Gardening Archives - Page 2 of 3

A Dog with Three Tales

No, this isn’t some kind of story about an inverted universe Cerberus, but actually a tree or shrub.

At this time of year we can be lacking in colour; from the interminable grey of these early months to the not yet burgeoning flora. But, there are a few exceptional bits of winter colour to find, including that of the dogwood. We have a dogwood shrub; Cornus alba, and the bright red stems are always a welcome sight throughout winter. But despite always admiring its striking scarlet limbs I’ve never really thought about its name before. And so, I did a little rummaging around.

The dogwood comes as either tree or shrub and there are quite a few myths around them – and wide-ranging at that. But three stood out as the most often recited and each has its own message to us.

One tale about the dogwood tree is that it provided the wood for the crucifix on which Jesus died. The story goes that, at that time, the dogwood was the tallest and strongest tree by far and having the sturdiest timber it was chosen to be made into the cross. The dogwood felt such sorrow and anguish at the task to which it had been made to perform that Jesus, dying upon it, felt the pain it experienced and as a kindness changed its kin so that all dogwoods would forever grow small and twisted and never be made to carry such a burden again. When Jesus was resurrected, the dogwood bloomed and blossomed in celebration. At the centre of the flower, there is a cluster of green which is seen as representation of the crown of thorns that Jesus wore upon the crucifix. Many people acknowledge the dogwood as a reminder of Jesus’ love and sacrifice.

Another tale regards Hectate, the goddess of protection and hidden knowledge. She was said to bring daily blessings and prosperity to family life and was herself a lover of solitude, never wanting to be centre of attention. Her symbols were dogs, torches and the new moon. But, that old rogue, Shakespeare was to be her undoing for he mentioned her name in connection with ‘dagger,’ most well-associated with MacBeth. At the time, daggers were often made of dagwood tree; the name, later changing to dogwood. The association of dogs, daggers and the dogwood tree and therefore with the goddess Hectate, meant that the damage was done and her mythology forever influenced. She became thereon to be perceived as the goddess of witchcraft and her name even became the root for the word, ‘hag’ meaning witch. This story of misrepresentation is used to warn us of how easily our characters can be destroyed through distortion. The dogwood here, is used to serve as a reminder to be alert so we are not taken advantage of by those who seek to betray or deceive us. But also to encourage us to view and experience our surroundings in quiet observation and that we can learn much about ourselves and others, by watching.

A third tale is one which came from among the Cherokee who told the story of a race of little people who lived in the forest and protected the tribe; they were the Dogwood people. These beings kept the children and elders safe, always with benevolence, not asking for anything in return and they were there to teach about being in harmony with the earth. Here, the dogwood spirit is associated with random acts of kindness.

The origin of the name, however most likely came about from the smooth, straight and incredibly strong limbs which were used to make skewers, daggers, arrows and the such. Skewers used to be called ‘dags’ or ‘dogs.’ The word ‘dog tree’ can be traced back to 1548 and later, in 1614 it was changed to dogwood, when it also acquired a secondary name of Hound’s Tree, the fruits of which were known as dogberries or houndberries.

Whatever your beliefs, I can’t see anything wrong in all of us taking heed of the stories and messages above: that there can be such empathy between humans and nature that it can be felt and acted upon and that great love will make sacrifices; that we should be alert to those who wish to harm us, but also to observe quietly to better learn about the world around us; and there is importance to being in harmony with nature, that we can act with benevolence and that random acts of kindness go a long way.

Taking five and not looking back

Despite the fact that I know it does me so much good, I find that I very rarely get down to any craft of my own – especially drawing and painting. The reason being, is that I don’t have time or rather, this is the narrative I have given myself and therefore have come to believe.

When I sit down to draw, I like to have hours free ahead of me so I can get lost in this hobby. Time passes without me noticing as I end up in a kind of hypnotic state, zoned out and oblivious to the world – which is lovely. But, the opportunities to allow this extended period of time are infrequent and as a consequence I can go weeks or months without doing anything.

Recently I have seen my best friend and others posting quick sketches they have done allowing themselves only five minutes and it has been incredibly motivating. No, they are not perfect but they evoke a certain feeling of vivacity, of energy; perhaps because of their speed in being brought about. The other thing I find inspiring is that they are shared – flaws and all. I am a terrible one for self-doubt and I write and create far more content than ever gets seen purely because I over-think it all to the point of not believing any of it worth sharing and therefore, I don’t.

So, would it be possible for me to follow the suit of these inspiring people and have a go at daily five-minute sketches, no going back, no time to doubt and posting them to be seen?

The first problem I encountered is one faced by many – the blank page. Just what does one choose? I found myself heading online and looking at vast selections of ‘daily prompts’ and spending too much time reading them and wondering if they would be something I’d like to have a go at, whether I’d be able to etcetera and therefore – once again – stalling.

