Blogging again? I know this feels almost like I’m writing back-to-back with my last post but there is method in my madness. I’m very aware that I often suggest activities or announce that I’m planning to do such and such but never actually get round to reporting back, so it’s time to put that right. Last time, I said that I was going to join the eBMS (European Butterfly Monitoring Scheme) . . . and so I have. Yesterday, I did my first official transect walk and will endeavour to do it once a week now for the rest of the butterfly ‘season’ if weather conditions allow so, hot off the press, I thought I would share my experience so far in the hope of encouraging others to give it a go, not to mention proving that I do actually do some of these things I promise to! 😉
What does it entail? To begin with, you have to set up an account which is a very straightforward procedure. Next, you need to choose where your transect walk is going to be and map it, splitting it into sections according to habitat if appropriate. This is a more complex procedure but there are plenty of eBMS videos on YouTube which explain everything step by step and if a techno-numpty like myself can negotiate it, then anyone can! The advice is to restrict the walk to around a kilometre in length as this is a ‘do-able’ distance to walk once a week; mine is 1036 metres in total which as an out-and-back route rather than a circular one, gives me a pleasant two kilometre wander. I’ve split the transect into two sections, the first going around the internal boundaries of our garden and the second along the lane from our house, the central line of which gives 2.5 metres on either side to take in verges and hedgerows. As some of these are backed by large fields where industrial agriculture is practised (few or no trees and hedges, monoculture crops of grain or maize, regular use of chemical sprays) and others by more traditional meadows that are grazed sporadically by cattle, cut for hay and never sprayed, I feel there are some interesting contrasts along the route.
Having read through the guidelines several times, I began to get myself organised for the first foray. For starters, I needed to record the finish time so had to take a watch as I don’t normally wear one. There is a free app to download if you want to record on a smartphone but as I don’t have one, I’m doing it the good old-fashioned way with paper and pencil; there is a downloadable recording sheet to print off but I opted for an old hardback A5 notebook which I thought was more environmentally-friendly and much easier to manipulate in the field than a sheet of paper. The camera was essential, especially if I needed to check identification, but I must admit it all started to add up to a bit of a juggling act; next time, I think some kind of bag would be a good idea. (I appreciate a phone would be easier but I really don’t want one. Ever.) Fully kitted out, I noted my start time and set off . . .
Peacock butterfly (Aglais io) on a buddleia flower in the garden.
I like the fact that weather conditions such as cloud cover, wind speed and direction and temperature need to be noted as it feels like a good observation to start the walk with, an opening of awareness of the environment around me and a focus on the task ahead. Then followed what has to be one of the most interesting and enjoyable hours I’ve had in a while during which I learnt several important things:
Butterflies are not easy to count! By their very nature they are fidgety creatures and trying to count a gathering of them can be quite mesmerising; perhaps it’s not so much the counting as the counting and identifying at the same time that is tricky and I could see straight away that doing this with a partner would make life so much easier.
Gatekeeper (Pyronia tithonus) butterflies are very active and numerous . . . not the easiest to count.
Identification is key ~ stating the obvious, really, but it brought home how insecure my recognition of butterflies is, especially when it comes to all the little brown types. Photos helped and where I couldn’t get a decent one, I scribbled notes in my book to give me some clues with identification later; for instance; ‘blue wings closed, brown open’ along with a photo too blurry to share was enough to help me track down a female Common Blue (Polyommatus icarus). That’s another point: males and females of a species can look very different from each other which doubles the identification requirement. Orange Tip butterflies are a good example; there’s no mistaking the male with his bright colouring but females lack the orange and can be easily mistaken for one of the white butterflies. Closed wings are another issue and I realise how important it is for me to learn to recognise each species with their wings folded as well as wide open. There’s so much to learn.
The Comma (Polygonia c-album) is one butterfly I can easily recognise with closed wings . . . . . . and definitely impossible to mistake once they are open(ish).
It’s essential to focus. When out and about wandering, I tend to be a bit of a butterfly myself with my attention flitting from one thing to another depending on what catches my eye. This is fine under normal circumstances but absolutely no good when trying to count butterflies: one hundred per cent concentration is necessary. It took me a while to stop zooming in on every wild bee I saw or turning my head at the sound of a bird because that is second nature to me; I also found myself stopping to take butterfly photos, not of species I couldn’t identify but just because they were there (and sitting still!). Next time, I need to be far more disciplined and use my ‘butterfly eyes’ on the walk out, taking photos only of those I don’t recognise, then spending my walk home looking at other things and clicking away to my heart’s content with the camera. I think that will work.
Common carder bee on red clover . . . not a photo I should have been taking. 😬
Returning home, I needed to spend a while making sure I had correctly identified all the species I had seen before creating my first sample record. I found the photos on the Butterfly Conservation website a really useful starting point, although as there are 260 species of butterfly in France (as opposed to 59 in the UK), I shall also be using the Butterflies of France site, too. Both sites use the Latin name as well as the common one which is helpful as I need to enter the Latin name in the record; becoming familiar with these will be another interesting learning curve. Entering the data is easy enough and there is the option of including up to four photos (which of course appeals to me greatly). That’s all there is to it.
Large White (Pieris brassicae)
So, what did I find out? Well, in all I saw ten different species of butterfly and 78 in total, plus a single Garden Tiger moth (Arctia caja) and Hummingbird Hawk-moth (Macroglossum stellatarum) ~ moths can also be recorded. Gatekeeper (Pyronia tithonus) butterflies were by far the most numerous, both in the garden and along the lane, accounting for 44 out of the 78 with Meadow Brown (Maniola jurtina) coming in second. I was disappointed there were no Swallowtails about given how many have been in the garden in recent weeks but this is about scientific observation, not trophy hunting. What did strike me was how (Gatekeepers apart) the sample definitely differed along the route. There were more Red Admirals (Vanessa atalanta) in the garden feeding on buddleia and verbena bonariensis and it’s there I saw the only Peacock and Comma butterflies, too. At the point along the lane where I found myself under mature trees and next to a meadow, suddenly ‘new’ species appeared including Speckled Wood (Pararge aegeria) and Brimstone (Gonepteryx rhamni), both of which were happy to stay still long enough for photos. I’m interested to see if this is something that will occur in the same way in future walks and also how the numbers and range of species changes as we head through the rest of summer and into the autumn months.
Brimstone (Gonepteryx rhamni)
I also realised how useful my recognition of plants is going to be in helping with any tricky identifications; I am certainly a more confident botanist than entomologist and as many butterflies are specialists when it comes to their choice of plants for feeding and breeding, a secure ID may well come down to the plant species growing within my transect. It’s very easy in any discussion of how to support butterflies to focus on the ‘best’ nectar plants for adults but in truth, we need to be considering the entire life cycles of different species and what is needed for caterpillars to feast on or pupae /adults to survive through winter. For instance, the caterpillars of the Speckled Wood feed on several common grass varieties but the adults almost exclusively feed in treetops on honeydew produced by aphids. It’s all very fascinating and another reminder of how connected everything is in the complex multi-layered web of life.
