Medals For Everyone

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Flower show, Olympics

It’s the annual flower show. I’m pleased to report huge success for the family in all of the events in which we competed. I won the high dive for getting hold of the best three Agapanthus (Nile lily) “Midnight Dream”, which I combined with judo in throwing off my competitors in order to achieve the top result. Early in the last century they used to give awards for Olympic flower arranging, at which I would hope to be a shoo-in. Now that this has been replaced by more physical pursuits, I had to be content with the hundred metres sprint for prime specimens of pretty pots full of Hordeum jubatum (squirrel tail grass) and Eragrostis (love grass).

Eucomis bicolour (pineapple flower)

Cineraria proved to be a worthy competitor. With her eyes on the prize, she winnowed out plants deemed unsuitable for class, size or being just the wrong shade of pink. She treated her fellow competitors with courtesy and good sportsmanship at all times, unless they made a grab for something upon which she had set her heart. Thereafter they had to protect their vital organs with bags, or by throwing their infants into peril. When I had declared myself content with my haul, she found a hidden treasure trove of Sempervivums (houseleek). The vendor was keen to point out the rarity, beauty and desirability of his produce but was helpless in the dazzle of my daughter’s smile, as she haggled the price to nearly nothing. Having whittled the cost down to a pittance, he was then forced to sell to me at the same, for nothing more than a hopeful grin.

Antirrhinum “White Giant” (snapdragon)

I had promised my spouse that I didn’t want to purchase anything of consequence but reneged once I set eyes on the stall stuffed with plants for shade. Other visitors were treated to a glimpse of my battling spirit as I threw myself into the fray, determined to take possession of an elegant Woodwardia (chain fern) which will light up a gloomy corner. Once I was on track, other ferns were acquired, then some hardy perennials, as well as a few cacti. The long distance events were undertaken with weary feet and aching wallets, to view the show gardens. As usual, these were a paean to the hard landscapers’ art, with endless vistas of sandstone and gravel, with a few bits of greenery shoehorned in between the hot tubs and the outdoor pizza ovens.

Dinner plate Dahlia

The sun beamed down on a fabulous day scented with roses, sweet peas and hot doughnuts crusted with sugar. The large tents were packed with exhibits and people perfumed with sun tan oil, rather than damp coats smelling of wet wool. None of the bulbs managed to blow my skirt up, so the baton was passed to Attila. He went berserk and completed the triathlon by choosing bags full of Alliums, lilies and Iris. We staggered back to the car with my husband trailing in the rear, tired, thirsty and with an empty purse but proving his worth by bringing home the gold in the weightlifting.

In The Stars

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deadheading, staking, weather

Who said that one swallow doesn’t make a summer? Clearly they didn’t live in Britain. When they were here on their holidays, the Romans called this the land of permanent mist. They were obviously used to a more gentle climate at home; witness their wardrobe, being wearers of togas, short tunics and hob-nailed sandals. After a few months on the Scottish border building Hadrian’s Wall, I imagine that they accessorised with some sturdy underwear. Probably the most cruel and psychotic of all of their emperors was Gaius Caesar Augustus Germanicus. His nickname, Caligula, translates as Bootykins after the tiny shoes (caligae) he wore as a kid. This made me smirk. You need a sense of humour when living under endlessly gloomy skies. Englishmen invented galoshes and Wellington boots, from sheer necessity, no doubt. Everyone else sniggers at us, for our obsession with umbrellas and robust waterproof coats.

Rosa “Sally Holmes”

This week we have been told to expect the best Perseid meteor shower of the decade, owing to clumps of celestial scrot being thrown off comet Tempel-Tuttle. Due to heavy banks of cloud, I’ve not seen a single sparkle. Most of the planets are currently strung across the night sky like a rope of beads. The dense overcast refuses to part for this stargazer. That lying bunch of beasts who call themselves meteorologists have been promising us a Spanish plume of Mediterranean heat for months. It’s always going to arrive next week, so clearly they are proponents of “jam tomorrow”. I have been dodging the drizzle, showers and torrential rain to stake plants suffering from the wind. Bamboo sticks can be dangerous, so I protect eyeballs in the vicinity with terracotta spheres glued on top of the canes. Unfortunately these can deliver a considerable rap to the skull of an incautious weeder. This leads to occasional apologies called out to my neighbours who may be sprawled on loungers, soaking up any brief moment of sunshine along with my dirty language.

Passiflora “White Lightning” in the conservatory

I use myself as a mobile string dispenser by stuffing the cob of twine down my t-shirt and doling out through the neck. Note that this is not around the throat, or progress may be halted with a noise like a throttling goat and in extreme cases, may end in a blow to the epiglottis from the emerging tightly wound, solidly packed cord. Beware of trailing string or loose clothing which may catch in fence posts, gate latches or carelessly discarded gardening tools. I’ve tried all of them and wouldn’t care to choose my favourite. I have been deadheading like a demon. Everything benefits from the removal of spent blooms, unless you are shooting for fruit, seeds or decorative seedheads. Dahlias and roses profit from being cut back to a junction, which will encourage more flowers.

Dahlia “Tsuki Yori No Shisha”

If you have the time, wander around the garden most days, snipping tired blossom and weather damaged stems. Truss up anything that will suffer in the next gale or downpour. Pay close attention and see what really needs a little care. After your inspection and hopefully injury free intervention put the scissors away, shut the shed door and walk around again. It looks beautiful, well done.

