Conversations

 

Enter Bert who comes out with this statement,

I have to say, you shock me.

Me, sewing my knitted blanket,

What point are you making?

It’s a lovely day, and here's you sitting knitting and a ball of stuff to be doing outside.

Well! It’s alright for him. He’s got a new toy to play with – a battery operated lawnmower. He got me a leaf blower at the same time but that’s two seasons too late, or early depending on how you look at it.

When I told Swisser about the leaf blower, I told her I felt a bit guilty about getting it, and she had a lot to say on that subject.

A leaf blower! What’s wrong with a rake and a brush?

I admitted that she had a point. But said,

Have you seen the amount of trees we have? The size of this place? I need a leaf blower as well as a rake. I’d be weeks, months gathering up all the leaves that fall here. And anyway, they all go to the compost heap in the end.

She argued on,

They’re so loud. so antisocial, so unnecessary. I hate them. Bloody men with all their noisy machinery.

I say,

We have no neighbours so won’t be bothering anyone. And it’s the beech leaves* that are preventing wild flowers coming through at my would-be meadow. Maybe if I could get the leaves gathered up in the autumn the orchids and cuckoo flowers would spread and there’d be more orange-tip butterflies.

But I couldn’t convince her. So changed the conversation to another of her annoyances, the volume of tourists that clog up her personal beach at PBT. It’s my opinion that she would be far happier if she lived up a long lane with no-one near her.

To return to Bert and his remarks about me doing needlework on a rare sunny day. I was raging at him but knew he was right. I put down my needles and went outside where I took pictures of the crocus then watered and tidied up my potted herbs.

*Beech leaves can form a tight seal on lawns or low-growing meadow areas which prevent low-growing or delicate wild flowers from growing.

A Change Of Plan

An opium poppy sport that self-seeded. I love these surprises.

Last night, I had decided that I would take the train to Belfast. Knowing it was going to be a hot day, I gave some thought to what I should wear, especially when it came to choosing the right footwear. Warm weather calls for sandals but tramping pavements calls for something tougher. So I dubbined my Blundstones. So what if there's a heatwave.

This morning, I decided not to go. It was already too warm at eight o'clock. Instead, I went to Tesco and the Oxfam shop in Ballymena and was home before midday. The remainder of the day I spent outside, watering, weeding, deadheading, planting, potting on and more watering. And I wore sandals.

Much of the day was also spent keeping an eye on Rusty. He’s not well. The antibiotics gave him a lift for about a week, but he’s in decline again - sleeping more, eating and drinking less. The heat is hard on him. He had to be checked often, moved to the shade, and encouraged to sip water. He’s an old boy now. Kune kune pigs usually live 12 to 15 years, and Rusty turned 15 back in April.

 

There will be no journeys abroad tomorrow apart from picking up milk and the Saturday Guardian early morning. For it is Orangeman's Day and this year one of the parades will be in Cullybackey. We'll be home all day listening to the sound of distant (Lambeg) drums.

Here We Go Again

My plan to use this blog as an aide-mémoire hasn’t progressed as well as I’d hoped. It’s been twelve days since my last post, and although nothing particularly exciting has happened - no riots, no house fires - it’s still been a longer gap than I intended.

So what did happen?

Still snail-watching.

Went to Portrush on a day out with Bert, Hannah and the big girls. They did not use all their Currie's tokens. Either I bought too many or they are tired of scary rides. Come to think of it, there's a definite air of ennui about them lately.

Watching a lot of teevee. Dept Q was a big favourite.

Became aware of a band called Bob Vylan.

Wondered why an old man dying of old age is such a big deal for the BBC.

Today was good, except for one thing.

I met an old work friend for coffee. That was good.