Speckled Wood (Pararge aegeria)
On the subject of plants, I was pleased at how the verges along the lane have recovered from a very early cut. This isn’t normal practice but was done in preparation for a major cycle race that came this way; I understand the need for safety but was sad to see the orchids chopped to ground level in their prime. It’s amazing how nature heals itself and bounces back, though, and there was a wealth of flowers the whole length of my walk, sustaining not just butterflies but plenty of other insect species, too. This is a good thing and I hope the verges are left in peace for some time now as they are such an essential source of food; unfortunately, hedge-cutting season starts again tomorrow, but that is another story . . .
I’m excited about this activity, such a small thing in itself but I hope of some use in the long run to those who monitor and analyse the data. I didn’t find any rare species and I have no idea whether the amount of butterflies I saw in a kilometre of walking was relatively large, small or indifferent but that doesn’t matter: it feels like a simple but positive thing to be doing and if nothing else, it’s opening my eyes further to the life contained in the local environment and giving me new things to ponder and learn. I’m already looking forward to my next walk with butterflies, I just hope it has stopped pouring with rain by then! 😊
If all mankind were to disappear, the world would regenerate back to the rich state of equilibrium that existed ten thousand years ago. If insects were to vanish, the environment would collapse into chaos.
E.O. Wilson
I’m starting this post where my last one left off with a photograph of a hummingbird hawk-moth. The garden is full of these beauties at the moment and they are a delight to watch (and listen to ~ they really do ‘hum’), darting from flower to flower with rapid blurry wingbeats and sipping nectar from tubular flowers with an impossibly long proboscis. They are summer visitors, migrating northwards from southern Europe for the breeding season and preferring to fly on bright, sunlit days. They have been shown to have good memories so that individuals will head back to the same feeding grounds and flowers at the same time of day; I haven’t carried out a scientific study of this but I can say there is a patch of lavender on the way to the washing line where I could probably set my watch (if I had one) by the arrival of two moths each morning. Nature never fails to amaze me. It’s incredible stuff.
Watching these fascinating creatures has been a highlight in a week where I’ve been reading some pretty chilling reports about the global decline in insect numbers; it’s not new news but depressing all the same. Globally, the figures generally quoted are a decline in 40% of species with a third being endangered while recent research in Europe suggests a fall in numbers of flying insects there of around 70%, with the worst losses occurring in low altitude areas of high human activity. The reasons given have a predictable ring to them ~ habitat loss, intensive agriculture and the use of pesticides, light pollution and climate change ~ while the possible consequences of the threat to ecosystems, food webs, soil health, crop production and pollination are dire. To quote Prof Dave Goulson at the University of Sussex, UK, in a 2019 news article, “Love them or loathe them, we humans cannot survive without insects.”
The State of the UK’s Butterflies Report 2022, available for download here, describes how ‘in the UK, long term trends show that 80% of butterfly species have decreased in abundance or distribution, or both since the 1970s.’ As with all these things, I’m not singling the UK out (some of the most damning research I have been reading has come from elsewhere), it’s just that’s where I come from and so the literature and cultural understanding are most accessible to me; it also happens to be a country where insect population counts and studies are comparatively high, so the data is plentiful. It’s shocking and almost unbelievable to read that British butterflies have disappeared from 50% of known habitats since I was a child. My parents and grandparents recalled ‘clouds’ of butterflies in their younger days and I’d like to think that’s what my grandchildren and great-grandchildren will experience, too. For most of my lifetime, the focus on endangered species has been almost exclusively on large animals such as tigers, elephants, whales, polar bears, pandas and snow leopards: is it time nature had a new poster child?
It’s not all bad news, of course; population numbers and distribution of some insect species are increasing and support campaigns aimed at specific species have proved to be successful. This fills me with hope! Like so many other potentially catastrophic situations facing us today, it’s all too easy to feel despondent and powerless, to rant and rage or wail and weep but as long as there is the tiniest chink of light, the finest thread of hope, then I prefer to remain optimistic and do something. As individuals, we can’t wave a magic wand and make it all better but I fervently believe that every single gesture we make, no matter how tiny or seemingly insignificant, does help to make a difference. A drop in the ocean? Well, yes . . . because what is an ocean if not a wonderful abundance of tiny drops?
So what can I do? I’m not an entomologist or a biologist, barely an amateur naturalist, to be honest, as my ability to identify insect species yet alone understand their life cycles is woefully inadequate and I never take notes. However, I enjoy observation and will happily lose myself for far too long wandering about watching the insect life on our patch, sometimes with a magnifying lens or camera, often just armed with my eyes and a sense of wonder. I applaud the rise in ‘citizen science’ which encourages ordinary folk such as myself to be involved in meaningful observations and counts ~ of which more later ~ but there are also simple things that I can do beyond the ‘hands-on’ activities which could contribute to a positive change in the situation. In a BBC Science Focus article, Vicki Hird (entomologist and Head of Sustainable Farming Campaign for Sustain: The Alliance for Better Food and Farming) suggests nine ways in which we can help save insects from extinction:
Buy organic food and clothes to support farmers who produce without using pesticides and with nature in mind. Buy the least-processed things as possible.
Don’t buy clothes (and other stuff) you don’t need; repair, re-use and recycle to take the pressure off land use.
Let your garden go wild: try ‘no-mow’ and digging less. Don’t be too tidy.
Buy plants from local suppliers, or save/swap your own seeds and plants with others.
Get children interested in bugs: build curiosity and fascination, not fear.
Join a wildlife group
Take part in insect surveys
Promote wildflower verges
Join the movement: take photos, share and talk about them with others.
What struck me most about this list is how some of those gestures are often cited as ways in which to reduce carbon footprints, walk more lightly on the earth, reduce waste, help tackle climate change and the like. In fact, other lists of ideas I found included reducing water use, making compost, recycling, reducing light pollution, reducing carbon emissions, community projects . . . all very familiar to my ears! It also brings home the sheer wondrous complexity of life and the way in which everything is connected; perhaps it’s a cultural thing to focus on the cute and cuddly but I’d like to make a case for loving the little flying, crawling, buzzing creatures on whom we all depend. We need insects now more than ever.
Time to hug a bug, then? Maybe not exactly, but I think the point about cultivating curiosity and dispelling fear is key; I appreciate that many insects might not come across as an obvious subject of affection, especially those with a reputation for biting, stinging and spreading disease, but they all have a crucial role and are deserving of our respect at the very least. It might well require a shift in attitude but every time we spray, swat or stamp on an insect, we are removing it from a food web and wiping out whatever important part it has to play in an ecosystem. How, then, can we adjust our perceptions of many ‘love to hate ’em’ species? For a start, I think a little reflective reading and research may be necessary; ironically, in the age of information overload, it’s all too easy to get the wrong end of the stick.
Let’s take rose chafers as an example. An internet search throws up many sites about these ‘pesky pests’ and many ways in which to annihilate them on account of the fact they can devastate roses and other garden plants . . . but these tend to refer to the American rose chafer (Macrodactylus subspinosus) rather than the European rose chafer (Cetonia aurata) which is a completely different creature ~ this is where the Latin classification comes in handy. We have a healthy population of the latter species in our garden and I love to watch them. The adults are a beautiful iridescent emerald green and spend their time ponderously rummaging about in flowers for nectar and pollen; I’ve been observing them closely all summer and I’ve yet to see any damage to flowers. They don’t feed exclusively on roses (the one in my photo below is on a parsnip flower) but they do love the rugosa roses and far from being a pest, I’m certain that many of the rosehips I wrote about last time have come about thanks to their pollination efforts. Furthermore, the larvae play an important part in the decomposition of decaying vegetation and I often find a few when I turn the compost heap. Definitely an ally in my book.
