seasonal beauty – This Simple Life

Taking it on the chin

May 10, 2024Tagged ecological gardening, growing fruit and vegetables, nature, permaculture, seasonal beauty, wildlife37 Comments

Despite my attempt to remain optimistic about all the destruction going on in the garden at the moment, I will come clean and admit that I was almost reduced to tears this week by the loss of plants I have been nurturing so carefully for so long. In a single night, five melons in the tunnel and five cucumbers outside were obliterated, their stems chewed right through; all six Cape gooseberries have been reduced to shreds as has anything with a hint of brassica about it; of the twenty red onions grown from seed I interplanted amongst young strawberries in the mandala bed, one remains. As if to rub salt into a very raw wound, the courgette in the tunnel has not only had its stem razored but ants are now doing their undermining thing and I’m wondering if one success with this idea in three years really warrants the loss of healthy plants that might do better outside (although I’m not holding my breath on that one, either ~the outdoor plants are not looking wonderful). It’s not just food, either: sunflowers, cosmos, zinnias, morning glory and sweet peas have been devastated and many perennials including lupins and echinacea have been sheared off so many times, they are giving up altogether. I know it’s nature, I know it will improve . . . but in the meantime, I am genuinely wondering exactly what we are going to be left with to eat this year. I’ve re-sown melon and cucumber seed as our long growing season means there is still a chance of a later harvest and to be honest, it wouldn’t hurt to stagger those two crops anyway. For other things that require a much longer season, though, there simply isn’t time to start all over again and I am resigned to the sad fact that we may well be without some favourites this year.

Of course, the slugs and snails haven’t set out on a deliberate mission to sabotage our efforts at self-sufficiency. They’re just doing what comes naturally but for me the frustrating part is that if they just gave young plants a chance to become established and put on healthy growth, there would be plenty of food to share. Gardening the way we do, I expect to find slugs lurking deep within a lettuce or cabbage but that’s fine as long as there’s something of a crop left for us to enjoy, too. It’s all a question of balance which is something I have had to remind myself during several downhearted moments over the last few days: there’s no point in me harping on about creating a resilient garden if I’m going to crumble into major grump mode in the face of adversity. There’s nothing I can do about the weather and the situation it has created, and standing in despair looking at a patch of wiped-out plants isn’t going to bring them back but there are plenty of positive things I can be doing or thinking about and the very best place for that is, of course, in the garden. Time spent outside in the fresh air, listening to the exuberant bird song and the hum of insects and breathing in the sweet scent of spring is the best of medicines; how can anyone stay feeling glum for long at this gorgeous time of year? Looking away from the plant carnage, I focus on the small, exquisite beings that never fail to make me smile: the elegant Ashy mining bee feeding on kale flowers, the riotous Violet carpenter bees demonstrating their preference for purple flowers yet again.

The eloquent post entitled ‘Cultivating Beauty’ by my blogging friend Zia Gallina (The Subversive Farmer) gave me just the nudge I needed this week to shake off the melancholy and get back to appreciating the myriad wonderful things I love about the natural world. The treat of several dry days in a row (when did that last happen?) and some warm sunshine gave me the chance to do a butterfly transect walk at last; there were surprisingly few butterflies about ~ possibly because of a stiff northerly breeze ~ but I added a couple of new moth species to my list and spent time watching the others in precious little moments of mindfulness. What a beautiful sight, the female Brimstone feeding on red clover in the photo at the top of my post; she might not be the most striking of butterflies but the patterns, veining and subtle nuances of colour in her wings were exquisite. How uplifting, too, the discovery of the first yellow flag iris blooming at the margins of our pond, the air around it shimmering with the dainty dance of damselflies. On an early morning walk, I suddenly realised that the only noises I could hear were bird song and my footsteps; no planes, vehicles, machines or any other manmade racket, just the simple, harmonious sound of nature going about its business. What a rare privilege such moments are, and how perfect for doing a bit of objective reflecting on the garden situation and coming up with a few positive solutions.

The first is to keep things in perspective. Looking on the bright side, the long-term drought is over, the ground has had a thorough soaking and we are heading towards summer with our rainwater butts full to overflowing. We might not be eating cabbage this summer but it isn’t the end of the world; unless everything spirals into a complete cataclysmic disaster, there should still be plenty of fresh food available from the patch, even if some crops fail. What’s the betting in a few months’ time we’ll be dealing with gluts left, right and centre? It’s also possible that this is the year where later brassicas will fare better than earlier ones and perhaps we’ll end up cultivating the best autumn/winter cabbages ever. I wrote last time that I have never experienced such an extreme slug situation in several decades of gardening; it’s possible that this is a one-off event unlikely to be repeated for another 35 years, in which case I probably won’t be worrying too much about it then (unless I’m still planting cabbages at the grand old age of 92, in my purple coat and red hat ~ and why not? 😉). The flip side is that the effects of climate change are making themselves felt and if we are to start experiencing very wet, mild winters and gloomy springs as a ‘new normal’, then I need to adjust to that and make a few contingency plans and changes. Time for a bit of creative thinking.

Gorgeous greens: broad beans, peas, mange tout and asparagus are some of the veggies on offer this week.

Having been very conscientious about keeping a sowing/planting diary this year, I see what a useful resource this could be in making any necessary adjustments in future years. For instance, it would have been better to sow melons and cucumbers later so that there isn’t such a hurry to get them in the ground; after all, it’s what we do with tomatoes and they soon catch up. I still work too much with the same mentality we had growing our garden in the uplands of mid-Wales, where the season was much shorter than here and average temperatures several degrees lower. Perhaps the cultivation of a little more patience would be wise. Where summer cabbages are concerned, I’m going to prick them out and pot them on rather than planting them out straight from a tray; I’ve done this with calabrese plants this year and they are looking far more robust (yes, they’re still being munched but their resilience is greater thanks to decent rootballs). It will require a bit more effort and compost, but should bring benefits in the long run. Having observed how the garlic has been left untouched and is, in fact, thriving, I’m planning to use it as a barrier companion plant next year. To test the efficacy of this idea, I’ve just planted five of my precious ‘Little Gem’ lettuces in between two rows of garlic as a sort of ‘come if you dare’ invitation to the slugs: we’ll see what happens. What is interesting is that the lettuces I planted out some weeks ago have got off relatively lightly during Slimeageddon and I’m wondering if it’s anything to do with the fact that they are all red and bronze varieties which tend to be slightly bitter?

Staying with lettuce and I certainly had a little moment of happiness this week to see hundreds of tiny seedlings popping up in one of the beds. This is the result of my experiment last year, throwing various varieties of lettuce seedheads all around the potager in autumn to see whether they would overwinter and germinate; a huge part of me suspected they would have been literally washed away which is why I’ve been busy raising plants from seed and pricking them out to give a succession of cropping. I love it when things like this work, it’s another step in the right direction of creating a regenerative garden, so I’m now wondering ~ especially as the seedlings haven’t been touched, even the green ones ~ if I should throw some cabbage seed around, too, in the hope the same thing happens. The lettuce have appeared in a bed of peas which is looking far from abundant, serving as a reminder that we have really missed the flying start and protection that the tube-grown peas gave us last year. The voles have of course eaten their fill and then much of the new growth has been eaten off by slugs so we have been resowing over and over in the hope of a worthwhile crop. Next year, I need to make sure I am sowing in a lighter, better draining compost mix in the tubes so the peas don’t rot and maybe even look at doing the first two plantings that way if I can collect enough tubes!

Saddened and frustrated by the state of plants that looked so healthy when they went into the ground, I’ve felt very disinclined to plant more. I had four spare melon plants which I didn’t want to consign to certain demolition but on reflection, I’ve planted them anyway. I rate ‘Petit Gris de Rennes’ very highly, they have done so well for us in the last two years but the ‘Sucrin de Tours’ that I am trialling this year are far sturdier plants, more upright and much leafier. I’m wondering if the sprawling habit of the former has been a factor in their downfall, as they are the variety that has been targeted by my slimy friends. As the spares were all ‘Sucrin de Tours’ I’ve stuffed them in and have my fingers firmly crossed for their survival. In a similar vein, having nurtured my beloved ‘Crown Prince’ squash into strong, healthy plants the idea of losing them fills me with dread; if that might sound a tad melodramatic, to put it in perspective we are still eating perfectly good stored squash from last year. In short, they are a major staple food for us and I need them to thrive. With the plants filling their pots and begging to be planted, what to do for the best? I decided that a little preparation might be a good idea so I dug planting holes in the Hügel bed a few days before planting, pulling the mulch layer right back and exposing the soil to as much sunlight and wind as possible; the soil is deep, dark and full of worms but also very damp and a bit on the cool side. My hope is that warmer, drier, mulch-free conditions might send the slugs off in search of pastures new and give the squash plants a chance. In the eighth and final hole, I uncovered a huge ants’ nest which I’ve learned the hard way can spell the end of healthy plants when their roots are undermined so as one squash plant was a bit smaller than the rest, I’ve left it for the time being.

