Gardening is a game of patience at the best of times but several weeks of delay in the delivery of a pile of bare-rooted plants has been a bit frustating; I know these things happen – it’s life, after all – but I was eager to get on with the planting. We know from past experience that getting growing structure in place early in a new garden is a good idea and despite looking like rather hopeless little sticks, young bare-rooted trees, shrubs and hedging plants will grow quickly and strongly. Once they’re in the ground, that is! Not that we’ve exactly been short of jobs to be getting on with in the meantime . . .
In many ways, this post follows on from my previous one about the kitchen makeover. The garden has always been the most important ‘room’ for us and much of the work we are currently doing is in its own way a sort of renovation, making structural changes which will lay the foundation for the eventual garden we have planned. (Not that it will ever be finished as such, that never happens.) When we first came to view the property, the so-called Secret Garden was bigged up as quite a horticultural feature. I believe that gardens should have lots of hidden little nooks and crannies and part-glimpsed views that make you want to go forth and explore; it’s possible to achieve even in the tiniest of spaces with a bit of ingenuity, and finding a hidden seat, unexpected feature or surprise planting is surely one of the great joys of wandering around someone else’s garden for the first time. To be honest, the Secret Garden has failed to deliver in the time we’ve been here, partly because there really isn’t anything remarkable to see when you get there – there’s no real obvious point to it – but mostly because it’s such a dark, shady spot that nothing grows well . . . and I do love a garden where things at least stand a chance of thriving and being happy.
I managed to grow a few vegetables in there last year, things like lettuce, oca and New Zealand spinach which didn’t seem to mind the limited sunlight but nothing else was very enthusiastic and the flowers I planted were hopeless. We decided to do an honest assessment and agreed that it was time for a big change, starting with removing the old and seriously abused cherry tree which saddened me every time I looked at it and then taking out the hedge of kerria japonica which had promised much last year but was in fact mostly dead.
With the ugly shed gone, too, the vista has opened up and the Not-So-Secret-Garden is suddenly filled with far more light and a less oppressive feeling. I’m hoping things will stand a better chance this summer, including the poor fig tree that is planted in completely the wrong place but is far too big to risk moving. The miserable fruits it produced last year really said it all but perhaps with more light, air and warmth around it, this year will be more encouraging. We shall see.
As we’re not given to wanton destruction, we left the growing arch but set about rescuing the wisteria that was climbing through the other plants in a huge tangle; its few flowers were very underwhelming last year which is hardly surprising given its position. Ideally, it should be growing splendidly up the front of the house but like the fig, it’s well beyond moving so we’re trying Plan B. I’ve mentioned before how the internal garden hedges all run the wrong way (east-west) so we’re adding lots of our own on a north-south axis to carve up the spaces across the width of the garden and provide breaks from the prevailing winds. Roger made a post and wire fence and built a pergola to create a gap through, then untangled the wisteria spaghetti from the hedge and dragged it up and over in the hope it will be a happier plant for being in more light.
We will plant a climbing rose to meet it over the pergola and another at the end of the fence which between them should create a living, colourful, scented barrier with a view glimpsed through the archway to tempt us beyond. Having taken delivery (at last!) of the replacement rosa rugosa plants, we planted a few to finish the new ‘hedge’ and will continue to add a mass of scented roses in the newly enclosed grassy space which will be the perfect place for a table in summer. We quite fancy a crocus lawn, too.
By the way, when I went out with the camera to take those photos, I was mobbed by great tits once again. This has now become the norm: I step outside and they fly in like a squadron of winged monkeys, then sit as close as possible and watch me or else follow me wherever I go. It’s nothing to have a following of a dozen birds or more accompanying me all the way down to the compost heap (which they immediately fly into and start inspecting as soon as I’ve emptied the bucket) and back again. The instant I even hint at moving towards their feeders, it becomes something like the red kite feeding frenzies I’ve seen so often in mid-Wales – it would be a complete nightmare for anyone with a bird phobia. It’s a good job I love them, although even I will be very pleased when their thoughts and attention turn towards nests and eggs!
Back to work and Roger seems more than a little bit amused by my infatuation with our new shed. He has even asked me if I’m planning to move in there (possibly wishful thinking on his part 🤣); I’m not, but to be honest, it’s probably in better shape than the
hovel house we first moved to in Asturias. He says it looks a bit like a cricket pavillion which is a slight worry as the logical progression from that kind of thinking will be installing a beer cooler and (please, NO!) a radio for the cricket commentary. The reason for his amusement is that, having had good enough weather to finish the exterior painting, I moved inside and started on a bit of interior decorating, too. Now if at this point your thoughts are running along the lines of, “But it’s a shed!” I completely understand so bear with me, there is a certain method in my madness.