With my interests very much lying in nature, I thought perhaps this would be the best way for me to encourage myself to start. So I nipped outside and got a small sprig of wild marjoram from the garden.

Sat at my desk, sketch book out and pencils sharpened, I set a timer for five minutes – and off I went. Never has five minutes gone so quickly!

And here it is:

How was it? Well, firstly I have to say – I produced something on a day when perhaps I would not have otherwise. Am I happy with it? Not really, I had to work very hard not to tinker with it after the alarm went off. Perhaps more importantly, what was the process like? Rushed, I felt under pressure; almost panicky; about as far removed from the normal slow, meditative zoning out I normally feel when drawing. But, I produced something.

Will I do it again? I am tempted to say yes but that I will extend the time to ten minutes but, as an experiment, I will continue to attempt some more five minute sketches; maybe one a day. Perhaps it could be a kind of therapy for me as someone who overthinks things to the point of fearful withdrawal. As mentioned above, I have so many blogs, drawings and photographs that I have created and never let seen the light of day due to self-doubt; maybe a little bit of instant public imperfection will allow me a little freedom of expression. But, if I ever get the chance to give myself those hours blissfully away from the world, I will treasure that time; whether I show you what I produce or not.

My apologies Mr Worm

I have been doing a lot of apologising to worms lately – and making promises to bees (as well as gently admonishing them for being so persistent on coming into the house and having to be gently ferried back out in a glass – the bees that is, not the worms).

Having held off getting too much going in the garden, never truly believing the weather had fully turned, it is now all-go, once again. As well as the turning over and weeding of the vegetable patches from previous years, we have been cutting in new ones too. The garden allotment grows; in all senses of the word.

Unearthing worms, I am very apologetic to them; how rude to be tumbled out of the warm dark earth to the surface – what must they think! But I am happy to see them, especially in the soil that when first dug was not in great condition, but with a lot of love, compost and a fair bit of sweating and swearing, is now improving considerably. (I do have veggie patch envy though of my mum’s. She has turned what was once the heaviest of good old Suffolk clay, into beautiful, workable soil. I have a few more years of hard graft to go!)

The worms, I fear, also deserve some of my apologies because I know a fair few of them will become a tasty morsel for the birds who hang around in greedy expectation and shout at me to go away so they can swoop in for their fill.

On one occasion, when moving some of the little wrigglers to a different area so they didn’t get repeatedly disturbed, I was struck by a memory from many, many years ago. When I was about three, maybe four-years-old, I had a little red tricycle which had a small white leather satchel on the back. For some reason (and I have long ago given up trying to understand my own mind) I had decided I would gather up as many worms as I could and take them on a little bike ride round the garden. Unbeknownst to me, until my mum pointed it out, there was a hole in one of the corners of the leather pouch and as I rode round and around the grass I was leaving a trail of worms behind me as they commando crawled their way to freedom.

But why the promises to bees? I am not a gardener’s gardener. What I mean is, there is much in my garden that is not neat and I leave plenty of things that a lot of people would be in a hurry to get rid of. Even though I know I will be causing a headache for myself later down the line, I will often allow things to grow or remain if they are something I know birds, bees and all the other wonderful insects, creatures and critters will like. Like comfrey. I have swathes of yellow comfrey which I know spreads like wildfire but, the bees adore it. When it first started coming back I looked at it and said, now, now is the time, if you don’t get on top of it now you know it will be madness. But I left it, full in the knowledge that it would start to take over – which of course, it did. As the flowers are waning, I have begun removing about two-thirds of it and this is why the promises to bees. As they buzzed about me, clearly annoyed, I promised them that I wasn’t taking it all and that I would shortly be putting in much more that they would love. In a similar vein I have not removed my dandelions and I am not going to wage such war on the cow parsley this year.

I sometimes feel quite sad about what we as a species have done to our natural environment but it does seem as if there is beginning to be a bit more urgency of late, in people recognising that things need to change. If everyone who has a garden, of any size, could allow just one area of it to run wild and free, it would be hugely beneficial I am sure; not only to wildlife, but also to us. It’s worth remembering: we NEED all the amazing little insects, bugs and beasties; and all they ask from us in return is a place that they can call home.

Click on the image below for a tiny video of a tiny box with a big message.

If it’s not on the list, it’s not going in

A couple of days ago, I found myself getting rather irate with teabags – and I don’t even drink tea; well, black, green or white anyway. I do like a black coffee, but long gone are the days when I could swig it back without a care and now it is just the one; the glorious first thing in the morning life-affirming, granting, saving cup that I allow myself. Unless I’m feeling daring, then perhaps two. (Any more than that then I have to have a shaky lie down and pep talk from MOTH to assuage the jitters.) In lieu of these staples then, I amass a large selection of herbal teas because, although many of them are very nice and I do enjoy them – mostly; they are just not as satisfying somehow and can become, quite honestly, boring!