In the afternoon, Bert and I worked together in the garden. That was nice. We achieved a lot, dug up half of the papaver orientale and created a new area for planting. Displaced a lot of snails. Bert is very keen to replant but I want to wait a while. Snails are territorial, and when they return to their feeding grounds, which they will, they'll demolish anything new and tender. The big rough poppies could stand that, but my seed-grown agastaches might not. We'll wait a while until the snails move on. Fingers crossed that they do.

The not-so-good thing that happened?

I was just leaving the small polytunnel after watering the tomatoes when my foot caught in a clump of ox-eye daisies and down I went. My first thought being, 

Here we bloody well go again!

Hand out to save myself. Didn't work. It wasn't too bad. The ground around that polytunnel is soft and spongy, even more so since I left a hose running there for about 16 hours on Sunday evening. As I lay there, a bit winded, a brown butterfly flew past. I identified it as a Meadow Brown. And I knew that I was OK.

My left hand is a bit achey but it didn't prevent me from picking several pounds of strawberries and raspberries.

Tomorrow - more gardening, drive Hannah to the airport and on Friday I might go to Belfast.

Hunting the Lily Beetle

 

 Lilioceris lilii

The first time I saw a lily beetle was in a friend’s garden, and it was - of course - chomping on a lily. I drew her attention to it, as she’s a keen naturalist, always interested in and supportive of all the creatures that creep and crawl.

She identified it for me, and I remember thinking what a pretty little beast it was, with its glossy scarlet wing covers contrasting so nicely with its coal-black head, legs and underside.

But that was before I started growing lilies myself.

I was tempted by those glorious packs of lily bulbs. And after several futile attempts to grow them in a perennial bed (thanks to slugs), I finally had some success in an old aluminium cattle feeder.

Then, last year, my lilies were discovered by those ghastly lily beetles. They must have been there long before I noticed them, and they managed to do a lot of damage. I went to war immediately -picking off the adults and dealing with their disgusting, excrement-covered larvae. Fortunately, I managed to get the situation under control simply by removing them by hand.

My friend Vee’s lilies also came under attack, but she found the larvae too repulsive to deal with. Lily beetle grubs use their slimy black poo as a form of camouflage, but that doesn’t deter me. Vee’s lilies were devastated; mine are, so far, doing OK.

This year, I started early. I inspect the lilies every day - sometimes twice a day - and I’ve already found a few. Lily beetles have another cunning trick: if disturbed, they drop from the leaf or bud they’re chewing and contrive to land on their backs, hiding their shiny red wing covers from predators (me). So I creep up on them.

Picture it: the human predator tiptoeing across the yard to dispatch tiny beetles. A cruel practice, perhaps - but one I can justify, because lily beetles are not native to these islands. They began as a small, localised infestation in the south of England in the early 1900s, and were first reported in Northern Ireland in 2002.

My naturalist friend was quite unconcerned that her lilies were being attacked - she believes that invertebrates matter more than cultivated flowers. Perhaps she’s right. But that is gardening: always a balancing act between admiration and intervention. I still think lily beetles are lovely, in a villainous sort of way. But pretty or not, if they come for my lilies, I will find them and... you know the rest.  

Just One Book

Unthinkable! In September I finished reading just one book. The Secret Scripture by Sebastian Barry. I quite liked it even though the ending wasn't quite the surprise it might have been. I only research books once I've read them so it came as news to me that the novel was made a film. Researching the movie made me realise that I never wanted to see it even though it featured Vanessa Redgrave. Also, it was only loosely based on the book as the unsympathetic Father Gaunt became Hot Priest Theo James. I passed the book on to a friend and told her I didn't want it back.

What kept me from reading? Three things,

Gardening, Duolingo and Snails.

Bert and I have been working in our garden a lot and have made some progress. We make a good team. My back and shoulders aren't amazing so he does all the spadework. His knees are dodgy so I do all the wheel barrowing. Between us, we make one great gardener. For the first time in years, I am looking forward to spring.

