Optimism.. such a sunny, open encouraging sort of word, with overtones of foolishness and an inability to face reality. In the last two days I have spent more than I can afford on plants and seeds in the belief that a) I will turn a good profit over the summer and b) that the upgrade of my holding from mud patch to glorious garden will increase the value of the property and thus safeguard my old age.
Over the last six weeks I have dedicated myself to the development of a thing of beauty and a joy for ever, with the following results.
I have a small lumpy lawn, half of which is turfed (dug out of the paddock) and the other half seeded. The latter half covered in grubby horticultural fleece in defence against chickens, pheasants, pigeons etc.
There is an entire new bed dug over and ready for planting where the chickens spend their days happily hunting worms and weed seeds
Many varieties of bulbs and corms are cowering in the damp, cold soil waiting to be decimated by the next hard frost, which will probably come in mid-April.
My back is permanently aching, my knees are buggered and my hands look as if I have been digging an escape tunnel with my fingers..
Yesterday it rained, a perfect opportunity therefore, to stay in and do the housework. An opportunity I forsook in favour of trotting off to the garden centre clutching a recalcitrant debit card which shook and whimpered in my hand. Today a catalogue dropped into the waiting teeth of Freddy the barking jack russel and, before I could help myself, I had wrestled the poor, beleaguered card out of the wallet and had bashed through an order. Optimism, sounds an expensive sort of word as well, doesn't it?
Friday, 8 March 2013
Monday, 25 February 2013
Cold Weather Bulletin
As anyone who reads this blog will have gathered the weather has been brilliant over the last couple of weeks and I, therefore, have not been blogging. Blogging is a rainy day thing or, as is the case today, a 'too damn cold by half' day thing. Even I, dedicated to the beautification of the holding, draw the line at standing in an ice cold stream with frozen fingers, trying to build a dry stone wall and thus prevent 3/4 of my land from slipping into the stream and wending its watery way to Exmouth. Added to which the top of the bank is at head height, thus allowing the dogs to prance about on the edge, frightening me to death and showering clods of soil into my overalls with their little hairy paws. Thus you find me cowering by the rayburn with endless mugs of hot tea and updating the old blog.
This is, of course, displacement activity. Having spent every hour of daylight out on the land, or in the stream and, once, back on the goatshed roof over the last couple of weeks I have done absolutely nothing in the house beyond washing up a mug when I have used every clean one in the cupboard and throwing the odd load of washing into the machine. This state of affairs needs to be rectified post haste since I have a course running next weekend and the place looks like a bubonic palgue pit. What I really need is a JCB and a skip, but they are not easy to come by at short notice and thus I am reduced to hoover, broom and dust pan and brush. This morning I attacked the kitchen with what turned out to be excessive force, resulting in a two foot square area of soggy plaster dropping off the wall onto the kitchen floor. I am now faced with a round trip to B&Q and a major repair job to be completed within the week. Why does no-one believe me when I say that housework, like sport, is an unnecessary and high risk occupation? Needless to say, my immediate reaction was to make another cup of tea and turn to the laptop for comfort.
Do I have any good news, yes, I do! After several fruitless attempts during which the only thing I managed to set fire to was my fringe I finally got a bonfire going and have disposed of all the prunings, brambles, nettles and other vegetative detritus with which the holding was littered. Hoorah! I have also added a few more square feet of wall to the river bank and made progress on the 'sipping garden'. That's to say that I have spread all the well rotted manure across the designated area and have started to level off what is, optismistcally speaking, going to be the lawn. Since my land slopes both north to south and east to west achieving a level area is more than a little challenging, but I fervently believe my objective will have been achieved by the time the grass seed is due to go down in March. You gotta have a dream........
The only truly exciting thing (I live a quiet life) to have occurred since I last blogged are the dahlias. Other people may have spent St. Valentines days eating M&S meals for two and gazing into the eyes of their loved ones but I spent it sowing seeds, of the botanical variety. The sun lounge and every window sill in the house are now filled with seed trays covered in plastic bags and and most of them have got labels on them. Yesterday I noticed little green thingies pushing up through the Morrisons logo and low and behold, dahlias doing their thing! I immediately rushed round the house investigating everything else and was amazed at the amount of unbroken brown compost. completely devoid of any signs of life with which I was presented. Hey ho - if you learn anything in gardening it is patience, but it comes hard.....