Even where there’s no mistaking what species we’re talking about, a change in focus might be necessary. I think it’s fair to say many people aren’t great fans of wasps (by which I mean the common wasp Vespula vulgaris), seeing them as a nuisance, particularly in summer when their liking for sugary foods draws them to picnics, ice creams and ripe fruit . . . and, of course, they can sting. However, their benefits far outweigh the nuisance factor if we could just look at them in a different light. They are top predators and play a huge role in controlling other species that can destroy food crops; it’s not only ladybirds and hover flies who are champion aphid chompers. They also eat nectar and their activity inside flowers aids pollination, which is particularly useful in degraded or fragmented habitats as, unlike honey bees, they are generalists. They lead fascinating social lives and build exquisite nests by making paper from collected wood; there’s many a time I’ve watched them scraping away at our garden furniture! Furthermore, the venom that causes so much trouble in their stings is currently being researched as a possible treatment for cancer. It’s important to bear in mind, too, that they aren’t the only wasp: there are thought to be around 9 000 species of wasp in the UK alone, many of which are tiny solitary wasps which play vital roles in pollination and pest control.
Hover flies are sometimes confused with wasps; both are great garden allies.
Learning to live with insects might make us feel less than comfortable but it is possible. We currently have a wasps’ nest in a hole at the end of a row of peas; it’s close to one of our favourite sitting areas in the garden but there is no question of trying to destroy it (needless to say, there are plenty of nasty suggestions of how that could be done). With young grandchildren coming to stay next month, we are planning to put up a barrier as obviously the idea of anyone putting a foot into the nest doesn’t bear thinking about but in the meantime, we are happy to watch the comings and goings from the nest and the wasps aren’t bothering us one bit. In the same way, we left the feral honey bees that set up home in the house wall last spring to run their natural course. Being high up under the eaves, their flight path was well above our heads and in themselves, they weren’t any trouble apart from the few that found their way through into the bathroom each day and needed to be let out.
In May, they swarmed and settled in a nearby buddleia bush, giving us a good view of them before they departed a couple of hours afterwards. Six days later they swarmed again (there had obviously been a lot of queen-rearing going on), a huge swarm this time which clustered by the front gate before taking off 48 hours later, heading over the top of the house and northwards. The much-depleted nest was obviously left queenless since over the last few weeks, the numbers of bees have dwindled to almost nothing. It’s for the best as they really weren’t in an ideal place but I’m happy the original small swarm has generated two much bigger ones which hopefully have settled into new homes locally and through doing what comes naturally, have contributed to the genetic diversity and health of the colonies.
The first swarm in May: the second was at least three times the size but in an impossible spot for photographs!
Perhaps, then, it would be helpful to develop a ‘do nothing’ approach to insects and learn to tolerate them instead of eradicate them? I appreciate that many species really aren’t everyone’s cup of tea, but butterflies have a universal appeal so in terms of getting involved, what better way than by counting butterflies this summer? The 2023 Big Butterfly Count is already underway in the UK and continues until the 6th August so there’s still plenty of time to take part. It’s open to anyone anywhere in the UK, and takes only fifteen minutes to complete so it’s a perfect way to connect with nature while performing an important act of citizen science. In the same way, the European Butterfly Monitoring Scheme (eBMS) offers involvement in one of the biggest citizen science networks and I’m glad to say, regardless of Brexit, it’s open to people living in the UK since ‘European’ here means the continent, not political landscapes. I’m planning to sign up and have a go; after being inspired to carry out close observations of wild bees on our patch this year, I think it would be hugely rewarding to now do the same with butterflies and if I can produce helpful data from our locality to inform research, so much the better. It could also well be an interesting exercise in identifying different plant species we could add to our list here in order to support a wider range of butterfly species in the future.
I’ll be honest: I’m not the world’s biggest fan of the horseflies and mosquitoes that leave me covered in angry, itchy bites all summer, I’m never keen to see house flies and blue bottles crawling over food and I wasn’t exactly thrilled to discover that clothes moths had trashed one of my few tidy t-shirts recently. Neither do I always feel too enamoured of the ants, aphids and weevils that seem to go all out at times to make my gardening life difficult but ~ and it’s a very big BUT ~ I understand and appreciate just how crucial these creatures are to the health of the planet and the future of all life. The numbers are mind-blowing. The Royal Entomological Society states that over one million species of insect have been discovered and described but there could well be ten million species globally, with approximately 1.4 billion insects for every single person on Earth. The fact that, despite these figures, insects are in such trouble brings home the terrible seriousness of the situation. Let’s learn to cherish and nurture them before it’s too late.
They say a change is as good as a rest and I have to agree that, despite all the difficulties the recent trip to Norway threw at us, I have returned home feeling inspired and invigorated. I spend so much of my day in the garden that it’s easy to become bogged down at times and end up not being able to see the wood for the trees. Travelling through northern France, Belgium, the Netherlands, Germany, Denmark and Norway offered an interesting opportunity to see what was happening in the fields and gardens and what fresh produce was available locally and, on our return, encouraged me to look at our own garden through fresh eyes. I’ve written before about how observation is a large and vital part of what I do in the garden but it’s wasted if I don’t also reflect and then take action (or not) accordingly. Time then for a few jottings, unapologetically disguised as a blog post as I’m such a hopeless note-taker and this is the nearest I come to any kind of diary!
Harvest
I smile when I read articles ~ very often related to permaculture ~ that speak of abundant, productive gardens only requiring a few hours of work a week (or month, in some cases); I often extol the virtues of ‘do-nothing’ gardening or ‘lazy’ gardening but that doesn’t mean there’s no work involved. Opting to grow a large variety and amount of food-bearing plants carries with it certain responsibilities and at this time of year, harvesting and processing crops demand a good deal of input. Harvesting will be a non-stop activity over the next few months so clearing the backlog quickly once we were home was essential. Top of the list were lifting the early potatoes (the foliage was blighted but the tubers are unblemished and the harvest a good one this year), lifting and drying the garlic, turning a glut of cabbages into sauerkraut, making aubergine and bean chutney and pickling gherkins. The tunnel is crammed with growth and there is a wealth of food lurking in the jungle but apart from getting on top of the aubergines, thankfully nothing in there is too pressing for the time being. I was given some seed of a Greek variety of aubergine called ‘Tsakoniki’ to try for the first time this year, recommended for having a particularly soft skin. The three plants have struggled in comparison to the other varieties they’re growing with, not helped when two of them were undermined by ants and had to be transplanted but the third (and smallest) has produced fruit ~ I had no idea they were so pretty. Tasty, too, and I’m hoping that as they are lagging behind the thugs a little, we might enjoy an extended harvest of these beauties into the autumn.
I don’t think we have ever had such a crop of peppers, they are already fruiting outside as well as in the tunnel and all three varieties are enormous! We’re eating peppers with everything, I love them as a hot vegetable simply sliced and cooked in olive oil with herbs, a few peas and olives (and maybe some steamed beans, too), it’s a combination which eats just as well cold as a salad or tapas-type dish. The beauty of peppers is that they can stay on the plant until we need them and given time, should ripen to yellow or red depending on variety at which point they will make a simple and colourful relish. They also freeze like a dream and make a useful addition to a host of winter dishes.