Duolingo. Ganching warned me not to get obsessed. At first, I didn't know what she meant. Then, about two weeks in, I realised I was in leagues. I got obsessed. Sundays were fraught as I struggled to get into the top three or, at the very least, the promotion zone. A few days ago I realised I'd spent 24 hours in the previous week on Duolingo. That's like A JOB! I have wised up. 'll still do it a bit but I am going to have to stop caring about leagues and just try and do a bit of French grammar. For fun.

Snails. The Garden variety. I have spent almost my entire life loathing slugs and snails but have, in the past couple of years, become fascinated by them. Most nights I'm out with my torch to see what they are up to. It's the snails I like best but now I'm also getting to like the slugs too. And fellow gardeners, here is something I have discovered. Don't be too tidy in your herbaceous borders for the snails and slugs seem to prefer decaying plant matter. And if you don't leave anything like that for them they will eat the good stuff. It doesn't apply to hostas though - they just cannot resist them.

So - here's to October, more reading, gardening and snail-watching and a lot less Duolingo. 

The Oldest Blogger

This blog, Nelly’s Garden is twenty years old today. Back when I started I believed I was the Oldest Blogger in the village and maybe I was. Two decades later I’m certain sure I’m the oldest blogger in Cully and maybe even the only one – for blogging is not what it used to be.

So, how did I spend my blog's big day? Quietly. My only outing was to the pharmacy to collect my meds. The rest of the day I spent tootling around the house and garden. There was one big excitement – a blue butterfly on the borage.

This year has been terrible for butterflies and moths. Usually, in August, we see lots of Red Admirals, Small Tortoiseshells and Peacocks. The month is nearly gone and I haven’t spotted one of those. A few whites and browns but that was that. So the blue one caused quite a stir. I’ve never seen one in our garden before. It was difficult to get a good photo ID as it flew quickly and kept its wings folded when it fed. But it was lovely in flight, almost as if some of the borage petals had taken wing.

I'm not sure which of the blues this is. I think maybe Holly Blue?

Other pictures taken after I got tired of chasing my solitary butterfly visitor.

New Zealand flax grown by me from seed collected in Fanad, Donegal. It might be a pest in the Antipodes but to me it is exotic. Sadly no starlings but they will come.

My new wine-coloured hydrangea. I bought it from Ben Vista and it cost me the price of a couple of decent bottles of wine (or three from Tescos). I treated myself to it as I'm currently taking a break from alcohol. 

And that concludes Nelly's twentieth birthday post.

Thanks for reading!

Family Trees and Kissing Cousins

 

In recent years Nellybert has let the garden areas in Springhill go to rack and ruin. Last week we decided to act and got a man in to do something about it. So far he has uncovered a forgotten hawthorn tree, some buried rhubarb and a rotten egg. He says he has a scythe. 

Martha has received some pleasing news this week. Thanks to her mum's family tree research she has found out that both of her step-grandparents are related to her for it turns out that Granda Mick and Granny Linda, who both hail from Leek in Staffordshire, are cousins! Neither of them were aware of this until Zoe told them. To be exact they are third cousins which means their common ancestors are great-great grandparents. We already knew through DNA testing that Bert and Martha's dad are related. No-one knows how. It's estimated between third and fifth cousins but as Bert's DNA is concentrated due to his maternal grandparents being first cousins and his mum and dad being second cousins, once removed, the issue is complicated. My best guess is that the common ancestor there might date from as far back as the 18th century. 

Still, as far as  Martha is concerned a relly is a relly and she is pleased with the connection to Linda and Bert. Not half as pleased as I am though, with my hacking and slashing gardener. Wonder if we're related?

By the way, for those who don't quite get it Martha is Linda's third cousin, twice removed.

And another thing - my great-uncle Father Joe Byrne was the person who explained to my mother how cousinship worked and she explained it to me. Father Joe was keen on the family tree research and being a priest had easy access to parish registers all over Ireland and beyond. He'd seek out distant cousins and even found his niece, my Aunt Roisin, a lovely husband in Middlesbrough who was a far-out cousin. I'm sure it was a blessing to Granny who must have thought she'd never get Roisin out of the house. 