And now we have snow...................................
This is, of course, displacement activity. Having spent every hour of daylight out on the land, or in the stream and, once, back on the goatshed roof over the last couple of weeks I have done absolutely nothing in the house beyond washing up a mug when I have used every clean one in the cupboard and throwing the odd load of washing into the machine. This state of affairs needs to be rectified post haste since I have a course running next weekend and the place looks like a bubonic palgue pit. What I really need is a JCB and a skip, but they are not easy to come by at short notice and thus I am reduced to hoover, broom and dust pan and brush. This morning I attacked the kitchen with what turned out to be excessive force, resulting in a two foot square area of soggy plaster dropping off the wall onto the kitchen floor. I am now faced with a round trip to B&Q and a major repair job to be completed within the week. Why does no-one believe me when I say that housework, like sport, is an unnecessary and high risk occupation? Needless to say, my immediate reaction was to make another cup of tea and turn to the laptop for comfort.
Do I have any good news, yes, I do! After several fruitless attempts during which the only thing I managed to set fire to was my fringe I finally got a bonfire going and have disposed of all the prunings, brambles, nettles and other vegetative detritus with which the holding was littered. Hoorah! I have also added a few more square feet of wall to the river bank and made progress on the 'sipping garden'. That's to say that I have spread all the well rotted manure across the designated area and have started to level off what is, optismistcally speaking, going to be the lawn. Since my land slopes both north to south and east to west achieving a level area is more than a little challenging, but I fervently believe my objective will have been achieved by the time the grass seed is due to go down in March. You gotta have a dream........
The only truly exciting thing (I live a quiet life) to have occurred since I last blogged are the dahlias. Other people may have spent St. Valentines days eating M&S meals for two and gazing into the eyes of their loved ones but I spent it sowing seeds, of the botanical variety. The sun lounge and every window sill in the house are now filled with seed trays covered in plastic bags and and most of them have got labels on them. Yesterday I noticed little green thingies pushing up through the Morrisons logo and low and behold, dahlias doing their thing! I immediately rushed round the house investigating everything else and was amazed at the amount of unbroken brown compost. completely devoid of any signs of life with which I was presented. Hey ho - if you learn anything in gardening it is patience, but it comes hard.....
And now we have snow...................................
Tuesday, 5 February 2013
Back and Blogging!
OK, so I am never going to be the world's most prolific blogger. I thought I was going great guns right up until December when the world turned upside down (you probably noticed) and other things forced themselves upon my attention. This state of affairs, combined with rain, hail, snow, more rain, more hail and, oh yes, more snow not only drained me of all desire to write but there was nothing to write about. A daily blog reading 'too wet, too cold, too depressing to step outside' being an unlikely way of inspiring and exciting my readers, I just didn't bother....
However, released from other time consuming activities I was suddenly blessed with three days of good weather! No really, would I lie to you? Of course other people in the area were equally blessed, but this was MY good weather and I was going to bloody well enjoy it. Donning overalls, 8 pairs of socks and the wellies I was out in the garden on day one by 9am and surveyed the destruction brought about by what is apparently being referred to (at least on Country File) as the eighteen month winter. (They obviously forgot about the four days in July when my grandchildren played at the weir every day, we picnicked on the river bank and I swam in the Exe - for about 25 seconds, but I digress.)
The smallholding course season will start very soon, I already have bookings and I am standing in the 'garden' looking at about an acre of mud, collapsed fences, pile of unspread muck and a polytunnel which has taken on a suspiciously green tinge. Things must be done, accomplishments accomplished, tasks seen too and renovations put in train.
I started with what we will call the goat shed hedge. The term hedge in this instance is meant merely to indicate a certain linearity running in parallel with the goat shed and a tendency towards green bushiness in the summer. Beyond that its resemblance to the usually understood definition of a hedge falters, nay fails.
