Swishing for Gardeners and a Garlic Bath

A pillar of the community recently invited me to a swishing party. Not wishing to admit that I was ignorant to the ways of swishers, I mumbled something about diaries and hurried home for a restorative cup of tea and a spot of research. 

Phlox divaricata 'Clouds of Perfume' in the farmhouse garden* 

Although a swishing party sounds like a questionable form of entertainment for a pillar of the community, it is in fact a social event where guests swap clothes they no longer wear. Clearly this is an alien concept for someone who possesses two categories of clothes: Going Out and Gardening. In my wardrobe, all new clothes join the first category until I ruin them by accidentally wearing them to garden, after which they naturally transfer to the Gardening category, where they reside until they disintegrate completely. Everything gets worn (all at once if it's cold enough).

Gardeners have been swapping seeds, plants and produce for centuries, so we might argue that we already have our own form of swishing. Reusing and recycling are at the heart of much of what we do and waste products become valuable resources such as compost, well-rotted manure and leafmould. 

As a gardener who likes to uphold the traditions of reusing and recycling, I was delighted to stumble upon this marvellous vat of history lurking in our redundant piggeries.

If you think it looks like three-hundred-year-old dung porridge, you may be right, for this is daub; a delightful combination of whatever happened to be available at the time, like clay, straw, hair and dung. In our seventeenth-century barn, some daub was crumbling beyond repair, so it was soaked in water for a few days, then mixed to a paste with an oversized whisk, before being reapplied to the walls. The builder who stewed the daub assures me that he does the cooking at home. Looking at his brilliant handiwork, I think he should branch out into icing cakes. 

When we were clearing out the barn, we found an old tin bath and with it, the answer to a niggling problem. A combination of poor weather and heavy soil had been conspiring against my ability to grow garlic until the discovery of the bath. Feeling confident that we would be installing twenty-first-century plumbing in the barn, I pierced drainage holes in the bath and spring-planted a hardneck garlic called 'Edenrose'.  

So far, the garlic seems happy - or at least happier than it would have been in our cold, heavy soil. I just hope that I am not being over-optimistic about the plumbing, although if push comes to shove (and only once the garlic has been harvested), I can suspend the pierced bath from a beam and call it a shower. 


* Phlox divaricata 'Clouds of Perfume' has nothing to do with researching swishing, beyond the fact that I stopped to enjoy its scent en route to my laptop. It's a small Phlox - just 30cm high; pollinating insects love it; and it is flowering its socks off in the farmhouse garden at the moment.

Slug Holiday

Here is a photo of someone you might recognise. We met on holiday in Italy - well, I was on holiday, I neglected to enquire whether we were both taking a breather from our usual lives. Please note that it is not my hand in the photo - I scream like a banshee when I accidentally touch a slug, so I would never knowingly risk a close encounter with one. Indeed, it is highly probable that I took this photo using a zoom lens, thereby creating the maximum distance between me and the subject of my photograph.

Whilst I am an expert on slug avoidance tactics, I am not expert on slugs, so I cannot comment on whether this is an invasive killer slug of the type found in Norfolk. 

http://www.edp24.co.uk/news/invasive_killer_slug_found_outside_norwich_1_1790374

We don't have many slugs in our garden. I suspect that they may be sensitive to noise and would prefer not to reside or dine in the gardens of screaming banshees. Of course, one day (in my nightmares), some clever slug will invent ear defenders and none of my plants will be safe. Until then, I shall continue to scream in my own garden and those belonging to my clients (you might view this as unprofessional; I prefer to view it as a service to those discerning clients requiring slug-free gardens). 

Today I am linking to http://www.catharinehoward.co.uk . Catharine Howard has initiated a  new meme called Terrified Tuesday, whereby we are invited to post a photo which is vaguely disquieting. I am not entirely convinced that the slug photo fits the bill - it is more downright scary than vaguely disquieting and in any case, like many of you, I am terrified of slugs every day of the week, not just on a Tuesday. 

I was about to type "why not pop over to Catharine's to see something vaguely disquieting?" but that doesn't sound right at all. 

Have a good week!

Christopher Columbus meets Walt Disney in the Orchard

There is a curious pattern of behaviour prevalent among gardeners whereby we garden for relaxation, yet we are incapable of sitting down and relaxing in our gardens because some little task will catch our attention and before we know it, we are gardening again. In our house it is known as Gardeners' Relaxation Aversion Syndrome (GRAS). 

Christopher Columbus took the vital first step towards remedying GRAS in Europe by introducing the hammock. When lolling in a hammock, the gardener's eyes are diverted skywards and away from all those little gardening tasks and should a weed be detected, the effort of exiting a hammock in haste is enough to subdue any desire to spring into action. The indigenous people of Middle and South America called the hammock the “cradle of the gods”; I like to think of it as the “cradle of the gardener”. 