When we moved here, we found a large hoard of paint had been left in the barn; every tin had been opened and part-used and many of them had gone off and needed to be taken for safe disposal. There are some, though, that are still perfectly serviceable and although none are the colours we would choose ourselves, it seems silly not to use them if we can. Rummaging through the collection, I found a couple of tins of identical ivory white emulsion which I decided would be ideal for the enclosed bit of the shed; both tins (weirdly) had been opened and used, one was totally shot and the other very separated but I managed to revive it with a lot of aggressive stirring. Why anyone would pay a premium to have five litres of white paint specially blended on one of those customised mixing machine thingummies (and then not use it) I have no idea but it’s done the job and has rendered the shed so bright and light that I think it will be the perfect place for sheltering young, tender plants when we get to that ‘lift them out in the daytime, tuck them up at night’ stage of things. On a roll, I decided the rest of the internal walls in the covered shelter bit also deserved a facelift and for that I chose something described as a ‘vintage look’ bluewash. According to the label it is ideal for garden fences – although why you’d want to go round ‘antique-ing’ your fences in pale duck egg, I’m not sure. That said, why would anyone want to colourwash a shed, either?😆 I have to confess, the effect is totally lost on me, it just looks like someone forgot to apply the top coat but each to their own.
If nothing else, it’s all looking a lot cleaner and fresher now and I’m happy that I’ve added to the weatherproofing which hopefully will increase the longevity of the shed, I’ve banished every last trace of that horrible orange-brown and it’s kept several litres of paint out of the waste stream. I’m now thinking it would be lovely to have something a bit more attractive than basic garden seats at the front, maybe a little bistro set, and I’m trying very hard not to investigate the possibility of waterproofing some pretty fabric bunting to hang along the front. After all, if I start doing frivolous girlie things like that, I won’t be able to hold out against the cricket commentary . . . and there are some things I really don’t need disturbing the peace and beauty of the vegetable garden.
Isn’t it funny how as soon as one part of the house or garden has been tidied up, other bits can start to look a bit daggy? Looking down the garden towards the shed, I’ve been finding the compost system a bit of an eyesore these past few days. Don’t get me wrong: I love this system, it’s the best we’ve ever had and, like the shed, was made from reclaimed materials. The problem is, rusty corrugated iron has its own brand of ugly which doesn’t really bring much to the surroundings. I was mulling over the idea of planting a living screen when the rugosa roses arrived and there, suddenly, was the perfect answer; we planted a row of five in front of the compost bays, leaving plenty of room behind to manoeuvre a wheelbarrow in and out and turn the heaps. Forget the Secret Garden; give the roses a couple of years and we’ll have a Secret Compost Station instead . . . although no doubt the great tits will still be able to find me down there with my bucket.
Imagining the rose hedge in full bloom in front of the compost bays had me thinking it would be a good idea to create a bit of a border opposite along the side of the shed. We’re planning to put a climbing rose up the trellis, so why not make room for a few other lovelies to keep it company? Eventually, it will stretch the whole length of the shed but initially I’ve gone as far as I can until the water butt moves round the back. Creating lasagne beds has become second nature to us now and we’ve got ourselves pretty organised with various piles of green and brown materials ready to hand; for instance, there’s a space in the Oak Shed dedicated to dry storage of sawdust, bark chips, dead leaves and cardboard to collect in a barrow when needed. To start this new bed, I laid the cardboard that our new plants had been delivered in (no waste here), then topped with layers of hay, dead leaves and twiggy branches, sawdust, greenery from a chopped conifer, yarrow leaves and compost from the trunk of the old apple tree we cut a couple of weeks ago. I’ll keep adding to it, then pop sturdy plants into pockets of compost in spring.
