I Wish I Could Be Like Monty Don

As sure as night follows day, the asparagus knife will go missing just as those succulent shoots are ready for harvesting. It spends much of its life lurking in the shed, making all who enter feel miserable about its lack of use and the associated lack of asparagus, then as soon as the cropping season is upon us, the knife goes AWOL. At this point, I ought to insert a photo of asparagus peeping enticingly through the soil, but having harvested it with a kitchen knife (again) and devoured it with the Easter egg hunt (again), you will have to make do with a quince. 

The Orchard at Le Grys Farm

I have a similar problem with seeds which should be sown in April (no, I don't eat them too). I spend the entire month of March looking at them and virtuously resisting the urge to sow them, then as soon as we hit April, all the packets of seeds go on a merry jaunt with the asparagus knife. This year, after two weeks of hide and seek, I have finally conceded defeat and am off to purchase new seeds today (along with another Easter egg hunt), after which the old seeds will leap out from behind a cushion or some other seed-concealing home furnishing, giggling wildly at my hapless attempts at finding them and squealing, “we were here all the time!”

'Stella' Cherry Blossom 

I know everything has its place, but herding it into its home can be a monumental effort involving massive quantities of self-restraint (a quality I appear to have mislaid along with the asparagus knife). I have seed containers arranged by the month à la Sarah Raven, but brand new shiny seed packets need to be read, admired, shuffled and chewed over, not filed away sensibly where I can actually find them. 

All March and no April

I wish I could be like Monty Don with his perfectly arranged shed filled with sharp secateurs and tidy trowels arranged in height order. Instead I have a pigsty (literally as well as figuratively) where the only things I can find with any regularity are roller blades and bicycles (neither of which appear to be of any use when cultivating a garden - although you may disagree).

Fritillaria meleagris in the orchard

So I have decided to give myself a Christmas present of an organised potting shed. No I haven’t won the lottery; the shed is an existing piggery and I shall attach hooks and well-positioned nails to create a home for all those myriad lost items. Then all I have to do is find the missing garden tools, hang them on their appointed brackets and use the reclaimed hide-and-seek-in-a-fluster time for actual gardening. 

Apple blossom

A few nails in a wall isn’t a major DIY project and once I start moving things into their new homes, old friends such as the long-lost loppers will hopefully come out from their hibernation behind the stack of tangled spring rakes. So why isn't this an Easter present? The truth is that I have more pressing business to attend to this weekend. There are seeds to sow; plants to plant; and a whole lot of chocolate to find.

Wishing you a very happy Easter. 


P.S. My humblest apologies if you are happily sowing your beans this weekend and humming a certain Jam song with David Watts replaced by Monty Don. It's small consolation I know, but the song is reeling round my head as I type. 

F₁ Hybrid Gardening Contortionists

Gardeners are extraordinary hybrids of the here and hence. Our feet are firmly planted in the fine tilth of today, but our brains keep galloping off to the future. My body is currently in autumn (which sounds like a comment on my age rather than the season), but my mind has been bouncing around like a lamb in spring ever since the bulb catalogues started dropping through the letter box in July, which was, of course, when the rest of my body was luxuriating in mid-summer. 

It may sound improbable when we stand up, stiff-backed after a long weeding session, but gardeners are marvellous time-flexible contortionists with futuristic heads grafted onto gardening bodies (I am now getting an image of Sarah Raven rootstock with a scion of The Jetsons). This arrangement means that we have the capacity to escape from the more challenging aspects of any season. The very notion of winter without seed catalogues makes me shiver; but if my head is in high summer, cold weather becomes more bearable.

Last winter (the one which seemed to last forever), my mind was abuzz with autumn pollinators and as a result, butterflies and bees are now enjoying Asterfest in the farmhouse garden. I have been particularly impressed with Aster amellus 'Veilchenkönigin', which is short (around 35cm), stocky and a strong violet colour; but at the moment the pollinators seem to prefer Aster amellus 'King George'.

Small Tortoiseshell on Aster amellus 'King George'

Autumn is the season of butternut squash, brambling and bulb planting. I mention butternut squash since my fondness for it may shortly be put to the test. Unless there is a catastrophic squash meltdown, we will soon be harvesting 10 socking great fruits from three 'Sweetmax' plants grown from seed sown in March. It is the first time that I have grown this variety and if it tastes good, I shall certainly sow it next year (head in spring again). 