A hammock with a view in Tuscany

My own research, involving rigorous relaxation in hammocks and more than a few extremely pleasant garden visits, suggests that the most effective treatment for GRAS involves a combination of hammock and orchard, so in the name of research (along with a passion for growing food and a love of orchards), I have been planting more fruit trees. 

Last year I popped a medlar in the farmhouse garden. I did this because in the seventeenth century, Culpeper credited the medlar with "making joyful mothers". It's a pretty enough thing, but I can't say there has been a significant increase in maternal joy in our house. Perhaps that will change when it fruits. To add to the medlar, we now have apples, pears, plums, gages, cherries, mulberries and quince in the orchard. Anyone might think that Walt Disney was directing the planting, which was overseen by a wise owl

with a pheasant surveying posts

and Sprout doing the fetching and carrying....(and no, we didn’t whistle while we worked). 

Planting trees is an investment in the future. These saplings are unlikely to support fruit for a year or two, let alone a hammock cradling a chocoholic welly-shod gardener, so I am going to plant a couple of sturdy, highly secured posts adorned with honeysuckle to support my cradle. Of course, the probability of finding my dream cradling device - the heated hammock - is about the same as the likelihood of the pheasant fitting on the seed feeder, but we shall both remain optimistic.

Come spring, I will lie in my hammock in an orchard filled with bird song and apple blossom. Mr and Mrs Pheasant and their jolly brood of young will parade past Sprout as he slumbers contentedly in the meadow grass under the watchful gaze of the wise owl. I will close my eyes and give thanks for Christopher Columbus' discovery and its soothing influence on GRAS, before leaping from my cradle in an ungainly fashion as GRAS reminds me that the lawn needs mowing. 

The Alhambra, Generalife and a Thermo Compost Bin

It is late 1990 in a nightclub in London. She takes one look at the stranger at the bar and is absolutely certain that he is the man she will marry. He smiles and asks her to tell him a joke. Without a second thought she launches into a tale of dubious cleanliness involving a famous snooker player of the time. 

The moral of this story? Learn one joke very well as you never know where it will lead you. For us, it led to the Alhambra in Spain, where we celebrated twenty years of marriage (yes, she was right about the stranger at the bar).

Chaenomeles speciosa and citrus fruits
at the Generalife

Call me a quitter, but no words or photos I can publish here will ever do justice to the Alhambra and Generalife. Information about this fascinating UNESCO World Heritage Site abounds, so instead I thought I would show you something rather clever I saw there which we might be able to adapt to our own gardens. Imagine you are taking this photo (yes I know it’s not as good as one you would take, but in my defence, it was a dull day and I was in a heightened state of emotion). You are at the Alhambra and looking across to the Generalife (you can just spot the clipped hedges of the Lower Generalife Gardens towards the centre of the photo). There is quite a distance between where you are standing and those hedges.  

Now imagine you are standing just above the clipped hedges of the Lower Generalife Gardens which we saw in the previous photo and you are looking back across the valley towards the Alhambra. Look at the way those hedges are used architecturally and how they mimic and support the view beyond. 

The hedge hugging the tower in the next photo is on your side of the valley, not on the side where the tower stands. The distance between the Alhambra and the Generalife appears reduced and the buildings and the hedges on either side of the valley blend beautifully. Now the question is, how am I going to apply this to my garden? In truth, it could be quite a challenge as Norfolk isn't famed for its hills and there is a woeful lack of towers and palaces on our little farm, but it has to be worth playing with a few ideas.

Our wedding anniversary shares a date with the first anniversary of the start of our barn conversion and to mark the occasion I decided to indulge in a minor construction project of my own: a new compost bin. Historically, I have been a bit of a traditionalist on the compost front - all New Zealand bins with a brief, ill-judged foray into tumblers, but I have decided to let my hair down this year and branch out into the world of thermo bins. I am now watching the speed of decomposition with great interest - if this had been my opening line in the nightclub, we certainly wouldn't be celebrating twenty years of marriage, although one of us might have celebrated winning a prize for the hastiest exit from a nightclub in 1990... and where would that have left me? Probably staring at an abandoned drink on the bar and toying with the idea of taking it home for use in slug traps. 

Happy first anniversary to our barn conversion

Information about the Alhambra and the Generalife can be found at www.alhambradegranada.org  We booked our tickets early by following a link from this website. It was worth doing - even though it was February, I saw people missing out on a visit because they were too late to purchase tickets. 

When A Garden Feels Right

I went to the bank today and came home with a big smile on my face, for on the computer screen, nestled among a selection of dull but sensible salary payment options, was the glorious phrase, “undefined structure”. 

My concentration flew out of the automatic door and instead of talking money, I found myself daydreaming about that golden era of undefined structure: school summer holidays. If I had a superhuman power, it would be the ability to disappear down a rabbit hole or some similar fairytale conduit and be transported back to those blissful summer days when I was nine years old. 