Too Much Stuff

 

I knew my cousin was visiting Ireland from NZ sometime this summer and was hoping she might visit. Even so, I was surprised to read yesterday that she was en route to Belfast. It must be summer already. I look out the window at the wreckage of my once-lovely garden. I gaze around my house - at grubby windows, spider's webs, clutter. I need to look lively and there is only one thing to do - get on the internet and research decluttering sites.

The first one advises to approach the problem room by room. I've tried that before and it doesn't work. The stuff just get pushed around from room to room. A second site goes for a whole house approach, the first step being to remove clutter from every room starting at the top of the house. I've not tried that before so I'll give it a go. 

End of day report. I have removed clutter from two spare bedrooms and got halfway through my bedroom. There are two bin bags of clothing and two boxes of books in the boot of the car for recycling and there are seven boxes of unsorted stuff on the landing.

I spent 90 minutes (between downpours) in the garden mostly hacking and sweeping. Two full barrowloads of compost material have been removed and 12 potentilla Miss Willmott discovered and potted on. Don't know where I'm going to put them but hey-ho, problem for another day. 

I just have too much stuff and too many plants and that leads to cobwebs and weeds. See that blanket in the pictures above. I bought that in Camerons decades ago. It dates from a time when I had hardly any disposable income and I spent about £25 on it. Of course, I still have it. The young lady in the photograph is grown up now, and sweet little Polly dog is long gone. In the second photograph, there is Holly de Cat (no longer with us) and a ridiculous fabric teddy that I picked up in a charity shop. It had no eyes, I was going to give it eyes, but never did and eventually, donated it back to a charity shop. The black bear, Boris from Hamleys (no relation) I bought from a stall in the original Fair Hill half a lifetime ago. I still have him. I'm not sure why. 

Tomorrow I hope to get rid of the contents of my car boot and clear the landing and, Oh God! you should see the attic...

Anyway, here is another one of my carefully positioned photographs of a literal corner of my yard that makes it look as if this place is lovely.

The Siege of Drumrankin

 

On Saturday Ben and Sara came around and we made a start on the overgrown flower bed next to the lawn. Ben was the spade man and I just pointed at things and wheeled barrows to the compost heap. A mass of blue iris was removed, a huge cephalaria gigantea disposed of and yellow crocosmia, irises and Sidalcea lifted and shared with Sara. Bert absented himself from these endeavours as he was helping Clint with his beasts.

Cleo likes a bit of digging too.

We had a leak in the upstairs bathroom which I discovered at 6am on Sunday morning. I’m usually up at that time as Cleo needs to be toileted as early as possible. Bert was informed of the leak and got up to look at it. Then returned to bed saying he would sort it later. I placed a basin under the drip and returned to bed for a few hours. Finished my Jane Gardam – the third part of the Filth trilogy already ordered from World Books.

Four hours later Bert got up and I fed him porridge and peaches and he got to work. I’m not sure what he did but the leak was fixed – temporarily.

Clint was on the yard first thing this morning. There was a bit of a siege on. Apparently, some boy’s cattle along with some other boy’s Simmental bull had broken out of another boy’s field and some decent sort of a boy had come along and got them all off the Dreen Road and into Clint’s silage field. So a posse of boys were gathered up and the cattle were to be moved into our big shed for collection.

I went up to tell Bert.

You know the other day, when you were telling me a tale about J’s sister-in-law, who was letting Clint cut silage in her fields for free and this boy came up and said he’d no business as the grass belonged to him and it was very confusing and it was either ‘this boy’ or ‘that boy’ and I couldn’t make head or tail of it – well do I have a tale for you, boys, cows and bulls galore and the good news is that there are that many boys coming to round them up that you can stay in bed.