I am unable to work out whether I am becoming more clumsy in the garden or if my manners are improving with age, but I seem to be spending an increasing amount of time apologising to plants for accidentally deadheading perfectly good flowers, or digging up bulbs. Last week, while my mind was mulling over springtime sources of nectar and pollen, I inadvertently dragged a daffodil bulb from the soil. I don’t know who looked more shocked: me; the daff; or the passers-by who overheard me begging a bulb’s pardon. Once the daff was tucked safely back in bed, I scurried, red-faced, back to the house to add Crocus tommasinianus to my plant list. Come February, the lawn will be awash with purple; bees will be blanketed in pollen; and with any luck, my blushes may finally have faded.

The hedgerow fruits are looking resplendent in the autumn sunlight and as usual the plumpest, juiciest blackberries are just out of reach. This is no bad thing because they can be enjoyed by winged wildlife and my sense of guilt about gathering berries is assuaged. Recently, I have been leaving fruit on the lower branches too, as there have been several sightings in the farm hedgerows of a rare species which migrates from its natural habitat to feast on ripe blackberries. One of my proudest photographic achievements has been capturing two of these shy creatures on camera. 

Please remember that the Lesser Spotted Onesie Brambler hunts in packs and should only be disturbed if you are in possession of a fully prepared crumble topping and custard. 

Sarah Raven, Asparagus Peas and the Seed League Table

The ground may be blanketed in deep, crisp and not particularly even snow, but our valiant post lady has battled the elements to deliver a little bundle of hope and joy: my seed order. 

The farmhouse garden after the first snowfall.

I like a fresh challenge and although it is hardly as high-octane as Sprout's latest outdoor pursuit (dog sledging), I am more than a little excited about my newest venture (growing asparagus peas).  

The asparagus pea plant (Lotus tetragonolobus) is an attractive legume with pretty red flowers and winged, edible pods. Asparagus peas are half-hardy, so I will have to wait for warmer days before I embark upon my quest to grow them. 

I suppose I could pass the time by filing my tax return, but I have more exciting things to file. By the end of the next paragraph you might conclude that I really should get out more and since snow is preventing me from leaving the farm, you are probably right. You see, I am about to file my 2013 seed collection.

I tend to follow the Sarah Raven* method at the start of the season, which deteriorates into chaos by July (this is entirely my fault - Sarah Raven is not to blame). Sarah's system involves compartments in a box labelled with the sowing months and each seed packet is filed according to the month in which that crop is to be sown.  Should successional sowing be required, the packet is simply placed back into the system a month or two after each sowing. I have modified this technique with the addition of the grey-green subsidiary receptacle (stay with me on this - it could save a seed’s life). 

Once upon a time, the storage life of seed was determined by the timing of the next clothes wash, because after sowing, any leftover seeds would be stuffed into my pockets and immediately forgotten. Since using the sub-case to transport the seeds to and from the garden, no seeds have been making it into the washing machine and although a percentage of seed will still lose its viability each year, the storage life of my seed collection, which is housed in packets or envelopes in a cool, dry place, looks a little closer to this...

Top of the league on about 6 years or more are Courgette, Cucumber and Marrow

5 years or more for Aubergine, Celeriac, Celery and Chicory

4 years or more for Broccoli, Brussels Sprout, Cabbage, Carrot, Cauliflower, Kale, Radish, Squash and Sweet Pepper

3 years or more for Beetroot, Chard, Leek, Lettuce and Tomato

2 years for Beans (Broad, French, Runner), Pea, Spinach, Swede, Sweetcorn and Turnip

and in bottom position, needing to be purchased annually, is Parsnip.

Which is all very well, but if the snow doesn't stop soon, there is a danger that my seeds will all have expired by the time I get round to sowing any of them. 

N.B. I have used a variety of sources for the approximate seed life expectancy league table, which isn't very scientific of me, but to be honest the figures differ from source to source and in any case, the league table is here to illustrate that the life expectancy of seed is significantly increased when the seeds are stored correctly and not accidentally put through a washing machine on a weekly basis. Although now I think of it, there might be some seeds which would benefit from washing powder scarification. Oh dear.

* Sarah Raven The Great Vegetable Plot  www.sarahraven.com