I yearn for undefined structure in every area of my life with one exception: the garden. For me, a garden without clearly defined structure is like a human without a skeleton or a dancer without core strength. Many of us don’t think about our own skeletons until something goes wrong and we behave in much the same way about our garden bones, probably because, like a skeleton, structure in the garden can be such a quiet influence that it is easy to overlook it.

A garden with strong bones
 East Ruston Old Vicarage, Norfolk*

Some people enjoy formal gardens (and it is easy to appreciate the importance of structure in this style), while others prefer informality. I believe that all gardens, irrespective of size or style, benefit from time spent focusing on their structure. Garden bones might be hard landscaping elements such as paving or pergolas, or plants such as hedges, but whatever structure is in place, winter is the best time of year to take a critical look (just think of all the different hedge heights we see in one road of similar houses - one will be more successful than the next). 

Not many of us create gardens from scratch, which means that most of us work with an inherited structure. By analysing the bones we have, we can see if something can be done to strengthen them. Paths might be improved by following a more pleasing or logical route. Perhaps there is an eyesore from which we need to distract attention, or a beautiful view which would look even better were it to be framed and celebrated. With cold, harsh analysis we might decide that our borders are lacking in some way. Hedging plants or shrubs don't have to cling to the edge like wallflowers at a school dance, they can get out into the garden and throw some shapes, or create a backdrop, or form a static contrast with livelier, airier plants. 

Structural planting does not have to be evergreen as the photo above shows. Herbaceous perennials and grasses might also be used structurally, but whatever plants we select, they absolutely must be reliable in that position in the garden, for if they aren't, we will notice. After all, the peculiar thing about bones is that we tend to forget them when all is well, but they niggle like crazy when something goes wrong.

I will now get off my soapbox and go outside, but first I must tell you about my biggest regret in our farmhouse garden. You may remember that we installed rabbit fencing last year. I must report that it has been completely successful. Clearly this is disappointing news for my superhuman powers. 

* The last three photos were taken at a truly inspiring garden, East Ruston Old Vicarage. www.e-ruston-oldvicaragegardens.co.uk

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

Miss Willmott's Ghost and The Sage

Miss Ellen Willmott, a nineteenth-century plantswoman, is reputed to have surreptitiously scattered the seeds of her favourite plant when visiting gardens, which is apparently why the striking silver thistle, Eryngium giganteum, is known as Miss Willmott’s Ghost. I am not suggesting that we seed bomb one another's plots like a posse of twenty-first century Miss Wilmotts, but this has got me wondering what we would like to see more of in 2013.

This is my hauntingly beautiful ghost,
not Miss Wilmott's.

Were I to go Miss Willmotting, I would float gracefully around gardens (an act requiring a body double, as I tend towards the frenetic) in an outfit accessorised with a wide-brimmed sun hat, watering can and an ornate dibber. I would remove my hat, under which were my rooted cuttings, pop a plant into the soil with the aid of my dibber and water said plant before floating off for a cup of tea. Clearly this would never happen in reality as I have a habit of mislaying garden tools (ornate or otherwise), losing hats and preferring coffee. 

My personal ghost would be bog sage; a plant which does not require a bog. Salvia uliginosa (bog sage) is at home in wet or dry conditions, but it does love full sun. I have seen it thrive in clay soil, where the borders are under water for part of the winter yet baked hard in summer, so it is certainly one to think about if you feel thwarted by this tricky combination.

Sadly, too many people have lost so much in recent floods and those who love their gardens may be looking to replace plants as quickly and cheaply as possible. Salvia uliginosa puts on annual growth fast and does not cost the earth. I suspect that it might be invasive on wetlands somewhere in the world, but I have grown it for nearly a decade in the UK and although it walks a little within the border, it doesn't rampage and if I were the kind of person for whom this was a problem, I would still grow it, only in a pot sunk into the soil. 

The one above came home hanging from the handle of my child's pram. I swear it wasn't that big at the time, but this plant is capable of growing up to 2 metres high. If you have the space, bounce a few clumps of it through your garden to give structure and height. Surprisingly, despite its size, I have yet to feel the urge to stake Salvia uliginosa as it holds its shape well once it is established. 

I never cut back the stems in winter because they ripen to a deep burgundy-brown and offer structure in those dark months. I like to think that they also offer protection as Salvia uliginosa is considered to be half hardy, although I have yet to lose one. Come spring, when the border is full of fresh green foliage and exuberant flowers, I cut the brown stems down to ground level and before long those fragrant green sage leaves emerge.

A reminder of spring... fresh foliage,
flower buds and a path in need of weeding. 

Of course it is the flower colour which stops passers-by in their tracks; and the bright electric blue flowers last for weeks from late summer. For me though, much as I love the flowers and the burgundy stems and the way the plant moves in the breeze, the very best thing about Salvia uliginosa - the reason why I would like to see more of it in people's gardens and why I am risking your wrath by suggesting it for my personal Miss Willmott choice - is that bees and hoverflies love it. On a summer’s day this plant is abuzz with them. Unbeatable!