As I contemplated this monstrosity the bulb maniac from next door appeared, clutching what looked suspiciously like another bag of bulbs in one hand and the lead of a small, wet and exhausted dog. For a few seconds I imagined him trying to train her to actually plant the bulbs for him, but dismissed the idea immediately and got one with the more important task of borrowing things. The secret of holding on by your finger tips in smallholding is to never buy anything that you can borrow off your more sensible, finiancially astute and well equipped friends. What I wanted from the sainted Keith on this occasion were his loppers. Keith, who is the very sole of generosity and not at all competitive in the 'chopping bits off things' arena handed over the loppers without demur and I was off!
In the normal run of things having a bit of a go at a hedge, even such a sad effort as my own, requires walking across to the blighted thing and getting going with the old loppers and secateurs. Fairly straightforward. But this is me, my hedge and my smallholding so what are the chances it was ever going to be simple. As stated my hedge runs parallel with the goat shed, but the goat shed is on a sort of terrace. In front of the shed is a 'path' on the other side of which there is a fence. Beyond the fence is about 3 feet of steeply sloping ground to which the 'hedge' clings like grim death and beyond that is a further drop of between five and two feet, depending where you happen to be.
I spent the next two hours hacking and lopping and snipping at a variety of bushes including elder, dog rose and remarkably, escallonia. I know it was escallonia because there were three of four tiny, tendril like branches with brave little leaves clinging to them. The rest of it was three inch thick trunk, knarled and knotted and apparently devoid of life. I didn't so much prune it as decapitate it, tough love being the only option that presented itself.
Other people don't have to tie themselves to a fence in order to prevent themselves from plunging to their deaths while hedge trimming. Another thing other people don't have to do is spend hours removing great lengths of pig and chicken wire from the inner recesses of their hedges, yes the pig wire fiend had struck again. I don't know which of the previous owners of this property had such an obessession with pig wire which is probably just as well. In this instance the wire was threaded through the bushes as in the manner of fairy lights in the trees lining the Champs Elysees, but not as attractive. The wire was not secured to any posts or at either end, it just sort of meandered along pointlessly and flopped about in an aimless manner. Not one length of pig wire of course, but two, and reinforced with an equally ineffectual chicken wire, the latter having in many places been encompassed within the wood of the bushes themselves. How many people have to prune their hedges with wire cutters for heaven's sake!
By the end of the day I was gazing proudly on a weaving line of stumps, a tangle of wire and a 7 ft high pile of cuttings which I can't burn because, guess what, today it has rained and hailed and snowed. Which is why I am sitting here writing a blog......
However, released from other time consuming activities I was suddenly blessed with three days of good weather! No really, would I lie to you? Of course other people in the area were equally blessed, but this was MY good weather and I was going to bloody well enjoy it. Donning overalls, 8 pairs of socks and the wellies I was out in the garden on day one by 9am and surveyed the destruction brought about by what is apparently being referred to (at least on Country File) as the eighteen month winter. (They obviously forgot about the four days in July when my grandchildren played at the weir every day, we picnicked on the river bank and I swam in the Exe - for about 25 seconds, but I digress.)
The smallholding course season will start very soon, I already have bookings and I am standing in the 'garden' looking at about an acre of mud, collapsed fences, pile of unspread muck and a polytunnel which has taken on a suspiciously green tinge. Things must be done, accomplishments accomplished, tasks seen too and renovations put in train.
I started with what we will call the goat shed hedge. The term hedge in this instance is meant merely to indicate a certain linearity running in parallel with the goat shed and a tendency towards green bushiness in the summer. Beyond that its resemblance to the usually understood definition of a hedge falters, nay fails.