I’ve also planted the last eight ‘Greyhound’ cabbage seedlings along the lower slopes of the courgette Hügel bed. There are several reasons for this:

There is NO way I am replanting the original cabbage patch for a fifth time, especially with those wimpy little past-their-best plants.
As I always grow big leafy monsters on top of the hills, I’ve never explored the possibilities of using the slopes for other things so this seems like a golden opportunity to ~~fail~~ try.
I am stark raving bonkers, knitting with only one needle, totally and utterly mad. 🤣

Now this will go one of two ways, folks, and no prizes for guessing which one my money’s on already. However faint hearts, fair maids and all that . . . and if this turns out to be a stunning crop of crisp pointy delicious cabbages, well ~ I’ll have learnt something this year. Might be spending the winter months building a whole raft of new Hügel beds, too.

Some positive activity certainly helps to put things back on an even keel in my mind and despite everything, there is still much to enjoy and celebrate around the patch. The spotted flycatchers have arrived and I’m curious to see if they will choose to nest in the Love Shack again this year. In the meantime, I’m happy to report that the crazy song thrushes’ nest is now full of tiny, feathery, demanding chicks ~ how could I ever have doubted their mother’s know-how? It’s promising to be a bumper year for baby birds if the number of busy parents is anything to go by, and a bumper year for soft fruit, too. The berry and currant bushes are covered in tiny fruits, the first strawberries have ripened and as always I feel immense gratitude for the industrious insects that make such an enormous contribution to this harvest. Watching them visiting our apple blossom this week, everything from tiny flies to enormous bumblebees, I was reminded of the chilling chapter in Dave Goulson’s Silent Earth where in a hypothetical but all-too-scarily-possible future, his descendants are pollinating their fruit trees by hand. A world without insects doesn’t bear thinking about . . . and, if I’m being honest, reasonable and fair, neither does a world without slugs. 😊

Bean counter

May 5, 2024Tagged #Seed saving, #Seed sharing, ecological gardening, gardening in Mayenne, nature, seasonal beauty, wildlife28 Comments

As my French friends would say, c’est parti ! My little seed-saving, seed-sharing, bean-growing project has begun, April 28th being the official start date and the first to be entered into my tracking spreadsheet. I feel like I’ve been playing chicken with the weather for several weeks now; it certainly hasn’t been the easiest of springs, especially where tender plants are concerned, but with the weather forecast finally indicating a gradual rise in temperatures and no hint of frost, I felt confident enough to take my foot off the brake and get busy with some planting. That said, I was still very cautious and held back with courgettes and cucumbers for a few more days as suddenly an overnight temperature of 9°C (bearable) was revised down to 5°C (chilly, especially as we are in a frost pocket) and the planting plan shifted yet again. The weather is strange, the sun very warm when it appears but the wind is still cool and we’ve had plenty of gloom and torrential thundery showers in the mix, too. In between times, it’s been a joy to be outside, though, particularly with the perfume of apple blossom and lilac wafting through the garden. Most of our poor clematis are barely flowering this year as, not content with having munched all the narcissi, the slugs have scoffed their buds, too, with the exception of a stunning pink clematis montana which is far too big and mature to be bothered. It is huge and has climbed right into the top of a neighbouring bay tree, creating a scented bower for the occupants of several birds’ nests hidden in the dark bay foliage; the perfume is exquisite ~ it reminds me of sweet vanilla ice cream ~ and it attracts a frenzy of hungry insects. I watched with fascination as this honey bee pulled stamens down and away from the centre of the flower, stroking pollen off with her front feet and transferring it to her pollen baskets; just look at that load!

A frustratingly wet day seemed like the perfect opportunity to make a start on bean planting; they are generally ready to go into the ground about fourteen days after sowing so if the forecast is to be trusted, the soil and air should both be plenty warm enough to accommodate them by then. I always pre-sow beans in trays as it saves a lot of waste and heartache: I can start them off in the warmth of the tunnel and keep an eye on germination and possible beasty problems, whereas with direct sowing we’ve tended to have issues with poor germination and attack from wireworm and bean fly. The varieties I’m growing are as follows, those marked with an asterisk are new for me this year. (I’ve also dispensed with putting names in inverted commas as I felt it would be punctuation overkill!)

Dwarf varieties for eating as whole pods: Purple Teepee, Stanley, Dior and De Rocquancourt*
Dwarf varieties for podding: Yin Yang
Climbing varieties (all for podding): Lingua di Fuoca, O’Driscoll*, Asturian fabas, Majorcan pea bean, Madeira Maroon* and Tarbais*.

I’ve sown all the climbing beans and the Yin Yang dwarf beans as they need to grow and mature over summer so that we can harvest them for podding. I grow the dwarf haricot varieties (where we eat the whole young pods) in four or five successional crops so as always, I’ve started with my favourite Purple Teepee.

Clockwise from top: Yin Yang, borlotti Lingua di Fuoco, Asturian fabas, Majorcan pea bean, Tarbais, Madeira Maroon, borlotti O’Driscoll and Purple Teepee.

When I wrote last time that I was planning to grow ten different types of bean I actually meant eleven because I’d forgotten about the Tarbais climbing bean, which is an interesting variety. Grown in the Tarbes region of south-western France, they have IPG (Indication géographique protégée) and Label Rouge status which signal a high quality of production in a specific geographic location; mine grown at the opposite end of France obviously won’t have such an official and prestigious standing ~ in fact, I’m not even sure if strictly speaking I can refer to my beans as ‘Tarbais’ ~ but I’m looking forward to seeing how they fare in Mayenne. They are a classic ingredient of cassoulet and as such, I’m interested to compare them to the creamy and delicious Asturian fabas (another IPG bean) which are used in the traditional dish of fabada. Surely one of the loveliest things about growing a garden is the chance to dip into international cuisines without leaving home!

Three new climbing varieties: Tarbais, O’Driscoll and Madeira Maroon sown on 28th April.

The beans have all been sown in trays of homemade potting mix and left in the warmth of the tunnel to germinate. Meanwhile, we’ve been putting up stout hazel poles for them to climb, four at a time to make fifteen ‘quadpods’ in four different locations. We’ve had problems with strong summer winds before now so this year, Roger made deep holes with a metal bar to help sink each pole in the hope that this year they will withstand any storms without the need for guy ropes. While we were at it, I also dismantled the hazel windbreak Roger had made for the purple sprouting broccoli and re-used some of the withies to fashion a very simple framework for cucumbers to climb up. I love to see these structures appear again in the garden, they might look stark now but give the plants a couple of months and it should be a very different story. It also means we’re ready for the spotted flycatchers who love to perch on the quadpods; the turtle doves have arrived in the last few days so they shouldn’t be too far behind. That will be the whole summer visitor crew accounted for then.

In order to find room on the potting bench for five trays of beans, I spent a couple of days absorbed in a sort of plant merry-go-round, shifting pots and trays from one place to another and gradually getting them planted in the ground. The first wave of peppers, melons and aubergines has been planted in the tunnel but now I’m playing the waiting game while we eat the potatoes, peas and broad beans ~ this is the biggest drawback of growing early crops in there. The mange tout peas have almost run out of steam and I’m hopeful there will be some mature pods dried enough to give seed for next year before I clear the plants out to make more space. As I don’t know exactly how many more pepper and aubergine plants will go in, I’m putting the rest outside during the day to harden off along with the squash and the inevitable spare courgettes (I had a panic over poor germination and ended up with far too many plants after a second sowing 😬) as some of them will surely end up in the garden.

It’s been a funny old spring where germination is concerned and following on from the total failure of the Styrian oil pumpkins, I’ve been both puzzled and disappointed that only a single Asturian squash seed has grown into a decent plant. I have eight healthy ‘Crown Prince’ plants which are coming along nicely but in a moment of squash scarcity panic, I found myself sowing a few butternut seeds: I know I said I wouldn’t grow any this year but . . . 😂. I was relieved that Roger took the whole extreme tomato sowing thing in his stride, especially as there has been almost 100% germination but I suppose he’s resigned to my ways now. I’m pleased to report that the seed saved by squeezing them out of a tomato onto kitchen paper has germinated brilliantly and the seedlings are looking good so there will be no more messing about with fermenting them in jars of water from now on. This week, I’ve been sowing carrots, beetroot, coriander and radish directly into the ground, leeks and parsley in trays and ‘Rustler’ and ‘Golden Bantam’ sweetcorn in individual pots; next up is a nursery row of mixed brassicas outdoors . . . by which time, I’ll need to think about the next lot of dwarf beans. It’s all go, this gardening lark!

As someone who likes to describe herself as an ecological gardener, I try to be as accepting and non-judgemental as I possibly can of all the life that lives in our patch: everything is a part of the garden ecosystem and all have an important part to play. Oh my goodness, how I am struggling to love the slugs and snails at the moment! I can honestly state that in several decades of gardening, we have never experienced a plague of slugs like this one, and having gardened in the notoriously humid climates of Wales and Asturias, that’s really saying something. They are everywhere, the soil is heaving with them and nothing save the garlic is safe from their attentions; they have even been stripping the leaves off the young native trees we have planted to make woodland areas. At some point, nature will restore a balance ~ quite possibly through a very hot, dry summer ~ but in the meantime, I’m left wondering just how many plants or even crops we are set to lose. I’ve now replaced most of the ‘Greyhound’ summer cabbage plants four times and I’m beginning to feel like the walking epitome of Einstein’s definition of insanity, doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. Am I simply an eternal optimist or would totally deluded be a more accurate description?

