native hedges: by native hedge, I am thinking of a good solid field hedge of the sort originally designed to prevent stock from mooching off across hill and dale getting lost. So probably not a good idea for a small front garden or a suburban boundary. Ideally a perfect hedge will consist of about 60% Hawthorn with the remainder made up of other species depending on the ground conditions. It will be planted in a staggered line using at least four plants per metre.

Recently I have been fiddling a bit with the mixture of species to make a flowery and prettier hedge. Most hedges have at least a temporary fence to corral the farmyard animals so the stockproofiness is not as vital as it was before the invention of wire netting. Try 30% Hawthorn and then make up the difference with such delights as Blackthorn (vicious but early flowering), pale pink dog rose (Rosa canina), Wayfaring Tree (Viburnum lantana – which has good berries), Viburnum opulus, Dogwood (Cornus alba), Hornbeam (good on wet ground), Hazel and, if you want a bit of evergreen, some Holly or Box (don’t use Yew near animals: they tend to die*).To make it even better the newly planted hedge should then be left alone until it reaches about eight feet high when it will be grown up enough for laying – about which I may write again soon. I’m not going to waste a good subject like that here: no sirree, you will have to return another day.

Since 1945 we have lost about 300,000 miles of hedge line due to development, road building and changed farming practices and every little we replant gives new homes to innumerable birds, bugs and small mammals.

So. Go on. Plant a hedge. Your country needs hedges much more than it needs High Speed Trains, microwaved Porridge, Politicians or buttock implants.

*The animals, not the Yew.

 

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Sitting Pretty

25, Jan, 2012 1 Comment

This seems as good a time as any to have a bit of a chunter about garden furniture.

We all have some sort of seating in our gardens no matter how rudimentary: in one garden I had a sofa rescued from a skip.

This was an excellent idea until it rained after which it began to smell like an old tramp. It was as if the sofa’s entire past life suddenly came to the surface and we began to get whiffs of everything from fag ash and red wine, to cat pee and cheap scent. All of this overlaid with the scent of dust and rejection.

Who knows how many love affairs were consummated, tears shed, crisps eaten, hangovers endured or lonely evenings spent in front of the darts upon that bit of plush velour? Anyway, it ended up back on a skip.

The pleasure of sitting in our gardens is one of the main reasons why many people bother to garden at all. The romantic image of loafing in the sunshine (ideally wearing something loose and wafty*) with a cool glass of something is reason enough.

Except…

if we are perfectly honest this only happens a few times each year so the important thing to remember about garden furniture is that, in our climate, you will spend much more time looking at it than you will spend sitting on it: therefore it is very important that you buy something that looks good.

There are hundreds of choices of bench: big ones, wooden ones, small ones, metal ones, plastic ones, fat ones, thin ones, cheap ones, uncomfortable ones, hideously expensive ones, stone ones etc etc depending on taste and budget.

I have two stone benches that were made by Haddonstone many years ago and which I removed from my grandmother’s garden before it was sold (all above board as she was no longer with us so I was not, I assure you, robbing my granny). They look okay but you would not want to linger for a crafty cocktail as you would get chilled buttocks – something we could all do without.

I also have a fine bench we were given as a wedding present: it is pictured above from which evidence you can see that it is not often sat upon. In my experience the most comfortable benches are the oak ones made by Gaze Burvill: for something so solid they are surprisingly soft.

The depressing thing is that nothing will ever be as comfortable as the memory of that salvaged sofa. Or as luxurious as a grassy bank.

 

 

*This description is primarily aimed at women. Wafty clothes on men tends to conjure up visions of Demis Roussos. Or an Archbishop in a stiff breeze.

 

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Winter Come Hither

21, Jan, 2012 1 Comment

Some plant names have more letters than are strictly necessary: they are the horticultural bedmates of places such as Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch (i) or Krungthepmahanakornamornratanakosinmahintarayutthayamahadilokphopnop- paratrajathaniburiromudomrajaniwesmahasatharnamornphimarnavatarnsathit- sakkattiyavisanukamprasit. (ii)

In particular I am thinking about the Sarcococcas who always strike me as slightly over generous with the letter ‘c’. This makes them difficult to spell and pronouncing them makes you sound a bit like a crow with a speech impediment.