It must have taken the boys a good half hour to get the beasts out of Clint’s silage but eventually, all landed in the yard and the cattle were safely deposited in the shed. The boys were a mixed bunch. One of them was a grizzled old fellow who looked like he belonged in a Western movie. One had a shifty look about him. One wore his trousers belted close to his armpits and one young one’s jeans were hanging halfway down his arse with a good expanse of his hairy crack on view. One was a girl and one was Clint.

It goes without saying that Clint wasn’t that impressed with twenty cows and calves and a bull trampling through his silage but the boy who owned the bull said he could have the loan of it for a month and Clint reported tonight that it has its courting ears on and he’s hoping to have an excellent wee crop of calves in 2024.

Yellow crocosmia, sidalcea, iris, cephalaria. Don't worry, I've still go lots of them left. These had just gotten out of hand in a small flowerbed

And Bert was up reasonably early this morning, off to the plumbing supplies store and has fixed the leak.

And I have bought yet another dress for Naoise's wedding. 

Return to the Redshank Lawn

 

This post was written over 10 years ago and harks back to the late 1970s.

The bambino rolling around in a bed of persicaria maculosa (redshank) is now a professional gardener. Yet the first garden she ever knew consisted mainly of redshank!

redshank, originally uploaded by NellyMoser.

I moved to Drumtara in 1978. The house was newly built and I was its first tenant. Reader, I had nothing!

Well - I had a child, another on the way, several hundred books, a bed, a toybox full of toys (but that wasn't mine) and a couple of chairs.

Word soon got out that I was in need of household effects and furnishings and friends rallied around to help. I soon had more furniture and bits and pieces than I needed. I never said no and that is a habit I have to this very day.

The house sorted, I began on the garden. I'd never had my own garden before and I was very excited. With help from my father, I began to create a lawn for the children to play on. It was hard work breaking the soil, getting the stones and builder's rubble out and raking and finishing. At last, Daddy pronounced it ready for sowing and gave me a plastic bag of grass seed. I scattered, sowed and waited with mounting anticipation.

It wasn't long before the first green shoots appeared. At first, it was only a light green haze but as the days progressed it became greener and greener. My father came to look at it. There were a lot of areas where the seed hadn't taken. He said, "Don't worry. They'll fill in."

The grass continued to grow. It actually started to look quite lush. Except... except it didn't really look like grass. Daddy said, "Redshank." I was very disappointed. My first attempt at sowing a lawn and I had created a weed patch. A lush and green weed patch but a weed patch all the same. I asked my father what I should do. He said, "Just cut them back, don't let them flower, the grass will come through."

I didn't even have garden shears so I tackled my weed patch with the kitchen scissors. It took a long time and I got blisters. But the grass came through just like Daddy said. Of course, the kitchen scissors proved impractical when that needed cutting and I acquired garden shears from somewhere and used them to keep the grass in check. To tell the truth, it was never much of a lawn but it was good enough for my children to play on.

Nowadays I have a lawn and a ride-on mower and a man to cut the grass for me. It's not the best lawn in the world but it's certainly good enough for my grandchildren to play on.

It's Been A Bit Of A Green Week

 A few days after the Assembly elections, Banjo Man looked out our window and remarked, 

Have you noticed how green everything is since Sinn Fein won the election?

He was right of course. The grass was lush and emerald and the beech trees were newly furled and fresh-looking. It was May after all.

Out in the polytunnels, the new irrigation system was performing well and all the seedlings and plug plants were flourishing.

I'm still feeling enthused about my compost project. Got an additional bin from Dee Mac and started another pile. I'm getting so into it that I've started to slightly resent all the vegetable peelings and such that Rusty and Lily eat. 

Fred has found the Catnip (Nepeta cataria) we planted. About two-thirds of cats respond to it and he is one of them.

Thursday was our day out in Derry, enjoyed by all despite it being a bit damp.