Many of the rhubarb leaves have been shredded to lace.

This Cape gooseberry had only been in the ground for a day before the onslaught started.

Believe it or not, this clematis flower is one of the lucky ones . . . most have been eaten off at the bud stage.

The courgette I planted in the tunnel last year for an early crop was undermined by ants and died; I’m trying again this year but as slugs are the main issue, I’ve surrounded this ‘Latino’ with gritty wood ash for protection. Will it work? Watch this space . . .

Under the circumstances, it would be all too easy to feel despondent, demoralised and consider throwing in the gardening ~~trowel~~ towel but luckily, I’m made of sterner stuff than that. We might not enjoy a single summer cabbage this year but I know there will be other things that thrive and that’s where my focus needs to rest. There is still much to celebrate amidst all the devastation, too. I love the way the garden is at long last starting to develop some maturity, the wide open spaces slowly being broken up by plant growth and more intimate spaces emerging. It has been frustrating that the eclectic curving hedge we planted around the potager has struggled so badly to get going (weather, moles, ants . . . ) but Roger has been painstakingly clearing around every plant, then feeding and mulching them and at last some real structure is beginning to appear. We’ve been having a sort out in the flower beds and I’ve started planting up the mandala bed and new keyhole bed with a mixture of food and flowers: slowly, slowly, the garden we envisioned when we moved here is beginning to take shape.

We rescued this wisteria which was buried in a hedge: it’s much happier climbing over an arch and the flowers are full of bumblebees.

We have planted several climbing roses, this beauty against the front of the house has started to bloom this week.

The Bramley apple tree we planted last year has been covered in blossom during the last couple of weeks.

There’s good food to celebrate, too, and I’m relieved that slugs don’t seem too keen on asparagus because I love it and it feels such a luxury to be picking it daily. There is nothing quite like the first new potatoes and peas, all melting and buttery, and as for the ‘Seville Longpod’ broad beans ~ well, they are certainly living up to their name!

We have had another three baby squirrels gambolling around the garden this week and I’ve lost count of the number of nesting pairs of birds who are very obviously feeding hungry young. The dubious weather conditions mean there are very few butterflies in evidence (I’d really expected to be much busier with transect walks at this time of year) but there are plenty of bumblebees, including large numbers of the Tree bumblebee (Bombus hypnorum) which I didn’t record at all last year ~ or maybe I just failed to identify it properly? I’ve had to do a fair bit of research this week because I’ve been totally puzzled by the little black bumbles with white tails which are feeding in droves on the cotoneaster flowers. Tree bumblebees are easily recognisable with their ginger thorax, black abdomen and white tail so I didn’t make the connection but apparently there is a dark form and I think that’s what my mystery bees are. I was interested to know what the hypnorum part of its scientific name signified; I sensed the possibility of the word root being the Greek hypnos meaning ‘sleep’ and wondered how that could apply to such wakeful, busy creatures? Well, it seems hypnorum meant ‘of mosses’ in Latin, having arrived by an indirect route with reference to the habit of stuffing pillows with moss and the theory is that it could refer to the Tree bumblebees’ habit of nesting in birdboxes or old bird nests which are often lined with moss. That had me smiling! Language can be every bit as fascinating as the natural world it describes . . . although I have to confess some of my language around slugs at present is probably best left unprinted. 😂

Squirrels and seedlings

April 24, 2024Tagged #Seed saving, #Seed sharing, ecological gardening, nature, seasonal beauty, simple pleasures, wildlife11 Comments

Our poor old cherry tree is dying. It was a sad conversation to have had this week but there is no denying that it is on its last legs and almost certainly in its last year. Judging by the size of the girth, the tree has lived for several decades and given the abuse it has obviously suffered in the past from horrendous pruning, it’s done well to survive so long; the abundant crop of fruit we had a couple of years ago is typical of a cherry tree’s last fling and so it seems it is coming naturally to the end of life. It’s a shame because the other cherry trees we have are all much younger and less productive but hopefully they will step up to the mark now, especially as we are nurturing them as much as we can. As if by way of a poignant reminder that in death there is life (the compost heap is my favourite example of this), what a wonderful surprise to discover that deep in a hollow branch, a red squirrel had secretly made a nest and given birth to four kittens!

On Saturday morning, I was doing my usual trek up and down the Plant Trail as quickly as I could before leaving for a shift in the charity shop; I was taking the most direct route (tiptoeing past the song thrush who is still sitting on that ridiculous nest) and on the fourth pass, a movement in the cherry tree caught my eye and stopped me in my tracks. There were four tiny squirrels swinging about in the branches like the natural arboreal acrobats they are, with not a care in the world. I shuffled quietly backwards, heavy tray of plants still in hand, to call Roger who came armed with the camera and managed to take some lovely shots. They had no fear of us whatsoever so we were able to stand and watch them at close quarters ~ it was difficult to tear myself away.

The new bench seat was the perfect spot to sit quietly and watch them, so astonishing in their tiny perfection, so entertaining in their energetic antics. They are most certainly off the top of the cuteness scale which is a good thing since they have demolished what scant blossom and leaf buds were on the tree; mama squirrel obviously knew what she was doing, providing them with an in-house larder! Within a couple of days they were down at ground level, exploring the garden and putting the nesting birds on alert, and in no time at all they will be gone, off to make their own way in the wide and dangerous world. The annual mortality rate for red squirrels in France is around 50% with the first year of life being the most hazardous, but the survivors stand a chance of living to twelve years old. I’m wondering if there might be a second brood later in the year, especially as this one was so early, and glimpses of an adult squirrel around the nestbox this week suggest the possibility of more kittens sooner rather than later. To be able to spend time at close quarters with such beautiful creatures is an absolute privilege and one I shall never take for granted.

Another privilege this week was the chance to walk to the Mont des Avaloirs (aka the Everest of the West), the highest point of land for hundreds of kilometres in every direction. This is the steepest walk I’ve done in 22 months and is the sort of thing I need to be doing regularly if I’m going to manage a bit of hiking in the Pyrenees this summer. One of the main attractions of the walk at this time of year is the abundance of wildflowers in the verges, they are absolutely stunning both in their diversity and beauty and definitely not to be missed. I know I moan and grumble about some of the destructive practices that go on locally but still, despite everything, nature in all its glory is hanging on in there. What I did find stunning (in the wrong way) is that some folks had taken a mower to the verges stretching either side of their property and cut all the flowers off! This perception of ‘tidy’ drives me insane; I know we’re all different but I will never understand why someone would choose a strip of mown sterile grass to a blaze of native blooms buzzing with insect life and full of the scent of spring. Truly, there’s nowt so queer as folk.

Back at home, the Plant Trail seems trickier every day; the plants are becoming heavier and more numerous as I continue to prick out the next wave of tender seedlings so that my trips between house and tunnel take ever longer (admittedly, not helped by the need to stop and watch squirrel babies). The tunnel is bursting and I’m struggling to find room for everything so I have buckets and trays strewn all down the path and pots crammed into any available space in order that everything can enjoy some sunbathing time. Like the cherry tree, I think the potting bench is on its last legs; well, actually, the trestle legs are fine but the old door sitting on them to make the bench is cracking and threatening to fall to pieces. I live in dread of it collapsing under the weight of everything, the ensuing chaos doesn’t bear thinking about. I must confess, there have been evenings when I’ve been tempted just to leave everything in the tunnel overnight but then I remind myself how furious I would be to lose food plants through sheer laziness, especially when we wake to this in the morning . . .

It’s highly unlikely to freeze in the tunnel at this time of year but being in a frost pocket, the temperature can still dip low enough to do some damage so I’ve been covering the potato foliage as well as basil, zinnia and morning glory plants as none of them appreciate the cold. Anything tender would certainly perish outside although I have started hardening the courgettes and cucumbers off during the day ~ with the wind in the north, the south side of the tunnel is well-sheltered ~ and as the temperature is set to climb towards the weekend with no further sign of frost, I’m hoping to finally get some plants in the ground. The cucumbers have tendrils and are trying to climb up each other and the courgettes are threatening flowers so they really, really need to come out of their pots. One thing I have noticed this year is how healthy everything is looking even after spending several weeks in the same container and I think this is down to having made my own potting mix this year; it’s less free-draining than commercial compost so I’m having to be careful not to over-water but there is obviously plenty of nutrition in the mix. Definitely one to repeat next year.

