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.
Wednesday, 14 November 2012
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......
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