Our first stop was the Plantation of Ulster exhibition at the Guildhall. Martha is becoming a history buff so she found this really interesting. She was even more interested when she found there were dressing up opportunities.

Zoe decided to be a Gael, that was easy, all she need to do was wrap herself in a couple of lengths of homespun. The girls were Planters (better clothes). The first picture is planter Evie oppressing native Zoe.

Then a walk around the walls. Matha lectured us on the architecture and told us all about oubliettes and murder holes. They're doing the Normans at school. We checked the famous mural. Those green school uniforms fit my theme. I don't know what's going on with the mini-diggers and the hi-viz guys but we'll find out someday.

Bert didn't do no-mow May. He didn't have to as he already has no-spray, let-it-grow, glorious wilderness all year round and that wee patch of a lawn gives him a lot of pleasure. This is more than can be said for his two new frames of bees. They are savages. The girls do gymnastics on the grass and poor Evie was stung on Friday. She was stoic and couldn't understand why I panicked. It was Bert's turn the following day. One actually flew up his nostril and stung him. I am giving them a wide berth.

The week ended with an enjoyable lunch, more gardening and a lot of hoo-ha about the platinum jubilee. Apparently, some of it turned out to be enjoyable, especially when the Johnsons got booed. There was something twee with Paddington which I must admit I rather liked. There is a sweetness about that bear and it seemed to rub off on the (green) Queen. 

Sowing Time

 

What with the preparation for, execution of and recuperation from the recent (and extremely enjoyable) family visits, I found myself a tad behind with the sowing schedule. I was thinking of this a few weeks ago when Jazzer and I were in TKMaxx*. She asked me,

What time is it anyway?

I answered,

Practically the end of April.

Anyway, I managed to get quite a lot started before the beginning of May and this is where we are now.

*I was in need of some really nice socks as Martha and Evie seem to have purloined from my sock drawer all that is bright and beautiful.

You Cannot Make An Omelette...

 ...without breaking eggs. Not quite sure what that actually means but it came into my mind today.

Another thing I'm not quite sure about, even after nearly eighteen years, is Nelly's Garden a diary, or not? Because, if it is a diary then I should be making much mention of recent family visits from the Norfolk and Muswell Hill branches of the family. Both visits meant a lot to me but while they were going on I was much occupied and did not seem to have the time or energy to make diary entries. I will get back to that.

Instead, back to the breaking eggs thing. Some years ago we removed a number of overgrown conifers from the front of the house. One brute of a thing left a two-pronged stump which we decided to leave in place. I envisaged it covered in clematis and eventually one was planted (a viticelli) which took about five years before it blessed us with a few sparse flowers and then died. Today Bert decided to remove the stump.

Considering ourselves to be conscientious of the needs of wildlife our aim was to remove the decaying stump to another area where insects etc. could continue to enjoy it.

Ropes were attached to the tractor, and the removal was underway.

Then Bert cried, Oh SHIT!

A tiny egg had rolled to the ground.

A closer investigation found the little nest, six eggs one broken.

The eggs were cold and we hoped it was an abandoned nest.

Looking into it afterwards Bert reckoned it was a tree creeper's nest. The coldness of the eggs meant nothing as the birds had fled the nest as soon as he roped the stump. The eggs, being tiny, would have cooled rapidly.

Our only consolation is that there are at least three pairs of tree creepers breeding here and hopefully the pair whose nest we destroyed will go again. 

The moral of this tale is to avoid all kinds of wrecking projects in our gardens during nesting season.

Happier times fifteen years ago when the stumps were newly made. The girl is in her last years at grammar school. The boy (Ben) is in his twenties and the pup (Frank) is buried a few metres away.

Ten Things I Did on Mother's Day

 I woke up worrying about the Antarctic Ice Shelf, then decided that my fretting about it would not help.

Listened to the dawn chorus and estimated that there must be at least a thousand birds living nearby. Sounded like it anyway.