The (only) good thing about a frost at this time of year is that it melts very rapidly and after so many gloomy months, it’s been lovely to enjoy some sunshine again, even though the wind has been bitterly cold. We’ve been able to get a fair bit done outside especially now the ground is drying and it feels like we’re pretty much ready for the planting season to begin. I’ve been lifting perennial weeds and mulching round plants and any beds that aren’t earmarked for direct sowing (I need the soil to warm up quickly there so will only mulch once we have visible seedlings), also scattering compost wherever I feel a little extra nourishment is required. There are inevitably a few failures in the gardening year and it’s the experimental Styrian oil pumpkins that take the prize for being the earliest, the seeds rotting rather than germinating despite being sown under the same conditions as the squash which are romping away. It’s a tad disappointing but also a blessing in disguise as now I can use the planting mound we’d created for them to house the Asturian squash which will free up a Hügel bed for courgettes, in turn leaving more planting space elsewhere. I am quietly relieved because I’ve been fretting about not having enough space and Roger has been sheet mulching yet another bed extension this week to create more room for plants.

Enjoyable though it’s been to be so busy outside, on many days it’s been a case of in spite of rather than because of the weather, the bitter wind in particular making things miserable. On one such afternoon, I decided to down tools and sow some tomato seeds instead; we leave this task as late as possible in order to avoid or, at the very least, mitigate against the perennial problem of blight but it still feels slightly odd not to be surrounded by tomato plants at this time of year. I saved a fair amount of seeds from last season and I haven’t bought anything new but still I managed to find nine different varieties to sow. Mmm, that’s quite a pile. I then remembered the gift of tomato seeds I’d been sent by an inspiring gardening friend several months ago: I’d chosen three blight-resistant strains from her list but she sent me nine different varieties which is typical of both her generosity and enthusiasm for growing food. In these circumstances I always feel it would be rude not to grow the seed so that makes eighteen types of tomato now (potentially, anyway, as some might not germinate). No wonder I’m in a panic over space! I haven’t broken the news to Roger yet, nor the fact that I have six courgette plants where two would suffice, 36 peppers, 20 aubergines, 15 melons and more cucumbers than I can shake a stick at . . . but I console myself with the fact that if we are snowed under with plants or produce, I can always take the surplus to the charity shop. Sounds like a plausible defence to me. 😉

With the tomatoes sown, next on the list are the beans and I’m feeling a tiny bit excited about that given my personal quest this year. To recap very briefly: having been unable to register for the ‘Share the Bean’ European citizen science project because I don’t have a smartphone, I have decided to carry out my own little bean-growing project while at the same time, trying to encourage others to grow, save and share seeds with someone else this year. In this way, I’m hoping to spread the gardening love plus help to preserve and extend seed diversity and inspire others to explore the growing possibilities in their location. I have ten different varieties of bean to grow, four of which are climbers so putting up their poles in readiness is a job to be tackled fairly soon. My plan is to keep a record of their progress in a simple spreadsheet and take lots of photos, of course. I don’t want to get hung up too much on data but it will be interesting to compare growth and yield under whatever weather conditions this summer decides to throw at us and I’m hoping to have plenty of beans to dry and share with others who fancy a go with them next year. I might just have a few tomato seeds to give away, too. 😂 One of the gift tomato seeds I have sown is a Danish micro dwarf variety called ‘Lille Lise’ which comes with a rather lovely story attached: the gentleman who developed the strain has specified that the seed must never be sold but only given as gifts throughout the world. Now there is a man after my own heart!

Despite the dodgy weather, there has been much to celebrate in the garden this week. The asparagus is not remotely bothered by frost and we are eating it daily, along with the first new potatoes and peas from the tunnel which are always such a treat. The whole patch is teeming with life and it’s been wonderful to sit having a tea break and watch bees busy in the strawberry and currant flowers, swallows swooping through the potager at eye level, goldfinches bathing in the pond where the first gauzy damsel flies have appeared this week, parent blue tits in and out of nestboxes with beaks full of tiny caterpillars (how hard they work to raise their broods), pied wagtails bobbing across the mown grass and an unashamedly cheeky robin sitting on my bucket and weeding fork wherever I’ve been working. The apple blossom is racing out and its heady perfume fills the air along with the likes of clematis, lilac and laburnum whilst along the hedgerows, the soft snow of hawthorn blossom is appearing in sweeping drifts.

I’m particularly thrilled with the wildflowers we have on the patch now, the numbers and diversity increasing with each year; true ,we don’t have the bluebells, orchids and cowslips like the verges but there are plenty of other simple beauties to delight both us and the resident insects.

It is without doubt a time of flowers and I’m determined to enjoy their transient beauty as much as possible, whatever the weather is up to. After all, in the blink of an eye it will be tomato time and then the gardening fun will really start! 😉

Running to stand still

April 16, 2024April 16, 2024Tagged ecological gardening, gardening in Mayenne, growing fruit and vegetables, nature, seasonal beauty, seasonal produce, wildlife22 Comments

Note to all my kind subscribers: whilst sorting out a glitch for one follower in my site management yesterday, it seems that WP has now decided to put everyone on the email notification list and I can’t see any way to undo that. I know how annoying it can be to see your inbox fill up with unwanted notifications, so I apologise in advance ~ please press the ‘unsubscribe’ button if you don’t want me pestering you! 😊

It’s that scrabbling, scrambling time of year when suddenly there’s a million and one things to be done in the garden and not enough hours in the day. I keep casting an eye over the state of the house and the ever-growing pile of clean laundry in need of sorting then head outdoors, anyway; there are just too many things to be doing outside so any vestige of guilt is disgracefully short-lived. 😆 My blog writing also descends into a complete pickle with everything lagging way behind as old news and photos stack up like the laundry ~ deciding to toss in an extra post simply because I’d had a lovely walk didn’t help matters, if I’m honest. Neither did the weather shifting dramatically from winter to summer overnight before I’d even had time to think about digging out some cooler clothes, yet alone do anything about it, but thankfully at least my shabby patched old gardening shorts were to hand. In general it’s been a crazy, full-tilt, rollercoaster sort of week but we’ve also found time to sit and enjoy the garden at was is a truly beautiful time of year when the sun shines. There have been a few surprises, too, including the appearance of a stunning iris which must have been here before we arrived but hasn’t flowered in the last three springs. It’s gorgeous, a perfect fleur-de-lys for our French garden. Note to self: plant more, lots more!

I often joke that much of my gardening life these days revolves around hauling organic matter from one place to another but at the moment, it feels like I spend a good part of my day shifting plants back and forth instead. Normally at this time of year, providing overnight temperatures are nudging towards double figures, it is safe to leave the tender plants in the tunnel tucked inside their bucket cloches. However, as if proof were needed of the current slug overload, on the second morning of doing this I discovered several of the small plants had been well and truly nibbled ~ even with the lids on the buckets! 😲 Honestly, those slimy ones: their rudeness knows no bounds. Yes, of course I always plant far too much (in part, for this very reason) but we can’t afford to lose pepper and aubergine plants, especially as they are not too far off being ready to go into the ground. I do have a later sowing of the Greek ‘Tsakoniki’ aubergine as the first lot failed to germinate and it won’t do any harm having a staggered harvest, especially as we usually crop right up to November . . . but even so, having nurtured three other varieties thus far, I’d quite like to benefit from some fruits. I also have some much younger Peruvian yellow pepper seedlings grown from a gift seed but these are a chilli variety and there are no more sweet peppers following on behind. Added melons, cucumbers, courgettes and Cape gooseberry to the mix and there is nothing for it but to carry all my little plants back up to the house every night where they can relax in a slug-free zone.

Given we’re talking the best part of 100 plants in buckets and on trays, it takes me several trips to do the move morning and evening and I’ve calculated I walk roughly 1200 metres or three-quarters of a mile each day. Roger says I could do with a trolley or cart to make things easier (I don’t like to use a wheelbarrow as they tip) and although I know he’s right, I don’t actually mind all the to-ing and fro-ing too much. It’s good exercise, after all ~ and I’m very grateful to be able to do such things comfortably again ~ but it also keeps me respectful of both the fickle nature of weather and the potential of future food these young plants represent. I don’t like to generalise, but I think there has been a serious loss of connection and understanding in modern society between people and food, so for me it’s essential to maintain a personal awareness and deep sense of gratitude for the gift of fresh, healthy, homegrown food packed with flavour and nutrients. When I reflect on the bountiful harvest I hope we will enjoy this year, then safeguarding our plants is a pleasure rather than a chore . . . even if it does result in a fair bit of welly wear. At least the peas in the tunnel can stand up for themselves and we now have the sweet green delight of the first tender podding varieties to supplement the Swiss mange tout which are still going strong.

It’s not just the tender plants that need a bit of cossetting, either, since the slugs are tucking in to practically anything they can get hold of at the moment. I daren’t leave the trays of hardening-off brassicas and lettuce outside on the ground or in the tunnel at night, so they are now living between two picnic tables: one in full sun and rain during the day and the other under the outdoor shelter after dark just in case the wind picks up overnight. Both areas seem to be slug-free so fingers crossed there will be some decent plants to put into the garden over the next few weeks.

As for plants in the ground, they are taking a fair bashing from slugs and snails between them. Thankfully, the garlic is untouched and both the white soft-necked and pink hard-necked varieties are looking good and growing strongly. It’s believed to be an unattractive plant to the slimesters because of the allicin defence compound it contains so I’m beginning to wish I’d planted it around and amongst other things: perhaps that’s one to think about for next year? Purple sprouting broccoli is one of our key crops at this time of year and I have never seen the plants so badly attacked, both the leaves and sprouting heads; as with everything else, I grow more than enough and some of the plants seem to be standing up better than others so we certainly aren’t short. It does grieve me to see them looking so tattered, though.