But why have they annoyed me so much of late? Well, apart from the frankly quite ludicrous price of some of the trendier branded ones, it’s because I rather naively have spent the last couple of years putting them on the compost heap.

Now, before any more-experienced composters (compostitioners? Compostees?) out there start tutting and shaking their heads, this is still quite new to us and yes, there were mistakes. I don’t know why, but I had mistakingly assumed that teabags would decompose thinking they were made from paper. They do not. They are not. Bah!

I have been feeling the rise of gardener’s itchy fingers; not an ailment requiring medical attention, but more the pricking of the yearn and need to be out awakening the garden from its winter sleep and readying it for the year ahead. I feel as if I am in the blocks, sweat band on, starting pistol raised – and yet, we are not quite ready for the off. I may be thinking of potato chitting and seed sowing, but not only is it still slightly too early, I don’t trust the weather. This time last year we were being hounded by The Beast from the East and after what has felt like an incredibly mild winter, can it really be that the worst is done?

So instead of the fun stuff, I have been doing some of the less exciting jobs; including sorting out the compost pens – back to teabags. Our first year’s compost is ready to use; it is dry and crumbly, fragrance free – perfect – apart from one or two things that have now solidly entered the banned list and will never be going on again. The reason I will be particularly firm on this is, that I sifted through every spadeful that came out of the pen and removed the non-decomposed detritus. In the rogues gallery, first and foremost we have teabags, followed by corks (again, naivety came into play where I thought cork, that’s natural, it will be fine – nope!) and mango stones. Due to having a prolific plum tree, the prep for pies and preserves producing mountains of stones; this year, I will also not be adding all these to the heap for their tendency to hang about somewhat.

But, it wasn’t having to sift out the teabags that annoyed me as such, it was realising that they were not biodegradable. A quick look online and it seems as if in the UK alone, there are around 62 billion cups of tea drunk a year – 96% of which are made from teabags, which begs the question: where are they all now?

Like so many people I am sickened by the sheer volume of rubbish and waste that we produce as a species and, although we are not huge consumers and take care to recycle as much as we can, MOTH and I are increasingly trying to put into effect where possible, the two factors that are even better than recycling: firstly – reduce, secondly – reuse.

The first point is one that is getting a lot of people up in arms because it feels as if we are fighting a losing battle sometimes. When even a pomelo (a fruit which comes with THE thickest natural wrapping) comes in shrink wrapped plastic, then what chance do we have? Our weekly food shop is fast becoming a time of exasperated swearing and huffing.

The second point can at least be a little more fun; or if not fun, perhaps satisfying and you should never underestimate the creativity people can muster when they put their minds to it.

I am madly obsessed with Pinterest at the moment – a place where there is something for everyone and you can end up chasing down a glorious rabbit hole of interests. If you want to be inspired about things you can re-use, regularly thrown away items for, I very much encourage you to look around. There is everything from sublime works of art made out of pre-used items to practical, useful objects or cleverly mended and altered clothes to extend their life.

Have fun and in the meantime, I will leave you with a few of my own.

The Heartbeat of a Tree

I felt the heartbeat of a tree today. Now, before you think I’m mad, of course, I know that I didn’t really (or did I?), but for a moment my own heart skipped because, it really felt as if I had.

It has been a day where, although it is cold and the wind is blowing well, the sun is out and the sky is that kind of huge blue which occurs in expanse, in winter. I have a stinking cold but despite this, I cannot help but be drawn outside.

Having perambulated the garden, having a nosy at how things have fared over the weeks in which I have been too busy to be tending to things of flora (perhaps months, is a more accurate time-frame), I dragged one of the garden benches from beside the increasingly falling apart shed, where I had secured it against stronger winds the previous year, and planted it in the sunniest spot at the bottom of the garden.

Wrapped up warm against the cold (apart from my feet which, no matter how many layers I wear just will not defrost) I closed my eyes and felt the warmth of the sun on my face. My eyes did not stay closed for long as I became distracted by a bird somewhere nearby making the most amazing array of noises. I first thought it must be the song thrush that lives at the end of our garden and is often seen whacking snails against old exposed path slabs (now mostly sunken and grown over by grass and moss). But it wasn’t, it was one of our darling starlings that continue to keep us entertained. I have written before about the immense range of noises and imitation sounds that starlings are capable of, and this one was giving me a good earful of his portfolio.