Timing the succession of dwarf beans is an art I’m still trying to master properly, it doesn’t seem to matter how long I leave between sowings, as we roll through summer they inevitably start catching up with each other. We missed the bulk of the ‘Purple Teepee’ while we were away but I’ve left the pods to swell and we will take the dried beans for next year’s seed and a useful winter storing pulse. The yellow ‘Dior’ is cropping heavily but green ‘Stanley’ has caught up so we are eating a mix of both; I’m not sure how a Californian poppy arrived in the bean bed but that’s the story of our garden and it adds to the pleasure of picking!
Tomatoes are a touch and go crop but I’m hoping our various strategies including very late sowing and spreading the plants far and wide are helping us to beat the blight problem. Despite one or two days of classic blight weather, so far everything is looking good and if it continues that way, we are in for a bumper crop. The plan is to reduce bulk for storage by cooking as many down into sauce as we can so very soon there should be a bubbling vat on the go every day.
Yellow ‘Tumbling Toms’ in a hanging basket; the ‘Sungold’ cherry tomatoes in the potager are also ripe, just the beautiful deep pink ‘Rosella’ to go.The first non-cherry variety to ripen outside is Finnish heirloom ‘Evakko’.
The currant harvest is coming to an end with an ample supply packed away in the freezer. The redcurrant bushes have produced so much fruit that we have been exploring different ways of using and preserving them; Roger has built a solar dehydrator from scrap bits and pieces and is experimenting with drying redcurrants to throw into homemade muesli. I have been making a redcurrant cordial, inspired by our recent Scandinavian adventure where it is a popular drink, and the tartness of it suits me well. The Cape gooseberries are a daily delight but I’m not planning on preserving them, just enjoying them fresh; surprisingly, the new Japanese wineberry bush is producing a decent amount of fruits which also make the perfect subjects for grazing. Roger returned from a bike ride a couple of days ago with a pot of fat, juicy blackberries foraged just along the lane; ours aren’t ready yet, but they are promising a bumper crop. With the melons just started and apples still to come, I’m very hopeful of us not having to buy a single piece of fruit for a long, long time (if at all).
Japanese wineberry: a new fruit option for us this year.
Soil
Looking after the soil is a top priority and another task that takes time, whatever the articles claim! As we work our way through the harvest and gaps start to open up in the planting areas, it’s time to turn my attention to some serious soil love. I was so pleased to finally get our compost system organised and working as I’d hoped and having turned the piles again this week, I was thrilled with the quality of the ‘finished’ bay; there is a huge heap of wonderfully dark, friable stuff which will be just perfect as a mulch on all the outdoor beds and in the tunnel. Cutting comfrey leaves and putting them into lidded buckets to ‘brew’ into comfrey tea is an ongoing activity; I use this most potent of natural liquid fertilisers to feed individual plants, particularly those grown in containers, but also to water the soil in general in order to add nutrition. Similarly, chopping stems to ground level and laying them down as a mulch works a treat. Calendula is one of my favourite plants, it brings so many benefits and as a cheerful self-seeder, I am happy to give it free rein. The majority of plants are going over now, being more seed head than flower with mildewed foliage; as any biomass represents a mulch to my mind, I’ve been chopping them and scattering the material across the surface of the soil around other plants. I’ve set some petals to dry for teas and baths and also macerate slowly in oil which will provide us with a healing treatment for sore skin over winter; nothing is wasted ~ even the scrappiest of flowers can be infused in boiling water in an old washing-up bowl to make a blissfully therapeutic soak for tired gardening feet.
There is no doubt that the soil is improving here with time and input but I’m still concerned at how quickly it dries out in any prolonged period of heat or drought; as a sandy loam, it is relatively free-draining and I still believe increasing the humus content is key and that hauling water or performing rain dances should be very much last resorts. There is still much to be done but part of my plan for the forthcoming weeks is to recycle as much spent foliage into mulch as possible while also scattering phacelia seed heads far and wide to give a cover of green manure during the winter months. It might not feel like hard work, but a chop-and-drop regimen does take time.
Seeds
Harvesting isn’t only about food; collecting seeds for next year’s crops is another ongoing activity and one which takes time as it’s essential they are ripened, dried and stored properly if they are to be viable. With each year that passes I save more and more varieties of seed and it would be a wonderful thing if eventually we could be completely self-sufficient without the need to buy from commercial producers. Apart from aubergines and the first sowing of melons, there has been a high rate of germination from all our saved seed this year and taking the time to select for certain characteristics seems to be improving the quality of our crops, too. It might be painstaking at times but it’s time well spent and I love the current sight of trays of peas drying outside in the sunshine and windowsills covered in plates of smaller specimens almost ready to pack and label. Collecting seed in this way also gives me time to consider new ideas so for instance, this week I’ve been collecting Welsh onion seeds (of which we have copious quantities) with the intention of growing them instead of spring onions next year. I can’t see why this shouldn’t work and given that Welsh onions thrive here where spring onions often dither, it seems well worth a try.
Even better than saving seeds is letting them scatter and sow themselves and this year it has been interesting to see how things are developing on that score; I doubt we’ll ever have a completely self-sown garden but in terms of building resilience and regeneration, it’s a key strategy. For instance, there was really no need for me to sow a single lettuce seed this year, the plants popped up everywhere both in the tunnel and every garden bed providing us with more than enough lettuce over several months. They have been setting seed well again this year and part of me wonders if there’s any point in saving any at all this time. The only thing we lack is a romaine variety which is always useful to have as they cook so well so I might have to add one to the mix next year. In the meantime, the rest are happily doing their own thing.
I’ve left volunteer tomatoes everywhere they appeared, partly out of interest to see how they fruit but also in the ongoing blight-avoidance scheme. One is growing just inside the tunnel door, it must be a seed that was in the compost I spread as we don’t plant any indoors (and I don’t sterilise our compost) but it’s looking strong and healthy with several decent trusses of fruit, despite the high humidity in Tunnel World. Could this be a blight-resistant strain? I will certainly be saving some of those seeds! I also left several capsicum seedlings that appeared in the melon bed just to see whether they had cross-pollinated; I’d like to save our own seed but whereas I’m happy for sweet peppers to cross, I don’t really want a pepper x chilli thing going on. As far as I can tell, the fruits look very like Padrón peppers to me and if they are, that is just perfect; the only way to tell will be to cook them up in that best of tapas dishes and watch out for the blisteringly hot one. Another keeper, I think, and as I’m not growing any (other) hot varieties this year, I can happily save sweet pepper seeds, too.
Padrón peppers? There’s only one way to find out . . .