The Good, The Bug And The Ugly

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Garden wildlife

In my youth I observed that all men of a certain age kept Dahlias. A prerequisite of cultivation seemed to be a supporting bamboo cane with a straw stuffed yoghurt pot on top. The ornament had a double purpose, to protect eyeballs and other tender parts from a poke with the stick and to trap earwigs for disposal. The beasts munch holes in petals, something that a serious gardener, particularly male, would never countenance. Now we know that they consume aphids as well as floral objects of obsession; it’s your garden, you choose.

Ipomoea (morning glory)

Many insects are useful. Bees are amiable but dim, pollinating flowers for fruit and seed production, whilst collecting the wherewithal to make honey. Wasps are spiteful and full of spleen. They are six legged Mafiosi, being cunning, sting with little or no provocation and exist mainly to ruin picnics. Woodlice are actually crustaceans and feed on rotting matter, having no effect on growing plants. They roll into balls when disturbed, leading to a colloquial name of pill bug. Chiggy pig is another moniker; I have no idea what that means. Creepy crawlies are at the base of the food chain, so encouraging them means more wildlife in general and birds in particular. I’ve installed a rather bijou creature hotel on a sunny wall, for beneficial insects only. I don’t yet know how I’ll insist on good buggery but time will tell. Perhaps the wasps will act as sharp suited enforcers.

Lathyrus latifolius “White Pearl” (perennial sweet pea) & Daucus carota (wild carrot)

I don’t spray for green/black/white fly, since toxic chemicals will kill bees and butterflies and numbers of these are declining drastically. I blast undesirables with the hose and if maddened beyond reason, will squash them in my fingers. At all stages of their life cycle, ladybirds eat aphids as if the former were emerging from a stringent twelve month diet. Prevalent in pots, vine weevils are a root consuming curse which I drown in a vile yellow drench. Dragonflies hawk around the pond at twilight, hoovering up midges, which saves me from doing the job. Flies are designed to put you off your sandwich if they get close enough. They lay eggs that hatch into maggots, which are nature’s recyclers. I work hard at being grateful. Anything with eight legs or more is there to make the insects feel a)inadequate and b)jealous. Slugs and snails are left gnashing their teeth in impotent, silent rage.

Atriplex hortensis (red orache)

Butterflies and moths are prima donnas; they flicker over the blossoms on trembling, painted wings. They emerge from the somewhat gross vehicle of a caterpillar to sip nectar and enchant humans of every age. Saw fly grubs look as if they will transform into something beautiful, so you allow them to annihilate your currant and gooseberry leaves, until a little research proves them worthy of slaughter. Crane flies or daddy long legs live in lawns as larvae known as leather jackets; these eat grass roots and can cause substantial damage. The destruction is entirely worth bearing if you have cats, as the surfacing adults may make your normally torpid moggy dance like Nureyev, as he tries to snatch a fluttering bug from the shimmering August air.

Paradise Lost

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Disappointment

Jack the Buddhist says that I am coming back as a lily beetle, doomed to be plucked from a fragrant bloom and stamped upon with a shrill cry of jubilation. This will keep happening with every incarnation, until I’ve learned my lesson. I would leave the pretty red insects in peace but they don’t share the bounty. If permitted to browse undisturbed, they will eat foliage, flowers, stem and bulb, then plaster the scrabby remains with larvae, which hide in a jacket of their own excrement. I strive to catch them when they are bonking; you get two at once and I like to think that they wing their way to the afterlife as happy as possible in the circumstances.

Lantana (shrub verbena) in the conservatory

I’m already languishing in hell. The seedlings of Dierama pulcherrimum (angel’s fishing rod) “Blackbird” all germinated last year. My heart was full of lust and plans to put masses of the spectacular dark beauty all over the garden. I kept the trays full of promise warm all winter and then put them in the cold frame, ready to spring into action. Two strands of green have emerged and after six months of loving care, sadly I have to conclude that these are nothing but grass. Daucus carota (Queen Anne’s lace) “Purple Kisses” is flowering already without promised colour, in white umbels which are easily confused with ground elder. The difference is that they don’t put up a fight when ripped from the soil in error. The perfect time for anointing lawns with selective weed killer never arrives. The earth is too wet or dry, there’s too much sunshine or it’s raining, never just right.

Vitis, outdoor grapes

Last year, Acanthus mollis (bear’s breeches) was fabulous. Immediately before the front door, it made a huge clump of towering spires of elegant white, above classical burgeoning greenery. This year has seen two wonky, flea bitten flower spikes, sprouting from mildewed, brown pocked, snail sucked leaves. I am resolved to dig it out, resiting against the back wall and replacing it with Heuchera (coral flower) “Obsidian”, Hemerocallis (day lily) “Indigo” or “Midnight Magic” and other notably mysterious plants. This will form a wonderful contrast to the Eryngiums (sea holly) which are currently being swamped and will give them enough space to actually survive. What a strange feeling; regret mixed with celebration, but I’ve made up my mind and now I need a strong hand with a shovel, to make my dreams a heavenly reality.

In the Dahlia bed

Attila has been watching cricket. He twitches at a missed catch, wriggles at each LBW and skips for every six. He stares at the Formula 1 and shouts when Mercedes win, which they do, always. Football is about to start. He’s pinned his faith on his team in a triumph of hope over expectation. I’m trying to get him to see gardening as an ichor dripping contact sport. If I send him into the borders to kill dandelions, sometimes I end up with a smoking two foot wide trench leading to a vast hole of destruction. He’s supposed to treat the weeds as the opposition, not my precious perennials. I try to inspire him by rewarding a good job with a cold beer delivered to his next match. He has put in some faultless work of late; you can tell, because the fridge is just about empty.