The same is true of the pre-sown broad beans that I planted out a few weeks ago, they looked so healthy for a while but have since been chomped to within an inch of their lives. The good news is that they are tough, resilient little characters more than capable of growing back even from a sheared-off stem but the flip side, of course, is that the harvest will be delayed as it will take them time to recover. This is another reason why making full use of the tunnel is essential to our food security; despite Roger currently removing hundreds of slugs from inside on a daily basis, the broad bean plants in there had grown well beyond the vulnerable stage before the slugs of doom got stuck in. With the added warmth and protection from the wind, they have romped away happily and are promising a good harvest; the sweet perfume of their flowers meets me at the door and the bumblebees are busy rummaging about and helping things along a bit. Well, I suppose that makes up for the destructive slug business.

The sudden spike in temperatures meant having both tunnel doors open for a few days to prevent it becoming unbearably hot inside: I didn’t want to see the beans, peas and potatoes go into a state of heat exhaustion having nurtured them to this stage. I did manage to clear the spent winter salad crops before the warmer weather arrived and barrowed in a mountain of compost to feed the soil again before planting the summer vegetables. I’m hoping the lack of jungle and increased heat will help to clear the slugs, out too, although I was chuffed to see a toad sitting happily at the entrance of a hole in the soil (I’d been blaming voles for that one!), I’m hoping it’s been filling its boots during the slime bonanza. In the way that things typically go at this time of year, the temperature has now seriously dipped, the wind has swung into the north and there’s a worrying possibility of overnight frosts. The tunnel doors will stay tightly closed and I could be down there spreading newspaper over potato plants every evening once again plus carting all the tender plants back to the house, even the ones in bucket cloches. I joked with a gardening friend that it might be easier just to go and buy veggies from Super U . . . but where’s the fun in that? 😂

Maybe I’m a bit of a masochist (or perhaps I just fuss too much over the plants?) but if I needed a reminder of why it’s worth all the effort and pain, it arrived this week in the welcome duo of rhubarb and asparagus ready for the table. Both tend to be acquired tastes but I love them, they are such a celebration of the season, so it’s stewed rhubarb with oats, yogurt and honey for breakfast, and asparagus with everything for dinner at the moment. The latter is in its fourth year and finally at a point where we can officially harvest it; I took no notice of that particular rule and ate lots last year without, it seems, having any detrimental affect on the plants whatsoever. It pays to be a rebel sometimes, but even I am beginning to wonder if thirty plants were a few too many given the mass of spears we are cutting every day. I might have to experiment with freezing some but in the meantime, coupled with young peas and purple sprouting broccoli, I’m unashamedly and unapologetically tucking in.

With a to-do list as long as my arm, it has been important to prioritise the tasks in order to make the most of the good weather. On 8th April we decided to plant the potatoes as the soil had finally started to dry out enough for us to get busy; we have planted potatoes in sodden mud before now but only out of absolute necessity. Like planting onions, this is easier done as a two-person job and we soon had a good system going, Roger dibbing holes and me placing a chitted potato in each one. We planted four different varieties, I have to confess that after the first couple of rows I became bored of counting but I think we planted about 100 which, with the eighteen early plants in the tunnel, should keep us in spuds for a while. We’ve never had a brilliant crop here so this year we’ve given them a designated bed with rich soil and in full sun and hopefully they will do the business . . . as long as the slugs leave them alone, of course.

Seed potatoes ready to go . . . the fact that we’d both discarded our gardening coats suggests the temperature had risen a fair bit since we’d started outside!

As well as potatoes, I’ve been planting some horseradish, lettuce and summer cabbage in the hope they will survive the temperamental weather in the forecast and the inevitable attention of slugs. The cabbages are the most at risk so I wondered if I could use my earlier observation about the garlic to an advantage; being far too ~~lazy~~ busy to faff about boiling up garlic bulbs to make a liquid drench, I simply crushed and chopped a pile of past-their-best cloves of our stored garlic and sprinkled a bit round the base of each plant, followed by a thick ring of wood ash. My theory is that even those slugs hydrated enough to make it across the scratchy barrier will be met with a blast of garlic deterrent strong enough to send them packing. This is based on no proven scientific evidence whatsoever but so far, so good. I’ve also been sowing another wave of seeds including courgette, squash, oil pumpkins, lettuce, parsley, celeriac (for the third time, it really doesn’t want to germinate), Tuscan kale, beetroot, thyme, various flowers and cauliflower ~ yes folks, I must truly need my bumps reading to even have considered wandering down that particular nightmare path once again, yet alone setting the wheels in motion. Me? Grow a decent cauli? Yeah right, and there’s a crock of gold at the bottom of that rainbow, too . . .

I wasn’t planning to raise more globe artichokes this year but here’s a cautionary tale where relying on perennial crops is concerned: we appear to have lost as many as two-thirds of our established plants over winter, their roots literally rotting away in the wet conditions. The ‘Violet de Provence’ have been worst affected and I guess there’s a bit of a clue in the name ~ the sunny south of France we are not! Even the reliable ‘Green Globe’ has taken a real bashing and although I keep checking for signs of new growth, it’s very much in vain. What’s really frustrating is that the plants were all still relatively young and should have been at peak production this year but it’s not to be. I’ve decided to grow ‘Géant de Laon’ this time, a rustic variety which is highly frost-resistant so I’m hoping that means paddy field-resistant, too; since the French city of Laon is at an even more northerly latitude than we are, logic tells me this might be the best bet although only time will tell. In the same vein, we’ve also lost two crowns of rhubarb which is slightly maddening given the wretched stuff can happily live for ten years or more and is usually fairly indestructible once established. We do at least have three plants that are cropping well so I can always split them during the dormant period to replace the others and hope for a slightly less wet winter next time.

As well as remembering (just!) to fill in my planting calendar for reference, I’ve been keeping a note about the wildlife, too. The first swallows arrived on 31st March, exactly a week after the cuckoos and once again just squeaking in before April began; there are two pairs now looking to nest in the barn for the second year running which is good news. I’ve also heard the golden oriole’s unmistakable song but the chances of seeing that most elusive of birds are very slim. The garden is literally buzzing with bee life and I’ve been watching hairy-footed flower bees and violet carpenter bees feeding on the spring flowers and the sweet little red mason bees busy in their wall nests. On 8th April, I saw the first orange-tip butterflies and hummingbird hawk-moth and four days later, the first speckled wood butterfly; my weekly eBMS transect walks have well and truly begun. On 4th April, I saw a tree bumblebee on the gooseberry flowers, very exciting as it’s a species I didn’t see or photograph last year. Typically, by the time I’d done the hundred metre dash to fetch the camera, the bee had completely disappeared but the ever-reliable common carder was happy to oblige: they are already the most numerous bumblebee species in the garden.

One of my favourite new arrivals is a bench seat which Roger has placed under the crooked cherry tree and I’ve found myself gravitating towards it several times a day (just to help it settle in, you understand), mug in hand. Even in busy times ~ maybe especially in busy times? ~ it’s important to find a few moments to stop and enjoy this precious patch of earth, to remind myself that the garden is not all about the work we do and that we are just one small part of the web of life it holds. The seat is particularly lovely at the moment with the cherry in full bloom, shivering with the attention of visiting insects, and a carpet of primroses and daisies at its feet. I know I’m overdosing on cherry blossom at the moment but it is an ephemeral beauty that will be over in a trice so I make no apology; the view upwards through the branches is a delight.

When I was teaching, one of the most useful but all-too-rare opportunities I enjoyed was to stand back and observe the class as the children went about a set task. No preconceived ideas or judgements, no note-taking or box-ticking, no interaction but simply the chance to watch group dynamics and individual behaviours as an interested onlooker. I learnt so much! In the same way, sitting quietly under the cherry tree, I have seen some wonderful and fascinating things I would otherwise certainly have missed. For instance, the touching sight of a robin picking tiny worms out of a bed and gently offering them to its mate and a red squirrel (which practically ran over my feet) sitting on its haunches tucking in to something it had just dug up from a winter cache. Not quite so endearing was a pair of blue tits, brazenly diving into a great tits’ nest box and stealing the nesting material! I suppose it shows initiative but it’s beyond rude in my opinion. There seems to be a fair bit of this thievery going on so I’d assumed a pile of moss next to a blue tit box was evidence of more skulduggery until Roger and I watched a thrush trying to land on it several times, obviously nervous of our presence. On closer inspection, we could see that she has built her nest in the fork of the ash tree right up against the nest box (the blue tits are none too happy about this) and is now sitting on eggs.

I thought the pile of moss in the fork of the tree to the left of the nestbox was abandoned nesting material.