As I contemplated this monstrosity the bulb maniac from next door appeared, clutching what looked suspiciously like another bag of bulbs in one hand and the lead of a small, wet and exhausted dog. For a few seconds I imagined him trying to train her to actually plant the bulbs for him, but dismissed the idea immediately and got one with the more important task of borrowing things. The secret of holding on by your finger tips in smallholding is to never buy anything that you can borrow off your more sensible, finiancially astute and well equipped friends. What I wanted from the sainted Keith on this occasion were his loppers. Keith, who is the very sole of generosity and not at all competitive in the 'chopping bits off things' arena handed over the loppers without demur and I was off!
In the normal run of things having a bit of a go at a hedge, even such a sad effort as my own, requires walking across to the blighted thing and getting going with the old loppers and secateurs. Fairly straightforward. But this is me, my hedge and my smallholding so what are the chances it was ever going to be simple. As stated my hedge runs parallel with the goat shed, but the goat shed is on a sort of terrace. In front of the shed is a 'path' on the other side of which there is a fence. Beyond the fence is about 3 feet of steeply sloping ground to which the 'hedge' clings like grim death and beyond that is a further drop of between five and two feet, depending where you happen to be.
I spent the next two hours hacking and lopping and snipping at a variety of bushes including elder, dog rose and remarkably, escallonia. I know it was escallonia because there were three of four tiny, tendril like branches with brave little leaves clinging to them. The rest of it was three inch thick trunk, knarled and knotted and apparently devoid of life. I didn't so much prune it as decapitate it, tough love being the only option that presented itself.
Other people don't have to tie themselves to a fence in order to prevent themselves from plunging to their deaths while hedge trimming. Another thing other people don't have to do is spend hours removing great lengths of pig and chicken wire from the inner recesses of their hedges, yes the pig wire fiend had struck again. I don't know which of the previous owners of this property had such an obessession with pig wire which is probably just as well. In this instance the wire was threaded through the bushes as in the manner of fairy lights in the trees lining the Champs Elysees, but not as attractive. The wire was not secured to any posts or at either end, it just sort of meandered along pointlessly and flopped about in an aimless manner. Not one length of pig wire of course, but two, and reinforced with an equally ineffectual chicken wire, the latter having in many places been encompassed within the wood of the bushes themselves. How many people have to prune their hedges with wire cutters for heaven's sake!
By the end of the day I was gazing proudly on a weaving line of stumps, a tangle of wire and a 7 ft high pile of cuttings which I can't burn because, guess what, today it has rained and hailed and snowed. Which is why I am sitting here writing a blog......
Wednesday, 14 November 2012
Revenge of the Pepper God
Yesterday I committed murder, although I prefer to think of it as mercy killing. What, you are probably asking yourself, has caused this vile act in a normally well balanced woman with a deep loathing of violence? Allow me to elucidate..... There is a repellent lean-to building at the back of the house which I laughingly call the 'sun lounge'. There is no room in which to lounge at the moment and sun is a little sporadic but accuracy has never been my forté. Currently the 'sun lounge' is serving as a greenhouse and is full to over flowing with pelargoniums, cuttings and assorted trays with things sown in them which I have forgotten to label, but which, I am confident, will become glorious plants come spring. In order to make room for the next wave of optimistic planting, sowing and general propagation, some of the more established plants needed to be transferred to the polytunnel.
First to go were the pots of lily bulbs which are destined to form the backbone of my new cut flower empire. I slipped and slid up the mud slide to the polytunnel, the contents of which I viewed with a jaundiced eye. Admittedly the precocious sweet peas were looking healthy and will probably be flowering sometime in mid-January and dead by the end of February, but everything else was pretty vile. The last of the tomatoes, small green and showing large areas of brown slushiness, were taking up one entire side of the tunnel and half of the other side contained peppers. Well, when I say peppers I mean small, limp plants which have just started to come into flower. Let's face it, any pepper plant coming into flower in mid-November is unlikely to produce luscious fruit in sub-zero temperatures and an average of 9 hours light a day. Down at the bottom of the mud slide precious pots and tray were awaiting relocation and before me were these poor brave little plants which were fighting a courageous battle against late sowing, late planting out, low temperatures and no sunshine. They had made little flowers for gods sake, they were struggling against all odds to survive. They deserved respect, admiration, watering and cosseting. So I tore them up by the roots and hurled them onto the compost heap. What sort of person am I?