To my left, roughly four metres away, there is an apple tree. Every year I tell it, it will be its last as it is leaning closer to the ground with each season that passes, but it still bears fruit; an apple somewhere between a cooker and an eater and with which we made Scandinavian apple relish this year, for Christmas presents. I always leave some fruit on the trees for wildlife and today I was rewarded for doing so. As I sat attempting to breathe some fresh air into my cold-stuffed head, I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. A beautiful female blackbird, feathers a glossy dark chocolate brown, was perched atop one of the hanging apples having a good peck at it. She didn’t seem to care at all that I was so close and neither did the blue tit who alighted on a different apple above her and began pecking away.

I am ashamed to say that one of my first thoughts was that I wished I had my camera with me and contemplated the possibility of a phone picture showing anything discernible. But I knew that even if I did have my camera or tried to take a picture on my phone, the movement itself would frighten away the two diners. And then I was struck with an interesting thought: I was glad I wasn’t able to take a photograph because that meant I just sat there, watching and fully enjoying the sight. I love beautiful and inspiring pictures, but sometimes I wonder if we fall into documenting things rather than experiencing them.

We have been lucky lately in that starlings have been performing murmurations over our garden (I like to think as a thank you for the sheer amount of mealworms and fat balls they’ve had from us). The first time it happened I filmed as much as I could. But the second time, I just watched and in doing so I didn’t just see what was happening I heard the flap and dull thud of wings and feather as they turned, I felt the breeze that they were moving within, I became aware of the cold air on my cheeks and the smell of damp earth and the winter world outside and I noticed the varying hues of blue, grey, pink and purple which made up the palate of the fading sky.

I am currently reading a book called, ‘The Running Hare, The Secret Life of Farmland,’ by John Lewis-Stempel. It is a gorgeous book documenting the life of an agricultural field being given back to nature. But is is also very sad as it clearly exposes just what we as humans have done to the land and all that lives in and on it, by means of intense agriculture. As a race, we have learned how to dominate nature. I believe we now need to learn how to share with it. My apples left on the tree may only be a small give-back, but I feel that I got the bigger reward from the action.

The wind blew harder and colder, snow has been tentatively mentioned on the forecast and almost as if in synergy, I spot a clump of snowdrops that are hanging their white heads at the base of a rose.

Heading back to the house, I stop to touch the warm trunk of our smoke bush. The bark is rough and looks like elephant skin. I turn and place my hand on the clean-cut end of a branch I removed from smokey’s neighbour; a cotoneaster (who has grown considerably out of hand and is still in full, green leaf) and that is when I feel a thud. Thinking I was mistaken I close my eyes and press my hand flat against the wood and there it is again: thud, thud, thud. I smile, I laugh at myself a little because in a fraction of a moment it felt as if I was feeling its heartbeat. Common sense kicked in just as quickly; it was just a vibration caused by branches much higher up moving in the wind. Surely?

There’s a monster in my dining room

It is mischief night, the night before All Hallows Eve and so I thought I’d tell you about our very own monster who lives with us. He almost touches the ceiling and with each year that passes, he takes over more and more of the room. When we’ve had guests round for dinner he has been known to poke them in the back whilst sat around the table. He has also made a terrible mess of the paintwork on the walls.

But, we love him and he has certainly become one of the family. Known to us as Edam, he is a Monstera deliciosa (aka a cheese plant). MOTH bought him 24 years ago, little understanding then just how big he would grow. When we first moved in to this house three years past, we initially housed him in the conservatory on the back wall thinking it was the only area that could accommodate him. But guilt set in when we saw that he was not faring well at all. Too cold through the winter and too scorching hot in the summer he began to look decidedly unhappy. So, into the dining room he went and my-goodness, he preferred that. He has since sent forth several new leaves, each bigger and higher-reaching than the last.

It is quite fascinating to watch these leaves come into being. They appear, one at a time, from each previous leaf. A small section begins to peel away from the stem and out of this split comes an unfurled flag of green. As it un-rolls it spreads out and up, to become the leaf from which the next new one will spring.

I have always had houseplants, not only do they look nice but they are very healthy things to have in your home. I have had successes to greater and lesser extents, mainly because I am not one for mollycoddling*. I like a good robust plant that doesn’t demand specialised attention and can just get on with being, without too much fuss. But I never thought I’d have a plant that I could stand under without stooping and it still loom above me.

The thing about Edam though, is that, he seems to have become more than just a houseplant. Perhaps because of his size and therefore sheer presence, I find I feel very kindly to him and even chat to him on passing. “Good morning, Edam.” As I wander through to the kitchen to get the breakfast things out. “Good grief man, will stop growing just for a bit!” Pretty much every time I look at him. I’ve even given him a dust on occasion followed by a spritz of water and asked him if, “that felt better, now?” Is this better or worse than talking to the cats, I wonder? Perhaps I just need to get out more. But to have a living thing take up a quarter of a room and be with you for so long and that you see responding to the care you give it – how can you not treat him as more than just a thing?