I’m a bit puzzled about her choice of location for a nest, partly because it is so close to the blue tits who were in residence first, but also because it is so exposed, particularly as it is definitely a case of ‘oak before ash’ this year. I am concerned that the marauding predators like jays and red squirrels will find the eggs or fledglings easy prey but that’s the way nature works; I’m doing my bit by taking a more circuitous route to the tunnel (hooray, even more miles) so as to minimise disturbance, although I’m happy to say the thrush doesn’t seem too bothered by us using the seat now.

The nest tucked up against the blue tit box with the female song thrush sitting on eggs; her head and beak can just be seen to the left, I didn’t want to get any closer with the camera for fear of disturbing her.

As well as being busy round the garden, I’m now working in the charity shop every week and enjoying every minute of it. It’s lovely to be part of such a friendly and happy team and I’m getting to know regular customers, making friends and even understanding a few French jokes which must be a sign of linguistic progress. During a recent morning stint, much of the talk was about le sable saharien, the plume of Saharan dust forecast to reach as far north as Mayenne as a result of the atmospheric conditions. In wet weather, such a meteorological event often manifests itself by leaving a coating of yellow dust over everything after rainfall but given the dry conditions this time, the only evidence that anything was happening was at sunset. What a sky! With all my tender plants tucked up safely for the night, there was nothing for it but to stand still and enjoy the moment. Plenty of time to dash about again tomorrow, after all. 😉

Loveliest of trees

April 12, 2024Tagged exploring mayenne, nature, seasonal beauty, simple pleasures, trees, walking, wildlife29 Comments

I’ve been trying to maintain my daily walking habit despite the less than favourable weather conditions. On many occasions, this has meant walking the same stretch several times over so as never to be further than a half a mile from home; a bit dull, granted, but better than being caught in some of the torrential storms we’ve been experiencing ~ even good waterproofs have their limits! I’ve found the almost constant gloom of latter weeks very oppressive, I know it’s a tricky time of year but it feels like everything needs the lift a little sunshine can bring. No question, then, on finally waking to clearish skies, no rain or wind and a very welcome hint of soft sunshine, it was time to head off for a longer morning walk.

It’s cherry blossom season and I always find the fluffy green haze of new green leaves interspersed with the sugared dusting of white flowers in woodland and hedgerow make for a magical landscape. Having taken quite a battering from Storm Pierrick, which snatched the blossom from our garden cherries in flurries of limp confetti, I wondered just what would be left on the wild trees; not for the first time, I’m thankful that our blossom is staggered so that we do at least stand a chance of some fruit from the later varieties. The morning was chilly with patches of silvery frost on the grass in places and an atmospheric mist rising from the neighbouring ponds. With the sun on my back, the sound of joyful birdsong ringing in my ears and the promise of quiet lanes and woodland tracks to wander I headed off, the grey gloom literally dissolving in the sheer beauty of the morning.

The first part of my walk was a gentle rise, passing through a small hamlet and then climbing more steeply towards the wood. I stopped to pay homage to a single oak tree which always leaves me feeling bittersweet. It was part of a long row of mature trees that was recently felled in order to turn several small traditional meadows into a large prairie-style field of monoculture. Why this particular tree was lucky enough to be left, I have no idea; it’s very possibly on borrowed time, but I like to see it as a symbol of hope. It might be the last tree standing but at least it is still there.

Entering the wood, it was immediately all about the cherry trees, so stunningly beautiful decked out in their delicate white blooms. Being a Shropshire lass myself, I am possibly a little biased when it comes to agreeing with A.E. Housman’s poetic opinion of this ‘loveliest of trees’ (actually, Houseman hailed from neighbouring Worcestershire, but let’s not split hairs) but I think he knew what he was talking about and a reading of his famous poem can be found here for anyone who is interested. I’ve written before about how I am naturally drawn to trees that have a light and open, airy character and the wild cherry is a perfect example; not that it means timid or petite, mind you ~ some of our local trees are enormous.

I suspect that May will always be my favourite month but there is something slightly bewitching about these weeks leading up to it, the sudden headlong rush of growth and activity that heralds true spring. I’m not in the least surprised that the Japanese custom of shinrin yoku or forest bathing has become so popular as an activity deemed to promote relaxation and well-being and this must surely be one of the most engaging times of year in our latitudes to spend some time with trees. True, there is something unquestionably majestic and awe-inspiring about a full summer canopy but I love the sweet youthfulness of tender new leaves unfurling, soft as silk, each one exquisite in its perfection. It’s easy to wax lyrical about the myriad shades of green and yet there is also gold, copper, bronze, topaz, amber . . . a treasure trove of colour to delight the eye.

I must remember to look downwards, too, where the woodland floor is springing into life, the new shoots of ivy and honeysuckle lifting their eyes upwards, the silvered ferns and spongy mosses resplendent in fresh plumage. I love moss-coated rocks like this, for me there is always a whisper of something ancient about them and on close inspection, they are like miniature magical worlds in themselves. I particularly liked one set against a backdrop of brooding holly, still flaunting a few scarlet berries as if its dark evergreen presence should not to be forgotten in all this talk of spring.

There is a special quality to the light at this time of year, it is more diffident than the strident brightness of high summer; morning shadows are long, reflections muted and the gentle diffusion of sunlight through petals brings a demure luminosity softened at the edges. So beautiful, and well worth getting out of bed for.

Onward along the track and another tree I always stop to acknowledge, the largest pear tree I have ever seen in my life. There was nothing I could use to give an idea of scale in my picture but suffice to say, it towers hugely above me: truly a grandmother tree worthy of my respect. The blossom is dense, waxier than the cherry flowers, but sharing a similar subtle perfume and just as busy with visiting insects.

I love walking: it seems to me to be one of the simplest and most fundamental human things to do, and after so many bleak months of reduced mobility, I am delighted to be able to move with relative ease at last. The gift of walking is one I shall never take for granted again. It is an economical activity, too, since all that is really required is some comfortable footwear ~ and contrary to what the inevitable adverts would have us believe, that doesn’t mean wildly expensive hiking boots. When we lived in Asturias, we had several elderly neighbours who happily walked miles on steep mountain roads wearing their carpet slippers! It’s always a privilege to walk in stunningly beautiful places (I’m currently ‘in training’ for our trip to the wilds of the Spanish Pyrenees later this year) but I also love the fact that I can walk from home without ever feeling bored; I’m very blessed to live where I do and when I see a path like this one, I am automatically drawn down it. Who knows what adventures might follow?

I often see hares and roe deer when walking this route (Roger met a very large bristly boar on the same morning, I’m quite thankful not to have had that experience when on my own ~ they are huge and not to be messed with) but this morning it was the birdlife that dominated. How quickly we become reacclimatised to the call of the cuckoo, the warbling blackcaps and swooping swallows! The woodpeckers, too, were making quite a statement beating out their staccato timpani and I love the way each different tree responds with its own resonant note. Finally reaching the end of the woodland, I passed beneath another majestic cherry and an arch of trees sketching a latticed dome against the blue sky.

The next section of my walk took me along lanes in open countryside through arable farmland, the fields of oilseed rape flowering in startling patches of acid yellow amongst the green. This landscape is what I think of as ‘traditional’ northern Mayenne with small pastures, ponds, hedges and woodland ~ true bocage. Sadly, much of it is being eroded in places to give way to huge treeless fields better suited to monoculture crops and monstrous machinery but it does me good to keep things in balance. I rant and rage at the ripping out of hedges, the felling of trees and the interminable crop spraying but it’s important to remember that the traditional beauty still exists around us and, despite everything, the wildlife hangs on in there, too.

It’s a time of year when the roadside verges start to unfurl their glorious pageant of colour and next week, I’m planning a long walk with Roger along a lane that is notorious for its riot of springtime colour. I saw no orchids along this route but there were plentiful carpets of bluebells, stitchwort and cowslips to enjoy.

There was another lone pear tree, too, a mere whippersnapper in comparison to the one I had admired earlier, but every bit as beautiful for all that.

Is oilseed rape beautiful? It’s a crop that seems to have a similar effect on people as the taste of Marmite, love it for its bright cheerfulness or hate it for its screaming brashness and hay fever-provoking habit. I’m not sure what I think of it, to be honest, although I’m definitely not a fan of the rubbery rotten cabbage stink that will follow once the flowers have faded. What is interesting, having walked along two sides of this field, it that I didn’t see a single insect working the flowers: maybe, like me, they prefer the dainty cherry and pear blossom to this forthright flower?

Turning off the lane, my walk took me through another stretch of woodland, this time along a grassy track where carpet slippers would have had a good soaking! This is one of the best places I know for finding a wide diversity of fungi in autumn but the wood certainly has a very different feel to it at this time of year.

At the end of this track, I turned into our own coppice which is part of a much larger tract of woodland. Up until fifty or so years ago, it was a working quarry and the lower part is held within a bowl of rock; the abundant growth here is an optimistic reminder of just how brilliantly nature heals a space where human activity has ceased. The rock walls create clever acoustics so that the bird song is amplified and reverberates in rising and falling notes and melodies and I revelled in taking a few moments to close my eyes and simply listen. Roger has just fashioned a wooden bench from scrap timber which we must now take and place deep within the trees, our own tranquil little seat just perfect for a spot of shinrin yoku in the months to come.