If you are shocked by my brutality you will be comforted to know that vengeance was swift and comprehensive. I want back to the sun lounge and collected two trays of little terracotts pots which I had spent an hour carefully planting with dwarf iris and little tete a tete daffodils. Halfway up the garden my wellies let me down and I measured my length in the mud. Pots flew in all directions and as the inevitable Exmoor rain beat down upon my bruised and battered body I crawled about in the gloop rescuing tiny bulbs. As I trudged disconsolately back to the sun lounge I passed the compost heap, from which, I swear came ghostly laughter.
First to go were the pots of lily bulbs which are destined to form the backbone of my new cut flower empire. I slipped and slid up the mud slide to the polytunnel, the contents of which I viewed with a jaundiced eye. Admittedly the precocious sweet peas were looking healthy and will probably be flowering sometime in mid-January and dead by the end of February, but everything else was pretty vile. The last of the tomatoes, small green and showing large areas of brown slushiness, were taking up one entire side of the tunnel and half of the other side contained peppers. Well, when I say peppers I mean small, limp plants which have just started to come into flower. Let's face it, any pepper plant coming into flower in mid-November is unlikely to produce luscious fruit in sub-zero temperatures and an average of 9 hours light a day. Down at the bottom of the mud slide precious pots and tray were awaiting relocation and before me were these poor brave little plants which were fighting a courageous battle against late sowing, late planting out, low temperatures and no sunshine. They had made little flowers for gods sake, they were struggling against all odds to survive. They deserved respect, admiration, watering and cosseting. So I tore them up by the roots and hurled them onto the compost heap. What sort of person am I?
If you are shocked by my brutality you will be comforted to know that vengeance was swift and comprehensive. I want back to the sun lounge and collected two trays of little terracotts pots which I had spent an hour carefully planting with dwarf iris and little tete a tete daffodils. Halfway up the garden my wellies let me down and I measured my length in the mud. Pots flew in all directions and as the inevitable Exmoor rain beat down upon my bruised and battered body I crawled about in the gloop rescuing tiny bulbs. As I trudged disconsolately back to the sun lounge I passed the compost heap, from which, I swear came ghostly laughter.
Friday, 9 November 2012
The Bulb Wars
Readers of this blog probably imagine me living in a sort of bucolic (if somewhat damp) paradise peopled by gentle country folk raising pints in the pub and dancing picturesquely(?) around a maypole. Well let me tell you, out here in Exmoor it is 'gardening red in tooth and claw'. Oh yes. Here I am trying to develop another little revenue stream by dint of producing cut flowers and potted plants for next years market and suddenly it's The Bulb Wars! ]
The outbreak of hostilities was quiet and understated at the beginning. Propped up against the bar on 'my stool' I happened to mention to Keith (friend, neighbour and landlord of hostelry next door) that I had spent an entire day planting bulbs of various descriptions. He commiserated with the physical hardship I had suffered and mentioned that he was planning to plant a few of his own. He then refilled my glass and we moved onto other things.
Over the following days and weeks I noticed increasing numbers of bulbs in their little net bags accumulating at the back of the pub. On my occasional visits (must support local business after all) Keith would casually enquire as to how many bulbs I had now planted. On hearing my response was it only in my imagination that a tiny cloud flitted across his usually sunny brow? More bags of bulbs appeared at the back door of the pub. Slowly it dawned on me that every time there was a break in the clouds and I rushed out to shove another few bulbs into the cold and sodden ground... there he was, bulb planter in hand. So! That's the way of it, is it? Young Keith has issued a challenge which cannot go ignored!
This morning I planted allium and some of those gorgeous little gladioli. Naturally my nemasis was out there too. There was a brief lull in activity whilst we pontificated on the preponderance of rocks as opposed to soil around here but then we got back to the serious business of outdoing each other. I am glad to say he went in long before me. His excuse, presumably, that he has a pub to run. He is, quite obviously, overconfident, possibly believing that the depradations wrought by my dogs and chickens will leave him victorious come spring. Foolish boy, does he not realise the fire power of goat pooh?