I thought about my own mother.

I sowed lots of vegetable seeds.

And entertained two adopted sons and a girlfriend. Received a Mother’s Day gift from Locky.

Participated in the naming of the most recent calf born on this farm. He is to be called Sparrow.

Spoke to my Katkin from Norfolk. She has had a bout of Covid. That’s all of my children have had it now.

Pondered my tendency to feel guilty about everything.

Did lots of knitting.

Did lots of weeding.

Friday Saturday Sunday Monday

Friday

We had Lulu from Leitrim staying with us for a couple of nights while her humans attended a wedding in Belfast. Friday was her last day so I took a few photographs to mark her visit. Her humans arrived earlier than expected (looking rather tired, if I may say so) and as is always the case with dog visitors she hopped into their car with nary a backward glance at the woman whose bed she had shared for two nights running. Never let it be said that I don't give visiting dogs a warm (1) welcome.

Saturday

Bert finally got around to putting up the nesting boxes that Dee Mac made for us. 

This one is ours. 

And this is the one that Hannah picked. It has an elemental and slightly malevolent look to it and that is probably why she chose it. I'm hopeful that the birds will find and use them in the spring. 

I hate to say it, but Judy, Jess and Ziggy were glad to see the back end of Princess Lulu. Ziggy was also sleeping over and he was not at all pleased at having to share Aunt Granny's bed with an entitled Jack Russell terrier. Still, he had me all to himself on Saturday night.

Sunday

Ziggy and I collected Hannah from the airport on Sunday morn. They were very pleased to see each other.

I spent the rest of the day doing chores and even managed to drag myself outside for an hour. I chopped down most of the tomatoes (they are still fruiting!) and pricked out snapdragons I grew from the seed Les gave me. I also checked the fruit on the chilli bush (another gift from Les) and wondered if I should make more chilli jam.

It's a Carolina Reaper, supposed to be the world's hottest chilli. 

Monday

The weather forecast for the rest of the week promises temperatures of up to  19°c in some parts of the UK. Here in Northern Ireland, we can expect rain and lots of it. The rest of the news all seems to be about climate change, no doubt because of the coming Cop26 conference in Glasgow.

Meanwhile, in my kitchen,  my main concern is for this evening's family meal. We are having Tagliatelle Bolognese and I'm trying out a new recipe for coconut cake. It's a Nigella and is supposed to have Malibu in the icing but dearie me no. Malibu on a Monday? My Presbyterian (2) great-great-grandfather would turn in his grave up there at the Sallagh Braes. 

Nigella has this great idea of soaking the desiccated coconut in boiling water and it has made for a soft and delicious cake. Someday that's not a Monday I will soak the coconut in Malibu.

(1) Lulu really appreciated my electric blanket.

(2) There is a rumour that Jacob Steen might have been Jewish. I have 6% Eastern European ancestry in my DNA so perhaps he was.

Busy As A Bee

I have visited four gardens in the past three weeks, the walled garden at Glenarm Castle, Antrim Castle Gardens, the walled garden at Houghton Hall (Norfolk) and Pensthorpe Natural Park (also Norfolk)

They were all inspiring and gorgeous and although I have nothing at all against walled gardens or castles, Pensthorpe is definitely my favourite. It's got water and wildfowl and is designed by the brilliant Piet Oudolf. 

Of course, when I got home and looked at my own garden I was less than pleased with it. Overblown and collapsing - it does not look its best in late summer. Truthfully it only looks good for a couple of weeks in May. Certain plants have got out of hand, especially the cephalaria and sidalcea. I always mean to stake them in time and always leave it too late. They were cut to the ground and I intend to dig half of them out. Aunt Nessie's geranium was reduced by eighty per cent. It's a real stinker too. My hands smelled horrible when I'd finished the job.