Sharing
One of the loveliest things about being a gardener is having the chance to share with other people, whether that means exchanging seeds and other plant material, produce, ideas or anecdotes. Apart from simply being a pleasant human thing to do, I think it is increasingly important that we support and learn from one another as the future becomes so uncertain. I love the fact that I exchange regular messages ~ and, where possible, seeds and cuttings ~ with a number of like-minded ladies, including our two daughters, in several countries. We are an eclectic bunch who don’t always agree but we do share a great passion; I doubt it is within our power to turn things round but we can at least try to do our bit and I value the support and friendship I receive. I love the fact that in the garden this year there are two very rare varieties of tomatoes and potatoes, Majorcan pea beans, aubergines, perennial kales and Vietnamese coriander given to me as seeds and cuttings, several things growing on recommendation or inspired by others and of course, the bits and pieces given generously at the plant and seed swap we went to earlier in the year, including the morning glory plants which are so beautiful. In return, I give whenever I can and no year would be complete without a consideration of what I can meaningfully share as widely as possible.
Experiments
So much of what I do in the garden is experimental and I’m trying to be a little more organised in my observations and analysis this year to inform future decisions. We’ve so far had mixed results from the carrots, one half of a row has come out of the ground split and full of bugs (not sure what but something bigger than root fly) while the other half has been superb. The obvious reason for the splitting is sporadic moisture so there’s a good chance the drought in May played a part but why half a row? They were the same variety (Early Nantes) but from different seed suppliers so possibly that was a factor or perhaps the ground wasn’t holding moisture to the same extent along the row. Meanwhile, there is far too high an incidence of carrots going to seed amongst a row of ‘rainbow’ varieties which again is most likely down to weather issues. I need to really mull this one over as generally we have a tremendous carrot crop; the ‘Autumn King’ seedlings are going well so with a lot of love (and daily watering) fingers crossed for a better harvest later in the year.
No matter what we do, the garden usually throws up a few surprises and failures.
One of the greatest successes this year was planting the earliest peas in cardboard tubes in the tunnel rather than sowing them directly into the ground; not only did it confound the voles completely but we had one of the best ever crops and are currently enjoying a second harvest from the new top growth. Definitely one to repeat next spring.
Bonus peas.
The Florence fennel is going to seed yet again without having formed the fat white ‘bulbs’ I’d hoped for; it doesn’t enjoy heat very much and is water-greedy, preferring warm, damp summers which is why it grew so well in Asturias. Part of me wonders if it’s worth the bother, the other part thinks it’s not time to give up just yet so my plan for next year is to sow a few seeds at regular intervals over several weeks to hedge my bets with the weather and see what happens. If nothing else, we always end up with stems and leaves that a make useful flavouring in various dishes. The timing of melon planting is another issue to work on, but for the opposite reason: there is a limit to how much melon two people can eat and 20 or so fruit ripening at once isn’t ideal. This year I was a bit thrown by the fact that none of my first seeds germinated but next year I’m planning to sow a couple of seeds at a time so that I can stagger the planting and hopefully the harvest. We’ll see; for the time being, it’s melon with everything . . .
Anyone looking at the sheer amount of food on offer in the garden at the moment could understandably question why there is a need to be harvesting ‘wild’ foods, too, but I think it’s important to keep our minds and options open, especially when there are so many question marks hanging over the future. It has taken longer than we’d hoped for the rosa rugosa hedge to really get established but this year it has romped away so that as well as an ongoing mass of blooms, the bushes are dripping with hips. Rosehips have of course long been valued as a vitamin-rich wild forage and these rugosa types are no different, they just have the added bonus of being so much bigger and less fiddly to pick and prepare than their wild cousins. I’ve collected them in previous years to make tea but this year I’m trying a couple of new things, too. The first is a rosehip pickle, another Scandinavian-inspired idea. With time to kill before catching the ferry to Kristiansand, we had a wander round the harbour town of Hirtshals in northern Denmark and what struck me the most (apart from the ferocious wind!) was the abundance of rosa rugosa bushes in full bloom; it was the same in Stavanger and brought home what a tough plant they are, thriving in such a harsh, salt-laden environment.
So to the pickle and I wish all cooking videos were as short and beautiful as this one! Preparing the hips took some time and I soon discovered that the very ripe ones were best left for tea as far too much flesh came away with the seeds. I didn’t have any juniper berries so used a cinnamon stick instead, nothing like the same flavour, I know, but the kitchen smelt lovely while the pickle was cooking. The result? It’s delicious but very sweet to the point of reminding me of a spiced cherry jam we make using vinegar rather than water. In fact, if I’d left the mustard seeds out (those are what you can see in the photo below, not rose seeds!) it could easily be a sweet condiment which I think would work very well with pancakes or ice cream. Still, it’s an interesting pickle and I’m looking forward to enjoying it with crusty bread and a sharp cheese. I know that these hips can also be used as a tomato substitute in certain recipes so for the second experiment I will try cooking them, not so much as a pasta sauce (I’m hoping we will have more than enough tomatoes) but perhaps more of a garlicky, herby, savoury paste for bruschetta or maybe as a dip for raw vegetables.
Failures
Since gardening is a good metaphor for life, it is inevitable that things will go wrong somewhere along the way; it doesn’t do to be pessimistic or cynical, but there is a certain wisdom in expecting the unexpected. Seed saving can be a tricky area and I’ve been learning the hard way that it doesn’t pay to assume success, even where ‘easier’ seeds are concerned. Thanks to sensible advice, I now know that carrying out a test germination is a good plan so despite my saved aubergine seeds being a total failure, I shall try again this year and test them well in advance of sowing. Swedes have completely failed for the second year in a row and I’m happy to admit it’s pointless trying again, they just aren’t suited to our climate and if I’m honest, I’d rather eat squash, which we can grow with ease, as a hearty winter dish instead. If there is one thing that truly has me throwing up my hands in despair this year, it’s the summer brassicas; cabbages don’t do too badly but the cauliflowers and calabrese look terrible. Anyone who only likes happy pictures should look away now.
I love brassicas, they are such a diverse and versatile bunch, but this is pitiful. The problem? Quite simply, they hate the heat. Even though we have yet to have an official heatwave here this year, the long days of full sun and prolonged periods without rain don’t suit them at all, unlike the healthy row of dwarf beans growing next to them which revel in all that warmth. The brassica plants start to struggle and, sensing weakness, the vultures circle . . . or in this case, flea beetles which are all over them like a rash, despite the presence of healthy populations of predators such as ladybirds and parasitic wasps. Luckily, the purple sprouting broccoli and red kale are both holding on but two new varieties of kale I sowed alongside them in May, a pink frilly type and an Egyptian kale have been wiped out, despite being marketed as perfect for taking as baby leaves for summer salads as well as growing on to mature plants. I need a very serious rethink about what I’m trying to grow and when and observation is key here once again; we are currently tucking in to some Savoy cabbages which were sown very late last year, missed their traditional ready-to-eat-in-winter slot but have turned into fabulous plants now. I’m beginning to think we need to forget summer brassicas altogether apart from early pointed cabbages which grow well, and focus on spring and autumn instead. Frustrating, but it’s not like we’re short of good things to eat at the moment!
Surprises
We’ve had a heavy crop of cherry plums for the first time since moving here and much as the blackbirds would love to polish off the lot, they are just too good a food to ignore. They are relatively sour (think damsons here) so are just perfect for the kind of ‘marmalade’ Roger likes on his breakfast toast and as a compote for my breakfast oats; in both cases, the deep ruby colour is exquisite. I’m hoping this will be the first of many bumper crops . . . and yes, there are still plenty left for the birds!