However (and this is most important), this logolepsy (iii) should not ever put you off the plants. They are amongst the very finest shrubs ever devised by whomsoever devises such things (insert the name of your chosen deity/creator here). Especially in winter when their slightly spicy scent is capable of wafting many yards through the cold air.

It is the scent of warmed oranges mixed with bruised cloves and the oiled ankles of Ingushetian concubines.

Or something very similar.

The incomparable Bleddyn and Sue Wynn-Jones from Crug Farm Nurseries list about fifteen different species and cultivars in their catalogue, many of them gathered from the wild by them. To simplify things I think the best and most reliable :

Sarcococca confusa: Evergreen shrub, quite small at about 1.5m high. Excellent in part or even full shade.

Sarcococca hookeriana:especially dignya Purple Stem which is not just scented and evergreen like its chum, but also has the most delightful reddish young shoots.

Both then produce black berries.

The other important thing about these shrubs is that they should always be planted close to entrances or paths: in particular paths that are frequently trodden during winter. There is no point in planting them where they cannot be fully enjoyed and that means getting close enough to get the full scent experience. For this reason they are perfect front garden plants.

1. Meaning “St. Mary’s Church in the hollow of white hazel near a rapid whirlpool and the Church of St. Tysilio near the red cave”. Pronouncing it is my mother-in-law’s party trick.

2. Which is a town in Thailand.

3. The Germans are excellent at this sort of thing: they have some sensational compound nouns. For example Einmannmotorkettensägenführer which is a person qualified in the use of a chainsaw. Or Donaudampfschiffahrtsgesellschaftskapitän for a Danube Steamship Company Captain. The Dutch are cool too, with Rioolwaterzuiveringsinstallatie meaning a waste water treatment plant.

 

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Moses Supposes…*

11, Jan, 2012 1 Comment

Forgive me while I state the obvious but it is, as I am sure you have all noticed, unseasonably warm. I have much the same conversation with almost everybody I meet: last year we were up to our collective fetlocks in snow and this year my thermal combinations still lie, unmolested, in my chest of drawers.

It ain’t natural, I tell you, and I would put a whole pound of real money on the possibility that we will get severely hit by at least one cold spell before we emerge into the Springtime. Cold weather is good for a number of reasons: overwintering bugs get severe hypothermia, soil gets broken up by expanding frosts and it is good for both the soul and the knitwear industry.

It is also the best time of year for planting bare rooted stock. The time was that the Autumn and Winter was the only time when gardeners could plant stuff. As soon as the weather cooled and plants stopped growing, nurseries would send out newspaper wrapped parcels of plants (both shrubby and herbaceous) that had just been dug up from open ground. It was then a race to get them in the ground before they dried out and perished. This all changed in the 1960s when the nurseries morphed into garden centres and the plastic pot became easily available (before that we only had terracotta which is both heavy and expensive). This meant that plants could be easily grown on in containers and therefore could be sold all year round.

A few things, however, are still best bare-rooted. If you are an organised gardener you will have ordered your Roses a few weeks, if not months, ago. If you are a bit less efficient (as I am) then you still have a bit of time as most of the rose growers will be sending plants out until about April. Obviously you can always buy container grown roses for planting at any time of the year but there are definite advantages to buying and planting at this time of year.

Firstly you will find that there is a much greater choice of bare rooted Roses than those in containers – there are many hundreds of varieties available – Ramblers,Floribundas,Shrubs and Climbers in glorious abundance.

Secondly, it is much less disruptive to plant things at this time of year. Plants are mostly snoozing so suffer no trauma in being dug up, stuck in the post and replanted. Then, come the Spring they wake up, stretch as bit, look around them and burst into growth.

Thirdly, bare root roses are much cheaper and a great deal easier to transport.