Oh yes, he may have fenced in chickens and a dog free zone,but I have mountains of well rotted manure which oozes nutrients, provides organic matter to a soil composed mostly of rock of varying sizes and generally does good work in the growing department. Come spring I confidently predict a garden bursting with colour and scent, gladdening the eye and possible making a tiny contribution to the holding finances.
Of course, there is still the significant lack of sunshine and the overabundance of precipitation to contend with, but that applies to both sides of the fence..... Just wait until spring young Keith, as one of my birthday cards said, 'Age and Treachery will triumph over Youth and Skill!'
The outbreak of hostilities was quiet and understated at the beginning. Propped up against the bar on 'my stool' I happened to mention to Keith (friend, neighbour and landlord of hostelry next door) that I had spent an entire day planting bulbs of various descriptions. He commiserated with the physical hardship I had suffered and mentioned that he was planning to plant a few of his own. He then refilled my glass and we moved onto other things.
Over the following days and weeks I noticed increasing numbers of bulbs in their little net bags accumulating at the back of the pub. On my occasional visits (must support local business after all) Keith would casually enquire as to how many bulbs I had now planted. On hearing my response was it only in my imagination that a tiny cloud flitted across his usually sunny brow? More bags of bulbs appeared at the back door of the pub. Slowly it dawned on me that every time there was a break in the clouds and I rushed out to shove another few bulbs into the cold and sodden ground... there he was, bulb planter in hand. So! That's the way of it, is it? Young Keith has issued a challenge which cannot go ignored!
This morning I planted allium and some of those gorgeous little gladioli. Naturally my nemasis was out there too. There was a brief lull in activity whilst we pontificated on the preponderance of rocks as opposed to soil around here but then we got back to the serious business of outdoing each other. I am glad to say he went in long before me. His excuse, presumably, that he has a pub to run. He is, quite obviously, overconfident, possibly believing that the depradations wrought by my dogs and chickens will leave him victorious come spring. Foolish boy, does he not realise the fire power of goat pooh?
Oh yes, he may have fenced in chickens and a dog free zone,but I have mountains of well rotted manure which oozes nutrients, provides organic matter to a soil composed mostly of rock of varying sizes and generally does good work in the growing department. Come spring I confidently predict a garden bursting with colour and scent, gladdening the eye and possible making a tiny contribution to the holding finances.
Of course, there is still the significant lack of sunshine and the overabundance of precipitation to contend with, but that applies to both sides of the fence..... Just wait until spring young Keith, as one of my birthday cards said, 'Age and Treachery will triumph over Youth and Skill!'
Wednesday, 7 November 2012
Dancing on the Goat Shed Roof
Yesterday morning the sun shone. No, really, it did. To be honest I should have stayed in the house making costumes for small woodland folk,stars of 'a play what I wrote' for the local kids drama group. However, abandoning all sense of responsibility towards the youth of today, I donned grubby overalls and ridiculous Nordic hat with plaits and went out to play in the sunshine.
At some point over the summer friend and pub landlord Keith provided me with a very large tarpaulin which I threw somewhat unceremoniously over the roof of the goatshed. This meant that my poor girls didn't have to spend half the night shuffling around trying to find a dry spot in which to sleep. However, I did the whole thing so badly that it became extraordinarily problematical just trying to get the stable doors closed at night and on windy days I could here the damn thing flapping ominously. I had visions of the entire thing taking wing and my roof along with it. So yesterday, inspired by the unusual brightness of the sky and lack of precipitation I decided to resolve the issue.
It must have provided considerable entertainment for the rest of the village. Middle aged woman in overalls and silly hat trudges up to the goat shed carrying step ladder. Middle aged woman then props step ladder against the door of the milking parlour, clambers up step ladder and wriggles onto the roof of said milking parlour. Spinning on her belly like a geriatric break dancer she then reaches down and drags step ladder up behind her. There follows an hour of traipsing across a leaf strewn(and therefore slippery) roof, tugging and dragging a slimy and very heaving tarpaulin back and forth in endless tiny increments. Every now and then this demented figure would disappear down behind the goat shed from whence would issue screams, groans and filthy language as she slipped and slid on 7 years of leaf mulch laid over a nearly vertical slate cliff.