When our local country store gave me a small sheet of paper impregnated with chamomile seed as a Christmas gift last year, I didn’t really hold out much hope. I’ve never had any success with such things in the past, despite trying them several times, and had come to the conclusion that it’s a lot easier just to sow seed as normal. Still, it was a free gift and as we don’t have any chamomile in the garden, I thought it was worth a try. Well, the good news is that for the first time ever, something has grown ~ something being the operative word because by no stretch of the imagination is that chamomile: hello, Livingstone daisies! I haven’t grown these little succulents since our children were small and I’d forgotten what pretty things they are; it’s a shame there are no bright colours in the mix but they are providing an unexpected splash of sunshine on the doorstep all the same.
There’s always so much going on in the height of the growing season and every year is different; this time last year, we were in the throes of the second of three heatwaves and the garden was burnt to a crisp. This year, everything has stayed greener and considering so many of the flowers are self-set annuals, there is still plentiful colour to enjoy around the patch. There is still so much to be done this year and no telling what next year might bring but I’m already mulling over ideas and hatching plans, thinking about changes and adjustments, what to drop and what to carry forward . . . and having a post like this to refer back to is always hugely useful, so thank you for bearing with me yet again! 😊
When we started talking about a second visit to Norway to see Sam and Adrienne for the first time in over a year, we decided to explore the possibility of driving. I’ve never liked flying and as I believe it’s something we should be doing rarely if at all these days, then the idea of a road trip instead appealed to me greatly. We’re no strangers to this kind of madcap adventure: many years ago, we famously drove from Cyprus to the UK with eighteen month-old Sarah on board and nothing booked except two ferries ~ it still remains one of the most incredible experiences of my life. In my opinion, travel is a privilege and a wonderful opportunity to open my eyes and mind to other people, places and cultures; it’s a reminder of how vast and precious our planet is and also that no matter what our differences may be, we are all still fundamentally human with much to celebrate together and learn from each other. We planned a route, gave the car a lot of love and attention and set off with excited high hopes. Ha, how the travel gods laughed . . .
Now, I am not going to write a blog post full of the trials and tribulations that dogged our entire journey because it was really down to a lot of bad luck, all part of life’s rich (and sometimes frustrating) tapestry and the blessing is that we survived unscathed. Just suffice to say nine hours into our journey on the first day, we broke down on a German motorway whilst travelling through roadworks with no hard shoulder which was a pretty terrifying moment . . . and so all our carefully-laid plans were instantly thrown to the wind. It’s the first time (thankfully) we’ve ever had to use the European emergency 112 number but I have to say the efficiency and kindness of everyone we dealt with was admirable and reassuring, and within a couple of hours the car was delivered to a local garage for diagnosis and we were checking into a completely different hotel than the one we had expected.
Much as we didn’t want to be there, I have to admit that Bad Essen wasn’t a terrible place to be stranded for a few days. A small town in Lower Saxony, it is famed for its half-timbered buildings and boasts pretty cobbled squares full of lime trees where a relaxed indulgence in café culture is almost compulsory . . . and boy, was the coffee good! It’s an interesting place to wander round, with a wealth of historic buildings, a marina on the canal, plenty of hikes through the woods above the town and cycle paths to tempt in every direction. If we hadn’t been feeling so stressed and frustrated, I think we could have had a high old time there!
For me, the most intriguing attraction was the SoleArena, a curious and eye-catching structure set in the grounds of a beautiful park. The walls are made from densely-packed twigs with water constantly flowing down them and I was puzzled as to why they didn’t rot until I realised that the water was salty. Very salty, in fact; this natural brine bubbles up from 800 metres below the surface with a mineral density greater than that of the Dead Sea, and the idea of the structure is that you can sit within the walls and breathe in health-giving vapours. It was a very tranquil, almost meditative place . . . I quite fancy one in our garden.
Time to fast-forward through events. In the end, we made it to Norway: not in our car or on the ferry we had booked and not for the length of time we had originally planned but having anticipated the trip for so long and already travelled so far, we weren’t going to be deterred that easily. Despite all the hassle and setbacks, the truth is that it was still a fascinating journey which allowed us a glimpse of several different countries and there was something special about sailing into Kristiansand between the tiny islands at Norway’s southern tip. Having arrived finally at our destination, it was time to relax and breathe in the beauty of the Norwegian landscape once again.
The plan for this trip had always been to do things as locally as possible and although our time had been cut short, it was amazing just how much we managed to pack in. The Stavanger food festival was great fun, a bustling and popular event with a mouth-watering array of international cuisine on offer. It was interesting to try little morsels of traditional foods such as cheeses and reindeer salami and come to a clearer appreciation of the Norwegian love affair with ice cream! No surprise, really, that one of the first stalls I was drawn to wasn’t so much about the food, but the wool: a farm selling wild salmon and small hanks of handspun fleece. I have long championed wool as a textile and it is certainly very valued in Norway ~ Sam was sporting a t-shirt made of the finest wool imaginable during our stay. I believe that travel should be inspirational so having also seen hand-felted woollen slippers, I vowed to get back to my spinning wheel as soon as I can and to source some Norwegian fleece in natural shades to play with.
Something I didn’t feel inspired to take up was bouldering, despite a visit to Gloppedalsura, the biggest stone scree in northern Europe. The sheer size of the rocks and cliffs was mind-boggling and I could see why this is a land whose folk history abounds with tales of giants and trolls; how else to explain the turbulent, tormented nature of such a landscape in bygone days before geologists hove into view?
Bouldering is a popular pastime in Norway, one that Sam and Adrienne enjoy a couple of times a week, but on this particular day the rocks were deemed too wet and slippery for anything more than a modest ascent (it might not look much but as Sam said, when you have boulders the size of houses then the gaps between them are just as big and a fall could be fatal). Up you go then, mountain goats ~ it stands to reason someone has to keep their feet on the ground to take the photos! 😉
In the nearby Byrkjedal region, we enjoyed a leisurely stroll around the lake, foraging for whimberries (bilberries) as we went. I was taken with the grass-roofed camping huts, thinking what a peaceful place it would be to spend a night although I imagine the mosquitoes would be a problem, especially with the dry conditions meaning a blanket ban on campfires and barbecues. Nice thought, though, and not a bad view to wake up to, either.
I’m not sure what Sam was pointing out but I do know it wasn’t that we should have thought to pack swimming costumes: he’s every bit his mother’s son when it comes to getting into cold water. 😆The rivers are so clean that it is perfectly safe to fill water bottles from them. Isn’t that how it should be?
Given Stavanger’s reputation for less than wonderful weather, we were lucky only to have one wet day during our stay and the rest of the time it was very pleasant. Remembering how cold it had been walking along a beach last year, I had packed a woolly hat but I’m glad to say it wasn’t necessary this time. In fact, it was warm enough to stand and watch a tern diving with dagger-like precision from a great height, swallows swooping low to pick flies from the sand, the clownish antics of vocal oystercatchers amongst the rocks and a flotilla of small ducklings paddling out to sea after their mother, casually disappearing under each wave before bobbing up unscathed. Magical. I was also taken with the wide diversity of flora along the paths we followed, in some cases such seemingly dainty specimens thriving in tough conditions.
In the same vein, a picnic in Stavanger Botanical Garden was a perfect opportunity to explore the diversity of plants growing at this coastal latitude; the garden was immaculate but predictably, I revelled in those wilder corners bursting with colour.