Dragging myself away from the wood, I returned down the lane, through the hamlet and home again, stopping for a final blast of cherry tree therapy along with the honey bees. If I knew Roger (and let’s face it, I ought to by now), he would have coffee beans freshly ground all ready for a post-walk brew. He is up at five most mornings and heads off for a much longer walk than me, but it’s part of the ritual to enjoy a coffee together and chat about what we have seen along our different routes before getting stuck into the busyness of the day. Walking, coffee, chat . . . such simple pleasures but a very wonderful and precious start to my day. 😊

Mad March

March 19, 2024Tagged #Seed saving, #Seed sharing, ecological gardening, nature, seasonal beauty, seasonal produce, weather, wildlife31 Comments

With a crazily busy time ahead of us, I’ve decided to squeeze in another quick post, not because it’s altogether necessary but because at this time of year, everything seems to grow and change so quickly that in a couple of weeks’ time my photos will be out of date. Well, that’s my excuse, anyway! The weather has been a bit of rollercoaster over the last few days which has been frustrating in the extreme: we’ve ricocheted between torrential rain and clear skies, blustery winds and still air, temperatures that have us reaching for a coat and those that have seen us stripping down to t-shirts. No two days have been the same and, in fact at times, no two hours have been the same, either. I suppose ‘changeable’ is the word of the week and it has been a case of picking and choosing the better moments for being outside. It’s appeared to be the same for the insects, too.

After a cool, wet spell, a welcome hint of sunshine brought a new softness to the air and suddenly the garden felt truly spring-like. It’s incredible how quickly the air is full of busy buzzing after the quiet winter months and it seems this has been the week for some serious bee activity. I’ve been seeing increased numbers of various bumblebee species around the garden and on 14th March, the first Red-tailed queen. A bank of heathers and periwinkle seems to be a key hanging out place and I’ve been captivated by the comings and goings of various Miner, Furrow and Mason bees, all far too restless to pose for photos. What a thrill, then, to be joined by a huge Violet carpenter bee which was only too happy to model for me. There are two kinds of Violet carpenter bees in France, Xylocopa violacea and Xylocopa valga, and my research tells me this is most likely to be the former given its geographical distribution. Apparently it is only possible to tell females of the two species apart under microscope which is well beyond the remit of my very amateur approach. However, I do at least know this was a female because males have red tips to their antennae. When it comes to identification, I’m finding the INPN (Inventaire National de Patrimoine Naturel) ~ an immense catalogue of French fauna and flora ~ an invaluable resource, one that I’m turning to more and more. I’ve received a lot of friendly help and support from amateur entomologists through iSpot but they are understandably wary of making concrete identifications in some cases because of the differences in species between the UK and France. Using the Latin nomenclature, I can search the INPN site and bring up a wealth of information about different species, including their geographical occurrence which in some cases is the real clincher . . . if it’s not present locally then logic tells me I’m looking at the wrong thing. Putting all the science aside, what pleased me more than anything was that at long last I was able to capture a picture that shows just how blue those beautiful wings are. So often, they can seem quite brown and the stunning iridescence is lost but not this time . . . which is why I’m indulging in two photos of the same bee.

Sunshine on the south-facing barn wall certainly had the Red mason bees bustling about in darting flashes of foxy velvet. I stood transfixed, watching them piling in and out of crevices between the stones (those walls really need pointing but how could we deny the bees their refuge?) and was quite alarmed to see what seemed to be very aggressive behaviour, the bees tumbling about and wrestling each other. I know there’s a lot of aggression in the natural world but everything I’ve read and seen about Mason bees marks them out as being very gentle creatures. A little research told me that what I had witnessed was in fact females ‘aggregating’, a term used to describe the way they choose a place to nest with the same entrance but then make their own individual brood cells inside. A traffic jam rather than a street brawl, then. The nests are too high up to get a decent close-up photo but I’ve marked four of the main entrances with arrows and you might just be able to make out the bees, particularly in the top one. As the wall warmed up, the number of flying bees grew and by mid-afternoon it was looking like a major airport.

Having seen several butterflies around the garden, I decided it was probably time to start my transect walks again; as I registered fairly late last year, I wasn’t sure when my start date was likely to be but I was interested to see how different the species profile would be through spring. On my last walk in October, I saw four butterflies and two species, on 14th March I saw seventeen and three species so the season has most definitely begun. The garden offered the diversity of one Brimstone, one Peacock and nine Tortoiseshell, the latter being the only species I saw along the lane. As I saw no Tortoiseshell butterflies at all last year, I needed to find the Latin name before submitting my data and at that point a niggling little tickle in my hindbrain had me feeling something wasn’t quite right. Some careful digging told me that the butterflies were Large Tortoiseshell (Nymphalis polychloros) and not the Small Tortoiseshell I am familiar with. Large Tortoiseshells were once widespread across Britain but became extinct during the 1960s so the only kind I have seen during my lifetime apart from the years I have lived abroad are Small Tortoiseshells. The larger species is still common and widespread across much of continental Europe, although (inevitably these days, it seems) they are in decline in some places. Good to see so many of them here, then. They are busy feeding high up in the cherry plum blossom so sadly I haven’t managed a photo yet but I am beginning to wonder if I need to start wielding the camera on top of a ladder. Far easier to snap was the first Wall Brown of the year which I saw several days later feeding on various flowers close to the house.

Willow is certainly the tree of the moment and I have been enjoying watching the fresh green tracery unfurling along its branches. I’m pleased to see new buds bursting at last on some of the hedging willow we planted in our first winter here; we’ve lost as many as half of them to extreme weather but the rest are looking much happier, more than anything thanks to the soggy conditions, so come the autumn, we should be able to take some cuttings to fill the gaps. I might get to try my hand at basketry yet! March 15th marked the beginning of the official hedgecutting ban (too late in my opinion, given we have birds already nesting in our garden hedges) and several local farmers were out right up to the last minute flailing the laneside hedges once again. On one of my walks, I picked up a branch that had been cut off, fluffy catkins and all, carried it home and took several cuttings from it. Willow is a wonderful tree for many reasons including being an excellent species for wildlife; unlike most other trees with catkins, it requires insect pollination and as such, provides an essential source of food for hungry early insects. If my cuttings strike then I shall plant the young trees with honour in our wilder woodland patches.

Looking back through my blog posts, I saw that the eared willow is flowering five weeks earlier than it did last year. The weather conditions have been very different with a cold drought last spring and warm and exceptionally wet weather this year but still, the difference seems worryingly huge. I’d hoped to catch a photo of it in sunshine, fluffed up and yellow, but unfortunately the rain has rendered it into something of a bedraggled soggy mess.

Also much earlier than normal are the tulips flowering in glazed pots at the front of the house; I always think of them as a late April to May bloom so this doesn’t feel quite right, either. I’m still not sure whether I’m a huge fan but they provide a riotous splash of satin colour and I’m drawn to them more when their buds are on the cusp of opening than when they reach the full-blown flower stage.

I have no such doubts about primroses, I love them without reserve and this year is proving to be an exceptional one for them. The ditches along the lanes are a glorious sprawl of buttery yellow and in the garden, the clumps have surpassed themselves in both size and enthusiasm. They seed so easily and have scattered themselves freely so that we are literally tiptoeing between carpets of them and their sweet scent is sublime, the very essence of spring.

Staying with flowers and a couple of posts ago I shared my bemusement at the fact that the first flowers on my Swiss heirloom sugar peas in the tunnel were white. Oh my goodness, how they have redeemed themselves! The plants are now covered in flowers in various shades and combinations of pink, mauve and maroon, almost as pretty as sweet peas but without the heady scent. They are quite exquisite and remind me of those extravagant Regency bonnets, very Jane Austen-esque.

Everything in the tunnel is growing very rapidly which is good news given the plague of slugs both inside and out. It’s no exaggeration to say I have never seen such a concentration of slugs in my entire gardening life and when you consider we have grown food and flowers in some notoriously wet locations, that really is saying something. It’s all down to the weather, of course ~ a mild and very wet winter has suited them down to the ground and they are not holding back when it comes to tucking in. Some of the bigger plants like broccoli and kale have been reduced to lace in places but they should hold their own and recover once things dry out a bit. The smaller plants are more of a concern but that’s why I always sow far too many; if I plant with the expectation of losing a few and make sure there are plenty of spares handy, then I can at least implement a damage limitation strategy. Losing plants is always frustrating but it’s all part of the growing game and as long as we hold our nerve, nature will sort out a balance in the fullness of time. We have plenty of useful slug predators in the garden but I can’t blame them for feeling a bit overwhelmed in the current circumstances! I am keeping a very close eye on my seedlings, including a tray of morning glory which I am especially pleased with; I had a couple of plants from a plant swap last year which flowered beautifully for months and these have been grown from some saved seed. They are tender little things which can’t go out until May and slugs adore them so they are definitely in the ‘intensive care’ unit for maximum nurturing.