So, the roses will appear in a bag and you need to drop everything and get them in the ground as they cannot stay behind the shed for too long without expiring. At the very least you need to get them out of the bag and into a bucket of water. Prune off any damaged root ends and plant them with some good compost and a handful of bonemeal.

* Not a terribly relevant title but one of my favourite scenes from Singin’ In The Rain. You will remember Gene Kelley getting elocution lessons to get ready for the talkies and Donald O’Connor coming and disrupting the lesson. “Moses supposes his Toeses are Roses but Moses supposes erroneously…” Wonderful stuff, if you have not watched it then you have missed out on one of the greatest joys life holds.

 

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iPods, Walrus and Grovelling in the Dirt.

3, Jan, 2012 2 Comments

Happy New Year to you all.

May your lums always reek and the slugs choose your neighbours’ Hostas over yours.

I have eaten far more than is good for me over the past couple of weeks and, as a result, feel like a slightly lethargic walrus flapping around on a pebbly beach somewhere. I also have a cold and am finding it quite tricky to stop procrastinating and actually do some proper work. This blog is a way to ease myself gently into other things that probably involve going outside into the filthy weather.

On a couple of occasions I managed to stagger away from a plate and do a bit of gardening over Christmas. The big project was cajoling my sons to help me dismantle the pergola in preparation for a bit of a remodelling: I am thinking trees. This went remarkably smoothly with only minor grumbling from the workforce. At the moment it looks a bit ghastly but I will show you pictures soon.

The other garden forays were to begin the annual process of cutting everything down and ferretting out large weeds that have remained hidden all year. This is one of my favourite occupations as I get to crawl around amongst plants and there are few things better that looking back upon a newly weeded and gently turned piece of ground. It helped that the weather is so mild. It is quite a solitary pastime so I find an iPod an invaluable companion. Before iPods I usually carted a radio around with me but it always got rained on or mud got into the sub-woofers or something. I tend to listen to Podcasts or Audiobooks rather than music unless I am doing something unnecessarily energetic that requires rhythm and bounce rather than just distraction.

My Top Five “Things to Listen to While Gardening” at the moment are:

Gardeners Question Time: The Podcast version. A classic, comfortable format that does not tend to change much but you are sure to pick up something useful (and rather more information than is comfortable about Bob Flowerdew’s peeing habits.)

The History of Rome: We are currently on the declining years but the back episodes are available. Fascinating stuff with lots of mad emperors, military campaigns, persecuted Christians (and Pagans) all neatly packaged and well read by the author.

Audible: the place to go for Audiobooks.I have been listening to The House of Silk, a new Sherlock Holmes book written by Anthony Horowitz. Sounds like a really bad idea but in fact it is brilliantly done: feels as if Conan Doyle is leaning over his shoulder.

Anything by Johnny Cash : excellent for wheelbarrowing (especially At Folsom Prison or early stuff with June Carter: the later American Recordings, while brilliant, lack sufficient razzle to keep you going)

Some Classical Stuff: in particular Mozart’s Requiem, Verdi’s La Traviata, Handel’s Messiah or Bach’s Trumpet music. Given a bit of volume this is good for digging or vigorous hoeing.

 

 

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While Shepherds Washed Their Socks….

20, Dec, 2011 1 Comment

Let us be clear from the outset about something…..

I like Christmas very much. I enjoy the whole over indulgent spectacle of the whole thing. I like eating too much and lying like a beached walrus on the sofa. I like hearty walks through frozen fields.

I enjoy lighting fires, giving presents, singing carols etc etc etc.

I love decorated Christmas trees and the slightly tacky idea of German style markets with their accompanying bratwurst, dry gingerbread hearts and plastic ice rinks.

This is a humbuggery free zone.

Okay. Are we all clear on that?

Excellent.

However, there is one aspect of the whole kaboodle that gives me the slight pip.

The Christmas tree and, to be completely specific, the ones sold with roots.