It’s perfectly possible to have a summer garden with an abundance of flowers but a year-round vegetable patch is a totally different matter, which is a reason I would struggle to live here. I was very impressed with the frilly red kale, though, which looked a lot healthier than mine does at present (thanks to heat and flea beetles), and that pink cosmos growing through it was definitely my kind of gardening.
With so much forage to hand, it’s not surprising that the entire garden reverberated with the buzz of busy insects and I was particularly drawn to the bumble bees feeding on a spectacular sea holly: how many bees can you fit on one flower?
Exploring new places is always interesting but our main reason for travelling was to spend time with Sam and Adrienne. Those moment of chatting and laughing, preparing and eating good food together, playing games or simply watching the world go by or wandering in companionable quietness is such an important part of reaffirming close bonds with loved ones, particularly those we don’t see very often. One of the many highlights of our visit for me was the morning Sam and I spent making music together; he plays piano and guitar far better than I can play my recorders but has less time to practise, so we thought it might be a bit of fun to muddle our way through a couple of contrasting duets. I chose Scott Joplin’s ever-enjoyable ‘The Entertainer’ whilst Sam opted for ‘Venetianisches Gondellied’ by Felix Mendelssohn, inspired by a rather beautiful rendering on clarinet by Andreas Ottensamer; we did consider doing a similar lakeside performance but it’s hard to shift a piano and anyway, the swans were already disturbed enough trying to protect their young from passersby without us adding to the excitement.
Notice how I kindly let the chaps go first . . .
I think we both felt a bit nervous (honestly, you’d think we’d know each other well enough by now!) but soon settled into a relaxed and enjoyable session, with lots of giggles and repeats, determined not to let the music beat us. We then moved on to messing about with a few pieces on spec, including a bourée by Bach and an Irish jig medley, both at breakneck tempo. Well, it was hardly a masterclass but that was never the aim; the point is, we had a lot of fun together and for me, that’s what music is all about. Of course, I have nothing but respect and admiration for professional musicians across all genres whose performances are awe-inspiring but at a personal level, I think there is so much pleasure and merrymaking to be had amongst ordinary folk with voices and instruments. After all, people have been making music together for millennia and it feels like a very gratifying expression of creativity, friendship and belonging. Sam and I have both been inspired to keep practising and, having discovered MuseScore software (as with most of these things, I’m probably years behind everyone else), I’m now having a lot of fun transcribing my indecipherable hand-scribbled bits and pieces into professional-looking scores that I’m far more likely to pull out of my file and play. Thanks, Sam, here’s to a return match . . . I’m assuming after the close encounter with that extremely aggressive bird, ‘Swan Lake’ won’t be on the playlist! 😂
The lake, Litla Stokkavatnet, is just a stone’s throw from Sam and Adrienne’s apartment and is a truly beautiful and tranquil place to walk; there are several wooden platforms which brave bathers like Adrienne use for wild swimming, an activity I was happy not to indulge in since I prefer water at bath temperature. As an alternative, Adrienne had booked a sauna for us all which promised to be interesting as they’re not something I’ve ever particularly enjoyed in the UK. However, this was going to be the real Nordic McCoy, a sweltering pine log stove in a hut on a floating pontoon where ladders allowed for cold seawater plunges to cool off and, with a lovely Norwegian friend on board, things were going to be done properly! I chickened out of sitting on the highest bench and felt that in terms of cooling off, simply stepping outside would suffice given it was only 12°C and lashing with rain; however ~ and rather miraculously ~ I found myself starting to enjoy the whole thing, even managing several dips in the sea (Me? Who’d believe it? 😮). I also began to understand the attraction, particularly in the dark depths of winter when the warmth and company must cut great comfort through the gloom; I’m not planning to build a sauna in the garden anytime soon but I’m really glad we did it. Tusen takk, Adrienne and Inga!
I managed a few dips but in truth I’m happy to leave that chilly sea to the eider ducks and oystercatchers.
Well, we set out to have an adventure and we certainly ended up with one, even if it wasn’t exactly what we’d planned. If nothing else, it was a good lesson in complacency and a reminder that not all surprises in life are pleasant ones! I talk often about building resilience in the garden but it applies to us, too, and having recovered from what felt incredibly stressful at the time, I’m sure we’re better people for it. What I do know is that we won’t be going anywhere for a long time now; the fully-repaired car can have a well-earned rest as we stay put at home, harvesting and processing food and preparing for a lovely time with guests. With my mobility improving all the time, there is much walking and cycling to be caught up on, too, which suits me fine ~I love a ‘slowly’ life on two feet or two wheels. Travelling can be a truly wonderful thing but there really is no place like home!😊
Is there ever a perfect time to leave a garden? I’ve never been the sort of person who can’t drag themselves away for fear of missing something and certainly, the chance for another Norwegian trip to spend time with Sam and Adrienne for the first time in over a year was not to be missed. The flipside, however, is that the garden is currently producing masses of fruit and vegetables, not only to be enjoyed now but also to feed us through the coming year and so I was a little anxious about everything holding up while we were away. This is why building resilience into the garden is so crucial and I’m quietly pleased at how that is going now; the polytunnel, pots, window boxes and hanging baskets were watered by some lovely friends halfway through our absence (you know who you are ~ merci ! 😊) and that kind gesture was enough to carry everything through in good shape. We arrived home in high heat and thundery weather but the first impression was very much of lush green growth and more fresh produce than we could shake a stick at.
Stir fry in a trug: globe artichokes, aubergines, peppers, carrots, courgettes, Welsh onions, yellow and purple dwarf beans, peas, New Zealand spinach and coriander leaves.
The border at the end of the Love Shack is looking pretty in pink with a rather shambolic muddle of roses, hollyhocks, nicotiana and comfrey. There’s some cosmos coming in there, too, which has nothing to do with me so it looks like the Seed Fairy has been busy again, especially as evening primrose, mallow, nigella and viper’s bugloss have all turned up in the mandala bed, too. In our absence, this little shed has become something of a maternity ward, as a spotted flycatcher has built her nest on a ledge and is now sitting tightly on her eggs; I’m not sure who was the more startled when I went bumbling in to look for secateurs! As I don’t want to disturb her any more than necessary, I’m keeping out of the way and improvising in terms of tools, so that I planted the last row of dwarf beans with nothing more than a stick; humans have gardened like that for millennia and it made me wonder just how many of our tools are really necessary. This is the eighth crop of beans I’ve planted this year and the only one to go straight into the ground as I’m hoping the usual weather and beasty issues of spring are well behind us now; with any luck, by the time the flycatcher fledglings venture out for the first time and prepare for their long trek to Africa, there will be a double row of healthy ‘Purple Teepee’ plants to carry us into the autumn.