I’m not quite sure where all this will take us. We have recently had to rearrange the whole dining room just to accommodate Edam and I wonder if, one day, we will come downstairs, struggle to open the door and fight our way though to find that there is a jungle to negotiate before we reach the kitchen. And do you know what, if that is the case, I can’t help thinking that we would just create a path through as best we could, gently chastise our ever-growing monster and carry on as normal with the cats prowling about their own personal indoor forest.

*I thought, having written it, I would have a look at the term mollycoddle. It seems, it comes from the seventeenth century and was used as a derogative term for someone, particularly an effeminate male, who has been overindulged and overprotected. The Molly part taking reference from the slang term of Mary which was given to low-status, often prostitute women and the coddled part is, ‘to treat overly carefully,’ often used in cooking, as in coddling an egg – to boil it very gently.

Feeling hot, HOT, HOTTER

Warning, this blog contains sweat!

Current status: sweating my eyebrows off – literally. Seeing as they are now 95% make-up rather than hair and that the weather has turned rather warm, it is not, unfortunately, an unusual occurrence to find that they have slipped or been smudged somewhere across my face.

Summer, it seems, has arrived (well, intermittently) and whilst most are probably enjoying downsizing clothes to shorts, t-shirts and the such, I am covering up.

It is a strange and contradictory time having chemotherapy during the summer months. I am experiencing hot flushes on a scale like you wouldn’t believe caused by two factors: firstly, the chemo drugs themselves can induce this reaction, secondly, I have been having a hormonal implant injected to help protect my ovaries through the process and this causes menopause-like symptoms. Between these two things and the hotter weather I have sweated more than I thought was humanly possible. (I never said my blogs would be pleasant, did I?) For the first week after having the FEC chemo drug, I literally soak through clothing 24-hours a day and it is not unusual to find me sitting head-on to a fan with a bright red face. (MOTH and I have started calling these times my Ribena berry moments, for that is what I look like.) But despite all this excess heat I am also doing some things that may then seem a little bizarre.

As mentioned before, I am generally wearing more clothing now than I was months ago and that is because I must be super careful of the sun. Many of the chemotherapy drugs are radio-sensitizers which means that they make the effects of the sun’s rays more powerful than they would be normally. Chemo drugs stay in the body for up to two months after treatment and, if going on to have radiotherapy afterwards (as I may be when chemo has finished and I’ve had my surgery), you will still be super sensitive due to radiation recall. This is where the radiotherapy treatment leaves not only the affected area being treated more sensitive but also the skin on other parts of the body too. So, for me it is head-to-toe covering: hats, collars turned up, long sleeves, full-length trousers, factor 50 greased all over (and my word, does that stuff not rub in. With my pale bald head and the white sun cream I am looking rather albino these days) and staying in the shade. I said to a friend it might be easier if I just put a sheet over my head and cut out two holes for eyes but I feel a ghostly apparition meandering around the garden may cause some disturbance to the neighbours.

I have not yet had the nerve to go out in public with my head completely uncovered and yet hats, scarves and wigs are becoming uncomfortably hot.

Another thing you must be very careful about is infection. Having an obliterated immune system from the chemo you soon get a heightened awareness and wariness of everything you touch. I love to garden. It is my therapy, the saviour of my sanity and I was most put out when the oncologist said I shouldn’t really be doing it. So, I’ve ignored them – I truly believe that something which helps you significantly to stay positive must be good for you. But, I am being careful and so, when I do head out into the garden I am not only taking it gently and doing small bits for short times, but I make sure I am completely covered, including snood over mouth if venturing to anything dusty and I wear rubber gloves under my gardening gloves. Once again – sweat levels are on high and as for what I must look like…!

It is G&T time of the year, or Pimms if you’re that way inclined, but, of course, not for me whilst pumped to the gills with chemo drugs – hrumph! Instead I am trying to drink as many herbal teas as possible along-side copious amounts of water. For the relief of nausea; peppermint, ginger, green, fennel and camomile tea are all recommended but I must say it is not particularly with enthusiasm that I sip a cup of the hot stuff when sweltering and dreaming of gin.

I have also been soaking my hands and feet in warm water. Mad you say? In this weather? Well, yes, it does feel so and yet there is a good reason why. Firstly, my poor feet are suffering – they are sore and peeling like mad and so I am trying to treat them nicely. I was given a wonderful foot moisturiser and both my feet and I are very grateful for it and I slather it on after a soak in coconut oil and rosemary. The reason I am soaking my hands (once again, warm water and coconut oil – very softening) is so I can timidly and gently cut my nails. One of the side-effects that can happen as a result of the TAX drug (which I had three rounds of first) is your nail beds dying. This is extremely painful and has left me at times unable to do anything because even the slightest touch to my fingers is excruciating. I had a very sorry moment for myself where I couldn’t even break off a piece of chocolate as it was too painful to do so – this made me cry – so I ate more chocolate but only once MOTH had broken it up for me. Added to this fun is that the nails start to lift and so perhaps you can understand why it is with extreme caution and care that nail cutting is undertaken and only after softening them.