Something that has already started to make an attractive ‘hedge’ are the cardoons I raised from seed last year. Undaunted by the season, they have continued to grow and make a lovely metallic silvery splash with their huge leafy fronds and already have small flower heads nestled deep in their centres. Like their close cousins the globe artichokes, the leaves make a wonderful cleansing tea, perfect for this time of year and particularly refreshing combined with lemon verbena and lemon balm. I’m amazed at how quickly I’m getting through some of the herbs I dried last summer, things like the peppermint are nearly all gone, so I’m making notes of what I need to dry far more of this year. My favourite blend at the moment is hawthorn, lemon balm, lemon verbena, blackcurrant leaf, lavender and rose petal; it’s looks like pot pourri and is the taste of a summer’s day in a cup. The rose petals, however, do a great job of clogging my teapot spout so I’m beginning to think I might need to invest in one with an insert strainer – either that or a packet of pipe cleaners.
Something else I need to organise this year is a far better range of overwintering food crops in the tunnel. Last year it all got away from me thanks to failed germination, soil pests and ten days away in early September during which the longest, hottest, driest spell of the whole summer cooked the seedlings to a crisp. Only the rocket survived, although a few coriander seedlings have popped up in the last couple of weeks which promise a good picking of tasty leaves months ahead of the outdoor stuff (which is the idea of the tunnel, after all). The rocket has been a reliable cropper for months and is now looking to flower which I shall let it do in the hope of never needing to plant it again once the seedheads burst. To go with it, I shall be sowing several kinds of cut-and-come-again lettuce, land cress, lamb’s lettuce, pak choi, mizuna, red mustard, mesclun, radicchio, chicory, winter purslane, flat-leaved parsley, chervil, chard, beetroot and spring onions, all of which should give us plentiful and varied salad dishes through winter. That said, I was really thrilled to pick a lovely lunchtime salad this week: rocket from the tunnel combined with outdoor baby chard and beetroot leaves (their new growth is incredible), land cress, perpetual spinach and very young dandelion leaves which are such a nutrient-rich food at this time of year. Sprinkled with a few pickled nasturtium seeds and calendula petals, it was a deliciously fresh and tangy dish, lighter than a winter slaw but bursting with colour and flavour.
When the long-awaited plants finally appeared, we spent a happy afternoon adding almost 50 new trees to the patch. Some stand alone in splendid solitude, others nestle shoulder to shoulder in strips of hedging; all will bring something special to our garden and the ecosystems within it. Willow is probably one of the best trees we can plant: it’s fantastic for wildlife, an unfussy and speedy grower, propagates like a dream, provides great winter colour and has a hundred and one uses around the garden. We’ve planted a long, snaking hedge between the end of the veggie patch and the (eventual) pond, mostly basket willow and golden willow but also a smattering of the less common ear willow (the lovely-sounding saule à oreillettes in French). Cornus mas, the Cornelian cherry, with its delicate yellow spring blooms and glossy red edible fruits should make quite an impact as will the autumn fire of maples and red oaks. Alder buckthorn is the main food source for brimstone butterflies and offers a crop of fruits for the birds to pick at, as does the crab apple (although I shall be after a few of those, too, for making into jelly). Bladder senna is not something we’ve ever grown but I’m taken with its pretty yellow pea-type flowers and fascinating balloon seed pods and what’s more it’s a nitrogen fixer.
With the rest of the rugosa roses planted, too, we can suddenly see a new structure emerging from the blank canvas we started with, and by the time we’ve added the pile of plants waiting in the tunnel – those young tree seedlings from around the patch we potted up in the autumn – then the lines and curves of new spaces should be more clearly defined. I particularly love the meandering hedge we’re planting to separate the vegetable garden from the orchard; we’re doing it piecemeal, dotting different plants along a curving line and gradually filling in between so that eventually there will be a thick, eclectic hedge giving shelter from the north-easterly winds, providing food and habitat for a wealth of wildlife and adding shape, structure and colour where previously there was none. We’re leaving several paths through so we can wander from one garden ‘room’ to another or simply graze the edibles from along the hedge. It’s like sketching charcoal lines on a blank canvas to start giving shape to the finished picture, a glimspe of what (hopefully) the eventual painting will look like. Probably not a masterpiece, but – like the kitchen – somewhere colourful, comfortable and quirky where we can work or relax and share happy moments. Worth the wait, surely?
I must apologise for squeezing in two posts so close together this week but this one will actually be the last for a while. We have a very hectic few weeks ahead and I need to concentrate on all that must be done; also, most of that time – starting on Monday – will be spent without internet which means an ‘obligatory blogging break beckons’ (try saying that little lot quickly!). I shall miss the writing and reading other bloggers’ posts, too, so there will be much catching up to do come mid-March by which time, the swallows will be on their way back and spring will definitely be in the air. Now there’s a wonderful thought! Until then . . . 😊