With black radish and radicchio sown along with the beans, the outdoor planting season has come to an end; there will be winter crops to sow in the tunnel in September but otherwise, we’ve very definitely moved into harvesting mode now. It’s a job to know where to start. The tunnel is literally heaving with aubergines and peppers, so relishes and chutneys are in the pipeline. Outside, the peas have come to an end with the last bag going into the freezer for mushy peas at a later date and some pods left on the plants to dry for next year’s seed. The purple dwarf beans are also winding down but the yellow wax pod ‘Dior’ are proving to be an excellent eater and green ‘Stanley’ isn’t far behind. We have a bit of a cabbage event going on: I expected to come home to a glut of pointy summer cabbages, but there are also several huge Savoys which are all out of sync (they should have been cropping last January) and now it seems the autumn cabbage have failed to read their script as they are ready to eat, too. The only answer is to make sauerkraut and the summer ‘Greyhound’ are the perfect candidates for this. I’m not messing about with successional batches in Kilner jars this year but using more of a crock method in a huge pottery mixing bowl instead, then transferring the finished sauerkraut into jars to store in the fridge. There’s something very therapeutic about finely shredding the cabbage then massaging salt in so that the bulk reduces and brine appears but the real magic is in the fermentation process. Hooray for friendly bacteria!
Better late than never: winter Savoy cabbages in July
Garlic is easy enough to harvest, we just pulled the plants and lay them out in the sunshine to dry; the autumn-planted white garlic has produced massive bulbs this year and there is still the rose garlic to come so we might even have enough to see us through a year. The courgettes had produced some enormous marrows which I’ve cut and composted so that the plants continue to produce young fruit; the volunteer plant has smooth striped fruits reminiscent of the Italian ‘Coucourzelle’ we grew last year, but with four ‘Latino’ plants still going strong, we really don’t need it! I’ve just planted a couple of seeds as a new experiment this year to see if a super late sowing will yield plants that crop into November as the others will run out of steam as we turn into autumn. We’ll see. I’ve also just harvested 23 cucumbers, like the courgettes they are prolific plants that it doesn’t do to abandon for too long! I shall turn most of them into pickled gherkins ( les cornichons are very popular in France) but this also heralds the start of the chilled summer soup season which I love so much.
I’m the first to admit that my gardening style is probably best described as chaotic: I plant far too much of everything with a total disregard for space and happily turn a blind eye to volunteer plants that decide to join the party. The benefit of this is a thriving polyculture full of life and food which requires hardly any attention, the downside is that at this time of year it degenerates into a dense jungle which makes harvesting slightly daunting; finding the food amongst the flowers is also something of a challenge.
Cabbage, calabrese, cauliflower, celeriac, kale, lettuce, New Zealand spinach, leeks, dill, coriander, tomatoes and leeks are all crammed into this patch, along with a flowering carrot for good measure.Spot the vegetables . . . . . . there are some in here, too.
I love this abundant jumble but occasionally even I have to concede that it’s time to exert a modicum of control. I had left two self-set squash to scramble through the sweetcorn and climbing beans, interested to see what they would produce. Forget all those classic photos of well-behaved Three Sisters, the squash had gone berserk, trailing the entire length and width of the bed and clambering up bean poles and sunflowers alike, dragging vegetation down in their wake and shading the tomatoes I’d planted on the sunny side of the beans. Given they were putting most of their energy into growing enormous leaves and male flowers and what few fruits had set didn’t look anything special, I decided it was time for the chop.
Not that we are going to be short of squash: the indoor butternuts are already ripening whilst outside, the blues are doing what they usually do, tumbling down their Hügel beds and across the grass, leaving a trail of fine fattening fruits in their wake.
Increasing the variety and yield of fruit is an ongoing priority for us and although it’s a long term project, I’m pleased at how we are starting to reap the benefits; in fact, picking up some apples and grapes for a picnic in Germany last week, I suddenly realised they were the first shop-bought fruit we’ve eaten in many months as our own fruit ~ whether fresh, frozen or dried ~ is keeping us so well-supplied. We have a tremendous crop of red and blackcurrants and although the main flush of strawberries has come and gone, there is still a handful to be picked every day. Jostaberries have been a revelation, there won’t be a huge harvest in this first fruiting year but they are so plump, juicy and sweet that I am eating them straight from the bush like grapes.
JostaberriesHeading for a berry compote . . .
All our new fruit bushes have grown strongly, too much so in some cases. I’d forgotten that tayberries like to flaunt their bramble genes by scrambling across the ground but they have nothing on the goji berry which is a crazy, crazy thing. A little nudge into moderate behaviour was definitely required if the other bushes are to be left in peace so Roger has rigged up a post and wire structure to train the rampant ones upwards; fingers crossed it works. There’s no hope of controlling the melon plants which have reached the polytunnel roof in places but as they are annuals, it really doesn’t matter. I am desperate for that first perfumed whiff of a ripe specimen, they are so close now and the fruits seem much bigger than they were last year, not quite such ‘Petit’ Gris de Rennes this time. They have all grown very successfully from saved seed in soil enriched with our own compost and mulch and watered with rainwater so haven’t cost us a penny; given they are currently priced at around two euros apiece in the shops, that makes them foodie treasure indeed!
I’m really chuffed with the Cape gooseberries (or physalis, Inca berries, golden berries) which have morphed from the most delicate seedlings to dense, spreading carpets, each robust branch heavily laden with fruit on its underside. The golden fruits, nestling in their papery cases, are much smaller than the ones we grew in Asturias but are packed with flavour and sweetness; they make the perfect subject for grazing, as do the jewel-like Japanese wineberries, another new addition ~ is there anything nicer than wandering round a garden, nibbling on delicious things? ~ and I also love them with mixed with other berries and stirred through my breakfast oats.
Not wanting to be left out, the passionflower, which has made such an impact clambering all over the Oak Shed in recent weeks, has now set a number of egg-shaped fruits; as I suspect this is the ornamental Passiflora caerulea (I confess, I don’t know, I should really pay more attention when I buy plants) I doubt they will be particularly tasty but are an interesting addition to the garden all the same.
This time last year, the mown grass areas were browned to a crisp but less heat and more rain have led to a very different story this July. Certainly, the rate of growth has slowed but the grass is still thick and green and we came home to proof that a carefully-managed selective mowing regimen can bring as many benefits to wildlife as the uncut meadow areas. Forget tiptoeing through the tulips, finding my way through the bee-filled clover in summer footwear is quite an adventure!
Although the garden tends to start looking a little overblown and ragged around the edges as we slide into high summer, there is still a mass of floral colour both from intentional plantings and self-set beauties. In the gravel garden, I love the strident mix of yellow mullein, crimson crocosmia ‘Lucifer’, purple verbena bonariensis, metallic blue sea holly and magenta liatris but my current sweetheart is a single echinacea flower because this is the first time in 35 years of gardening that I’ve managed to raise a plant from seed to flower!
Oh, you little beauty!
Elsewhere, there are other individual stars making their own bold statements . . .
. . . and the predictable chaotic muddles of floral rainbows, too.
Officially, this is an asparagus bed . . . that Seed Fairy has been at it again, I think.
We had the loveliest time in Norway with Sam and Adrienne and I’m so glad that we went but the rest of the trip was a complete disastertotal nightmare very ‘interesting’ to say the least. I’m planning to write a bit about it in a future post but I think I need time to recover first! In the meantime, it’s good to have come home to an abundant and vibrant garden, a happy harvest and those indescribably beautiful early mornings that Mayenne does so well. No, there is no ideal time to be away but I am confident now that when we do go a-wandering (on shorter trips, at least), the garden is capable of looking after itself . . . and that makes me very happy indeed. 😊
This Simple Life 