Every three weeks, when I head into my chemo, I don gloves and hand warmers – imagine that, in this weather. I do this because I have very cold hands and un-co-operative veins; the silly things just will not accept cannulas. Keeping my hands warm allows slightly better access for the needle and I get my arm wrapped in a heat pad whilst there too. The TAX drug is administered by drip and once started went through fine. But the FEC treatment is administered by a series of large syringes. (One of which is bright red, which, if you’ve forgotten about gives you rather a shock when you next go to the bathroom and it comes out the same colour!) The FEC drugs are kept in the fridge and the first time I had them, the coldness of the liquid and the coldness of my hand meant my veins kept trying to constrict and so it became very painful to push the drug in. This meant we had to keep stopping to warm me up before trying again.

So, spare a thought for me when you are in your swimwear, sunbathing and enjoying a nice cold drink for I shall most likely be having a hot tea, in the shade, completely covered and hoping my eyebrows have not mingled too much with the sun-cream and started to head off to another destination.

*MOTH Man Of The House

When is a courgette not a courgette?

No, this isn’t the start to some kind of awful joke but a genuine pondering I had a while ago.

This year, having got our vegetable patch underway for the first time, we were fully prepared for the ups and downs and experimentation of what may or may not grow well. Our biggest failure of the year seems to have been the carrots. I can’t help thinking that it was perhaps the wonderful in many ways but exceedingly hard Suffolk soil, which when baked by the sun turns into solid clay, that may have been our downfall. I imagine that somewhere under their sprouting tops, they were secured more tightly than middle-class ladies at a health spa wrapped in mud and clingfilm and left in the dark to doze and snore to the questionably soothing sounds of some whales or a heaving rainforest. (Just why the sudden shrill call of some kind of anthropoid or feathered creature is supposed to be relaxing I am not sure.)

But one of the absolute rip-roaring successes has proved to be courgettes – in fact, almost too much so.

It got to the point where we were not only growing more than we could consume on a regular basis but that they were also rather oversized. This led to us greeting friends and family not with a hearty ‘hello’ and enquiries as to their health, but with, ‘do you like courgette?’ If the poor unsuspecting person answered yes, whether in truth or out of politeness, they were then proffered a ridiculously large green vegetable and we could sigh in relief that we had managed to reduce the stocks a little. Even our plumber did not escape and left, after sorting a leaky radiator, with one of our verdant monsters.

It wouldn’t have been so bad if courgettes happened to be our favourite vegetable but as it is, they feature among the bottom rungs of the veg league – if there were to be such a thing. MOTH (Man Of The House – the husband) particularly declared himself not a fan and so I set about finding ways in which to disguise this slightly insipid but amazingly fruitful food.

Garlic is a good one. Cook them in plenty of butter and garlic and all is well. Use them to bulk out vegetable dishes swathed in a tomato sauce and they disappear nicely into the background giving a good supporting role.

But after weeks of hiding them in various savoury ways I was getting a little bored so decided to try a different tack and go sweet. Using vegetables in baking is nothing new but I live with a man who is steadfastly traditional when it comes to cakes and so I knew it would be quite a challenge to make something he would try once, let alone eat a whole piece of.

And so a courgette cake I made – my own recipe – which I’ve included a link to below, and, well, I thought it was rather yummy. MOTH was brave and took a bite (admittedly before I told him what was in it) and, although not a particularly enthusiastic response, the comment ‘it’s alright,’ I took as pretty positive from someone who has quite an aversion to such things. (I did note however that it was just the one bite that was eaten – the rest I shared with my lovely singing group: The Kettle Girls.) I promised that the next cake would be more traditional, and it was: a classic sponge with jam and cream, followed not long after by a chocolate and choc-chip cake with chocolate frosting. (My teeth hurt just thinking about it.)

I don’t have a particularly sweet tooth myself and quite like the raw and earthy textures and flavours of more natural and less intensely sweetened things and I wonder if it could be traced back to The Brown Book.

When we were growing up, one of the cook books in our home was what we, the children, called The Brown Book. Everything about this book was brown from the recipes to the front cover, even the paper it was printed on seemed to have a light hue of brown. (I do believe it was from the 1970’s – which could explain a lot.) The titles of some of the recipes might give you an idea: Buckwheat Pancakes, Soya Burgers, Lentil Sprout Salad, Millet Cookies.