Occasionally I am asked “Where should I plant my Christmas tree?”. This is sticky ground: should I be honest and implore them not to plant it anywhere other than in the nearest skip?  Should I urge them to sneak out under cover of darkness to replant it in a Christmas tree plantation? Or should I go for the compromise option which is to put it in a container and hide it behind the shed?

Naked Christmas trees, to be perfectly frank, are not very good looking things and do not really deserve a place in the garden. Apart from anything else they spend at least six months recovering from the indignity of spending a few weeks covered in tinsel while slowly dehydrating next to a blazing radiator. I can understand some people’s reluctance to be party to the wholesale felling of trees but they are just a crop fulfilling their destiny, same as wheat or broad beans or alfalfa sprouts.

We made a decision a few years ago to buy an artificial tree. The arguments for and against this are many:

To make an artificial tree involves a fair bit of plastic and it is obviously not compostable.

The harvest and transportation of real trees uses a lot of fuel.

Artificial trees will last for ever. Real trees need replacing every year.

Artificial trees drop no needles and cause no allergies (one of the main reasons for our decision was the fact that both my wife and daughter came out in rashes if they touched the real trees)

Real trees absorb carbon dioxide during their eight or so years in the field. However, they are also often treated with pesticides which can run off into water courses.

Real trees can easily be chipped and composted – most councils run a tree recycling project, although this does involve more transport.

When an artificial tree finally falls apart it will have to go into landfill.

We went with the fake: true is does not smell faintly of Badedas but it is very convenient. Previously I would tootle off to this place where they handed you a bow saw and cocked a thumb in the general direction of a small forest. I would then saw one down,drag it back, tie it to the roof of the car using a lot of rope and give money to the bloke smoking a joint in a shed. Half way home it would shift in position so the windscreen was partially obscured and I would stop on the edge of the A422 to retie my knots.

Whatever decision you may make (and if you really insist on buying a replantable tree then I can only look on and shake my head in disapproval) I wish you all the happiest of Christmases and look forward to seeing you in the New Year with your tails bushy and your eyes bright.

 

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I am a Mole and I live In A Hole..*

13, Dec, 2011 2 Comments

We have a mole.

In fact, it seems that we may have a thriving community of moles**. They are vigorous and healthy and extremely busy judging by the increasing collection of molehills and the tracery of shallow tunnels all over the orchard.

We have been mercifully free of the things for most of our time here but this year they seem to be on the march.

The mole is a pain for two reasons: most obviously because of the unsightly molehills than are scattered across lawns. These need to be collected – they make very good potting soil – because if they are left then they provide a perfect environment for the germination of weeds (in our case creeping buttercup is particularly happy if given a nice fresh molehill in which to grow).

The second reason is that they eat a lot of worms and worms are the Gardeners’ chum. The tunnels they dig are basically big worm traps: the mole can sense a worm appearing in one of its tunnels and then beetles along in heady pursuit. They have a chemical in their saliva which paralyses(but does not kill) the worms which are then stashed away in underground larders for future consumption.

There are various ways to get rid of moles: most of them involving an very unhappy ending for the mole. Queen Alexandra (wife of Edward VII) once ordered a coat made of moleskins which then sparked a craze. As you need quite a lot of moles to make a coat this kick started a whole new industry in Scotland. Maybe we need a similar recession busting gesture from some celeb: perhaps Pippa Middleton or Christine Walkden should step up to the plate and wear a flowing cloak or negligee made of tailored mole.

I once used sonic repellers (which, to the mole, is the equivalent of somebody playing really loud Heavy Metal music in a confined space) to keep them away from a Cabinet Minister’s croquet lawn but you need a couple of them to be sure and they will not get rid of moles, only send them next door.

Other, non-fatal, remedies include cat litter, flooding or burying one of those really annoying Christmas cards that play relentless and tinny versions of We Wish You a Happy Christmas.

But surely no mole is evil enough to deserve such treatment?

*The lyric from The Southlanders 1958 song. The actual line was sung/spoken by Gary Wilmott’s Dad.

**The collective noun for a group of moles is a ‘Labour’

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