I am pleased to report that my efforts were successful and the tarpaulin is now secured and access to the goat shed unimpeded by folds of multicoloured canvas. Only one person has been courageous enough to comment on yesterdays antics, politely enquiring as to whether or not I planned to make a habit of dancing on the goat shed roof. I would like to be able to say that my retort was both witty and instantaneous. It wasn't. But it was short.
Today I plan to keep a low profile and plant yet more damn bulbs before they actually start to flower......
At some point over the summer friend and pub landlord Keith provided me with a very large tarpaulin which I threw somewhat unceremoniously over the roof of the goatshed. This meant that my poor girls didn't have to spend half the night shuffling around trying to find a dry spot in which to sleep. However, I did the whole thing so badly that it became extraordinarily problematical just trying to get the stable doors closed at night and on windy days I could here the damn thing flapping ominously. I had visions of the entire thing taking wing and my roof along with it. So yesterday, inspired by the unusual brightness of the sky and lack of precipitation I decided to resolve the issue.
It must have provided considerable entertainment for the rest of the village. Middle aged woman in overalls and silly hat trudges up to the goat shed carrying step ladder. Middle aged woman then props step ladder against the door of the milking parlour, clambers up step ladder and wriggles onto the roof of said milking parlour. Spinning on her belly like a geriatric break dancer she then reaches down and drags step ladder up behind her. There follows an hour of traipsing across a leaf strewn(and therefore slippery) roof, tugging and dragging a slimy and very heaving tarpaulin back and forth in endless tiny increments. Every now and then this demented figure would disappear down behind the goat shed from whence would issue screams, groans and filthy language as she slipped and slid on 7 years of leaf mulch laid over a nearly vertical slate cliff.
I am pleased to report that my efforts were successful and the tarpaulin is now secured and access to the goat shed unimpeded by folds of multicoloured canvas. Only one person has been courageous enough to comment on yesterdays antics, politely enquiring as to whether or not I planned to make a habit of dancing on the goat shed roof. I would like to be able to say that my retort was both witty and instantaneous. It wasn't. But it was short.
Today I plan to keep a low profile and plant yet more damn bulbs before they actually start to flower......
Friday, 19 October 2012
Heavy Weather
Greetings,
I would like to be able to update you on all the fascinating things that have been happening on the holding since I last blogged (is that even the correct word?) however, I can't. Mostly this week it has been raining. A lot. I hope the myriads of daffodil, iris and tulip bulbs I placed gently into the earth before the skies opened have not been consigned to a watery grave.
Back in the sun lounge things are sprouting out all over. The sweet peas have already germinated and I have been obliged to move them out to the polytunnel in order to slow the little blighters down. This almost inevitably means that I have laid on an interesting new addition to the menu for the army of slugs currently resident on the holding. On the basis that the hedgepigs can't get into the polytunnel I have been throwing slug pellets around like confetti. Fingers crossed everyone..,...
No picture this time as an acre of mud has little to recommend it as artwork.
I would like to be able to update you on all the fascinating things that have been happening on the holding since I last blogged (is that even the correct word?) however, I can't. Mostly this week it has been raining. A lot. I hope the myriads of daffodil, iris and tulip bulbs I placed gently into the earth before the skies opened have not been consigned to a watery grave.
Back in the sun lounge things are sprouting out all over. The sweet peas have already germinated and I have been obliged to move them out to the polytunnel in order to slow the little blighters down. This almost inevitably means that I have laid on an interesting new addition to the menu for the army of slugs currently resident on the holding. On the basis that the hedgepigs can't get into the polytunnel I have been throwing slug pellets around like confetti. Fingers crossed everyone..,...
No picture this time as an acre of mud has little to recommend it as artwork.
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