(At this point my conscience dictates I put a word in: the reason I can tell you these recipe titles is because I now have a copy of that book. Further confessions tell you that actually, I quite like the look of a lot of it now and it would be doing a huge disservice to my mum to let you think that the above was what we were served daily – it wasn’t – it was just the odd moment of Brown that appeared and made us kids roll our eyes. To this day I still can’t hear the word Carob without thinking of it’s treacherous lie that it is ‘like chocolate’ – it is not!)

Actually, our birthday cakes were really quite spectacular. They were always made into some fantastical shape or scene: butterflies, trains, dogs, someone fallen over skiing, a clog – you name it, we’ve had it. It was even only a couple of years ago, when one of my sisters was studying to be a vet, that a cake was made depicting a horse – mid operation – including red boot laces for innards.

Often, being the ones making the cake was as much fun as being the recipient of them. Holed up in the kitchen having shut out the birthday girl (who knew exactly what was going on but would pretend that they didn’t) a creative flurry of cake, icing and decorations would take place and usually so many of the sweets, chocolates and the such bought for decorating were eaten in the making of the cake, that by the time it was presented and the candles blown out no-one could face eating any more – for an hour or so anyway.

But, back to my original question – when is a courgette not a courgette? I was pondering this because ours grew so large it was often asked if they were now a marrow. Well, there is some debate online: some say a courgette left to get so big becomes a marrow, others say that there are still horticultural differences but that they are both a squash. So, when is a courgette not a courgette – when it is a marrow – or not – but definitely when it is a squash. Perhaps.

You can find my Courgette Batter Cake recipe by clicking here

photo-1

Plant, Wait and Hope

Today I have been throwing CDs in a tree and cutting up an old ballet skirt and attaching it to sticks. No, I have not gone mad, although you may be forgiven for thinking that may be the case. But rather, am currently desperately trying to save the food we are growing from the various birds, bugs and beasties that are perusing our garden menu.

My husband and I are having our first proper foray into growing our own fruit and veg; other than some tomatoes in pots and a few French beans in a trug (for which I will never be allowed to forget that I broke a sweetcorn fork when making holes in the bottom of said plastic container).

One of the reasons we bought our new house was because of the size of the garden and the potential it offered. Due to extensive renovation needed inside, we didn’t get a chance to pay the garden much attention until this year and so now we are at the beginning of what we hope will be a long and fruitful (pun absolutely intended) journey.

But my word – there’s a lot to learn.

We were lucky in that there were already a few fruit trees at the bottom of the garden: a cherry, a very young pear, an apple and two plum trees and even some greengages which I did not identify until they bore fruit. Whilst cutting down a hawthorn and an elder tree I also uncovered what is looking likely to be a red or black current.

But, unfortunately the state of all of these was not so great and the produce very little. The one success was a Victoria plum tree, from which I made several jars of jam but that, sadly, was the only crop we were able to make use of. The wasps got the greengages – the very few there were of them, the starlings mine-swept every last cherry –just before they were ripe, the other plum did nothing and is showing signs of severe aphid damage, the apples grew to small hard lumps before turning brown on the branches and the pears much the same. (Poor old pear took an extra beating early this year when storm Katie brought next door’s fifteen-foot trampoline over the fence and on top of it.)

The only thing that seems impervious to bugs, beasties and weather is the rhubarb – which is unfortunate seeing as neither of us like it. We managed to pawn huge bag loads of the pink stuff onto friends last year, so much so that it is rather less wanted this time round what with several freezers still holding the end of last year’s offerings. I have already had to cut a large amount a couple of months ago and not being able to offload it, turned it into rhubarb and ginger syrup – which I did manage to pass on – thank goodness.

By dint of books, the internet and questioning my more experienced gardener friends, I am learning how to give these trees and bushes the TLC they need and as such have pruned, thinned, cleared around trunks, cut off ill looking leaves and given them encouraging pep talks whenever am doing so – goodness knows whether I’m speaking the correct lingo – I never even got the hang of French!

It is a rather counter-intuitive feeling seeing a branch laden with fruit and purposely picking some of it off, but as I am doing so I remind myself that it is for the greater good. All the same, I can’t help feeling a little anthropomorphically mean about picking off the smallest and weakest fruits so the tree doesn’t waste its energy on them.

We have rather wonderfully been given a present of a new greengage tree which has been planted in much hope and with promises to it that it will be very well looked after.

But what is completely new to us and therefore seeming more exciting, are all of the vegetables we have planted ourselves and brought on from seeds to what are now identifiable foodstuffs. Although too early for most to yet be eaten, we have been (possibly overly) enjoying being able to pick our own lettuce for salads and sandwiches – never has lettuce been so revered as ours!

But the excitement and pride is having to share space now with worry and frustration as we are beginning to see some of our vegetables being nibbled. Beans have been disappearing overnight and carrot tops have vanished without a trace.