We spent a few hours yesterday razing the meadow area of the garden. Bert trimmed, then mowed it twice and I lifted the cuttings and wheeled six barrow loads to the compost heap. I'll sow more yellow rattle in there and hopefully, it will look better next year. The proper meadow is a worry. I don't know if Clint is going to lend me some cows to chomp it down. He is disdainful of my meadow grass. Says the cattle won't like it. If he doesn't I will have to arrange for someone to come in to cut and lift it.

In other news, Bert has decided to wind down the horticulture business. Brexit and the Northern Ireland Protocol has made it difficult/impossible to source liners from his usual English outlets. The amount of business we give them isn't enough for them to bother. I'm not sorry. We'll have more time to do meadow, woods and bee stuff.

Deadheading and Other Matters.

 

The tulip was almost past its best and since that picture was taken (a week ago) I chopped off its head. 

How did I get to be this many years old and not know that spring bulbs, especially narcissi, should have their blooms cut off when they begin to fade. This is to prevent them from making seed. Gardener's Question Time educated me on this point several weeks ago and now I know why my daffodils don't do as well in their second and third years. I don't know if it applies to tulips but I decapitated them as well. Just in case.

I am expecting amazing results in Spring 2022. If I live that long.

Martha took this picture of me feeding Helen, my favourite hen. Judy and Ziggy are terribly jealous of her. Martha thinks I should change Helen's name to Henlen. She came up with a plan to photograph and name all the hens. I am to start a Word document as a record. We armed ourselves with a camera each and headed into the run. Oh, she was full of ideas. Martha loves naming animals.

I urged caution. Perhaps best not to name them all at once. If we rush into it I'd only get mixed up. So far we have,

Helen or Henlen, so-called because she is blind in one eye. For I was taken with the story of Helen Keller when I was a girl.

Jacqueline - a very posh hen we got from Clint.

Sugar - named by Martha after she hatched from an egg laid by her mother Flour, a bantam long since dead. There was another hatchling she named Fudge but he sleeps with the foxes now.

The other 'rooster' who might actually be a hen or gender fluid, Martha named Artemis. Martha reads a lot.

And a pale hen is to be called Peach.

The other six chickens are to be named another day.

A Few Fine Days

  

April 22

These two photos of Bert and Martha were taken almost ten years apart. The first inside the polytunnels, the second heading in the direction of it. Both pictures were taken on a Thursday, or Sprogday as Bert likes to call it. 

Martha spent a good deal of her time on Thursday trying to persuade Bert to open an Instagram account. He was having none of it. She then tried for a Facebook account but we explained he already had one which he never wanted and has never used. I started it for him then we promptly forgot the password so we cannot even close it. Martha sees Bert as her possible backdoor to social media but it's not going to happen. 

April 23

It's been fine and dry all this week. I caught up with my seed sowing plans. I think I have enough seedlings now to fill all the space available to me. Bert bought soaker hoses which, when they are installed, will ease the summer watering burden. Eventually, he hopes to feed them from collected rainwater - a project that will entertain him for a week or so.

April 24

We had visitors. The warm weather means that we can have people around to take join in outdoor pursuits. R and I lifted stones from a hole in the orchard, hoping to create a wildlife pond. It is going to be a lot of work. That hole was dug by Sammy Gage many years ago but the pond never happened. When the grandchildren came along I put it on hold for fear they might drown in it. Both girls have now become accomplished swimmers so no need to worry now.

R discovered a bee bank in the stack garden and this old drinker buried in a pile of rubble. 

She said it would make a good bird bath so as we've been looking at it for 20 years and never thought of that, the drinker can go live in her yard.

April 25

Another fine day which I spent sowing, weeding and watering. Saw hardly any birds except for blackbirds and starlings and my inevitable gardening companion, the robin. Hannah tells me that her tree sparrows have been very busy today. they don't come into the more open parts to the yard, preferring to lurk in Hannah's overgrown back which is bird heaven.