And so this is why my previously stated behaviour has begun. The cherry is now, rather prettily in the sunlight, adorned with old CD’s glinting in the sun’s rays in an attempt to ward away the birds. I have used the netting from under an old ballet skirt to make panels of easily movable fencing and old net curtains to make individual wigwams for the next trial of beans in a desperate bid to not lose the whole lot again. The carrots are now glamping with their own individual plastic bottle cloches, bug catchers are on standby and our fingers are tightly crossed.

If you have any top tips for bug and pest control do let me know, preferably without resorting to chemicals, although if the next lot of beans get completely munched I may be in mind to change tack. If I’m feeling generous I may give up some beer to slug traps and will then keep an eye out for any drunkenly bawdy singing birds who may have snaffled some booze-soaked gastropods.

It being our first year of growing I am sure we will make many mistakes along the way. I have learned an incredible amount already but the more I know, the more I look around and see what needs to be done. But we shall persevere, after all, if you can get such a good feeling over lettuce – imagine what a butternut squash could do!

The Novice Gardener

Garden Nemeses Top Trumps

Whilst up to my elbows in nettles, and not for the first time, I found myself playing a sort of Top Trumps in my head. The game being between the plants in the garden that had rapidly become my least favourite.

Having moved into our new house last year, it is only recently that I have been trying to gain some control over the large garden that I feel had been left by the previous owner to run riot for quite some time.

There are areas that have been relatively easy to salvage but equally there are parts that have become so overrun that that they are proving quite the battle. I comfort myself with the thought that while they are wild and not the most attractive to us humans, at least they will be a good home for all sorts of bugs and beasties.

It quickly became apparent who were my arch nemeses and in no particular order they are: brambles, ivy, nettles, hawthorn, berberis and holly.

Now, of course, I don’t actually believe that any plant is inherently evil but there have been times when, prickled, scratched and stung once too often, I could almost believe that there was some kind of insidious attack plan against my person held by these species. Which is my least favourite seems to entirely depend on which one has made me swear the most that day.

Brambles, hawthorn, berberis and holly are notable for their skin piercing qualities and I think from my close encounters I find the Berberis the most painful. (I was shocked to find, when perusing the aisles of a garden department, small berberis plants sitting innocently for sale without so much as a mention of their spiky danger. I can’t help feeling these plants should come with a warning and perhaps a stipulation to only be planted where no human will ever want to go.) I have to confess, pretty flowers and leaves aside, these were earmarked as ‘to go’ before we had even moved in. Currently the stump of one (after very careful and yet sweary and painful removal) has been covered by carpet and rocks – which small cat has rather taken to as his outdoor comfy spot.

For sheer garden domination it comes down to the ivy and brambles (although there are places the nettles are having a good go at spreading themselves). I have come across some of the biggest legs of bramble I have ever seen – many metres in length. Not only do they send their limbs way up to tangle in trees but where they set down again they re-root themselves before heading off once more underground and back up.

The ivy, although possibly covering larger areas with its myriad shoots tangling above and below the earth and entwining up and into everything it encounters – at least does not hurt. So despite pulling out armful after armful of ivy, I think the brambles win this category.

The hawthorn I don’t actually mind – as hedging. It is the unexpected and frequent appearances that pop up here and there that can give quite a stab. The holly is easily workable where you can see it, but again it is the unseen surprise that gets you; old, discarded leaves hidden amongst the undergrowth and leaf litter.

The nettles are mostly a pain just for how quickly they grow – and how tall! They are actually quite easy to dig up by the roots and I have discovered there are more types of nettle than I previously knew of. We have the standard green which gives an almighty sting from fresh new leaves, and yet others that must be more docile as they don’t appear to sting at all (either that or I have become so used to the stab from everything else I just don’t feel them). We have the good old purple dead nettles that I leave for the bees and after a quick look on the internet I realise we have yellow dead nettles too – rather wonderfully also known as Archangels in the herbalist world.

But I feel I should acknowledge the upsides of some of these too. Having far too much to do last year when first moved in, we let the brambles be as they were at least yielding the opportunity to go brambling* in our own back garden – indeed we are currently eating jam made from some of the blackberries that I picked last year.

*Brambling, a term my fiancé uses to refer to ramblers picking blackberries.

The nettles I am planning to have a go at drying and making into tea. The holly will make a nice decoration at Christmas and despite believing that they ought to be cordoned off with multiple warning signs and perhaps a klaxon when getting too close, the Berberis was at least pretty.

Nothing in nature is inherently bad – I just don’t want everything that’s there in such abundance and so I shall continue to don at least one pair of thorn proof gloves (although I have not yet found a pair that actually are – insert Berberis swear and rant here) and continue to rein some of it in a little.

And my post gardening ritual shall continue: a cup of tea accompanied by plaster tape, a needle, antiseptic cream and tweezers for quiet contemplation and the de-thorning of hands. And arms. And legs.

Top trumps pics and stats