While it’s easy to a feel a bit downhearted in the face of Storm Slug, there are plenty of plants in the garden that aren’t being remotely bothered by them which helps to keep things in perspective. We’ve been working away over three years to improve the state of the soft fruit bushes we inherited and also extend the range on offer and the bushes are certainly looking to be in fine fettle. I love the fresh new growth in so many shades of green, rapidly unfurling in a soft haze of promising foliage and the bed in front of the polytunnel promises to be especially productive this year. Here we have blackcurrant, redcurrant, gooseberry, jostaberry, autumn raspberry, Japanese wineberry, goji berry, tayberry and honeyberry, the last four of which are set to give us their first proper harvest this year. Mmm, I can’t wait for all that berry joy!

Elsewhere, the strawberry sprawl is looking good and some of the plants are flowering already. I’ve been planting up some new patches as they need shifting to new ground every three years and the plants haven’t looked back: it’s interesting how the slugs don’t touch them. The first fresh fruit of the year ~ also happily slug-free ~ is in fact a vegetable, but that’s fine by me because rhubarb has to be one of those top seasonal foodie delights and I love it. I realise if you’re not a fan, then it’s nothing to celebrate, but I am very excited at the promise of those first deep pink stems stewed up for my breakfast. Emergence has been slow but the new growth has hurtled up this week and is doubling in size daily. I have to be patient but it shouldn’t be too long now.

I’m concerned about this mad March weather and in particular the unusually high temperatures; we are forecast to reach 19°C or even higher in the next few days (20°C is the record high here for March) which is 7° above the norm and falls above the 90th percentile of expected temperature ranges for the month. Scientific opinion seems to be fairly equally divided as to whether this is just a blip caused by El Niño or symptomatic of something more worrying. Certainly, the usual story here is a run of very cold drying north-easterly winds into April and the current situation couldn’t be more different. We’ve had three very different summers here so I’m interested to see what this year brings and whether we are going to need to adapt our approach to growing food yet again. In the meantime, I need to make the most of those tulips which have all opened and, in some cases, started to shed their petals. At this rate they will be done and dusted before we even make it into April; perhaps it’s just ‘one of those things’ but it still feels like madness, nonetheless!

Full of beans

March 4, 2024March 5, 2024Tagged #Seed saving, #Seed sharing, citizen science, ecological gardening, nature, seasonal beauty, seed sharing, wildlife39 Comments

With meteorological spring having started on 1st March, the official statistics for this winter’s weather in France have just been released. According to the figures, it has been the third warmest winter since records began in 1900 (after 2020 and 2016) with temperatures on average 2°C above the expected, and a particularly warm spell from 23rd January to 22nd February which broke records in some parts of the country. Precipitation has also been higher than normal, with our region experiencing around 20% above the expected amount but snow and prolonged periods of freezing weather have been exceptionally low. Not surprisingly given the amount of rainy days we’ve had, we are well down on hours of sunshine, too, by somewhere between 10% to 30%. What a treat, then, to finally have a day of sunshine, blue skies and no rain; it was worth the chilly start with a slight frost and cold north-westerly wind just to see something other than grey gloom for a change. Isn’t it incredible how uplifting a dose of sunshine can be? The forecast suggests it is to be a short-lived reprieve but we just have to grab those brighter moments when we can; winter is very capable of having a nasty sting in its tail, after all.

This is a time of year where the polytunnel really comes into its own, even the merest hint of sunshine driving the temperature up to something wonderfully balmy. The winter salad crops have started to flower so there is a delightful smell of pollen in the air and not surprisingly, the insects are piling in to fill their boots. As well as a wide assortment of flies, I’ve seen a tiny solitary bee and the first hoverfly of the season feeding on komatsuna flowers and a huge Buff-tailed bumblebee queen feeding (rather remarkably, I thought) on catkins she had found on the twiggy hazel sticks supporting the pea plants. The pollinators and aphid-munchers are gearing up for the season, then: that’s wonderful news.

Good news outside, too, despite the less than clement weather. First, I saw a bumblebee in the white heather which was obviously different to the ones I’ve seen so far, being much smaller than those huge Buff-tailed queens with brighter yellow bands and a whiter tail. After much checking of information, I think she was a Buff-tailed worker in which case my previous concerns about how the queens have been coping have been dispelled ~ if there are workers about, at least one of those mighty matrons has managed to raise her first brood.

On the same rare sunny day (3rd March), I saw my first red mason bee of the year, also feeding on the heather. I was pretty certain it was Osmia cornuta, the white hairy face and long antennae identifying it as a male. I wondered if there was any activity in the barn wall yet so I zipped round the corner to have a look and yes! There were several mason females going in and out of holes in the mortar or between the stones, busy laying claim to their nesting sites. How exciting . . . and here I am already frittering away my time chasing bees round the garden!

At the bottom of the barn wall, I noticed a lizard scrabbling about on a sun-warmed stone, the first of the year and almost impossibly tiny. The roe deer are moving across the fields behind the house on a regular basis now and I wondered if it was pure coincidence that on the day the hunting season came to an end, I saw my first hare in months ~ sitting outside the kitchen window, as bold as brass. Chatting to the local mayor’s wife who I often meet on my walks, she told me that the hunters haven’t seen many hares either this season on account of the fact that the poor creatures are suffering from a viral disease similar to myxomatosis which has seriously reduced their numbers. Given the speed at which our visiting hare scarpered across the lane, round the pond and into the next field, I felt it was probably in rude health. I sincerely hope it stays that way.

Back to the tunnel, and the Swiss heirloom overwintering ‘Frieda Welten’ peas that I am trialling this year have certainly perked up no end in the warmth and are rapidly scrambling up their support sticks. The first flowers have appeared which bodes well for an early crop but I am a little puzzled by one thing: all the photos I’ve seen are of truly beautiful mauve and maroon flowers yet these are unquestionably white! Mmm, not sure what’s going on here but I shall wait and see what unfolds over the next couple of weeks. It’s really about the pea harvest, of course, but I have to confess I was just a teeny bit attracted by those colourful blooms.

On the opposite side of the tunnel, this season’s new plantings are also starting to put on some enthusiastic growth and this is a huge bonus. There is no way that we could even contemplate having growth like that on outdoor potatoes at this time of year and, along with the rows of peas and broad beans behind them, they should give us a super early harvest weeks ahead of their brethren in the garden. It’s logical to think of polytunnel growing being all about those heat-loving summer crops like tomatoes, peppers, aubergines and melons yet extending the growing season to enjoy fresh salads all winter and a selection of vegetables from April onwards is for us, the very best justification for having what is otherwise a rather ugly structure on the patch.

The tunnel is also a great place to start pre-sown plants off as we can again benefit from early warmth and protection from the elements. I currently have a tray of lettuce seedlings and another of ‘Greyhound’ pointy cabbage as well as pots of sweet peas and a mini-cloche of morning glory on the potting bench. The broad beans sown in individual pots at the end of January are looking grand and I’ve started carting them outside during the day to harden off before planting them in the ground; they’re pretty tough things but I don’t want to shock them too much and anyway, the ground is so wet at the moment it would be like sinking them into a mudbath. The only disappointment so far has been the cardboard tubes of peas, a system which worked so well last year but has been something of a failure this time round. Only a third of the pea seeds germinated, the rest rotting in the tubes which I think is a reflection of the cool and unusually humid conditions in the tunnel over the last few weeks. Our first row of outdoor peas will now have to be direct-sown which is a bit frustrating but I’m hoping by then that our resident feline will have discovered her inner rodent love. Unfortunately, at the moment, snoozing the day away on a sofa seems to be her only aim in life!

With the closing date for the INCREASE ‘Share the bean’ registration behind us and still no reply to my emails, I am obviously not going to be participating in this particular citizen science project. No matter, I’ve decided to do my own thing instead and, inspired by immediate support from fellow blogger Piglet in Portugal, I’m wondering if I can persuade other interested readers to join me? Apart from anything else, I suspect an awful lot of you are already doing this so it’s just a case of flagging that up. This is not going to be officially serious citizen science, because I’m not a scientist and possibly not a serious citizen much of the time, either! 😆 My aim is simply to encourage anyone who has the time and space to grow any kind of vegetable(s) to save some seeds and share them with others next year; I’m focusing on beans, but you can grow anything you like as long as it’s not an F1 hybrid. It doesn’t have to be done on any grand scale, either, as a single tomato, basil or chive plant (for example) grown in a pot offers wonderful possibilities with the minimum of effort or fuss.

Why do this?

Here are my thoughts on why saving and sharing seeds is a worthwhile activity:

Saving seed is an ancient activity that has been practised by humankind for thousands of years. In many cultures, it was the domain of women who passed the necessary knowledge and skills down to their daughters; the following year’s harvest relied on the careful selection and preservation of seeds ~ a weighty responsibility, indeed! With the rise of commercial seed companies, agro-industrial giants and even in some countries, government legislation banning individuals from saving their own seed, the practice has been eroded and much of the know-how is in danger of being lost. What better way to reconnect with such a vital and honourable tradition than saving our own seed when we can?

Official figures for the loss of seed diversity since 1900 tend to range from 75% to over 90% depending on what you read. The reasons for such a loss are complex and suggested factors include climate change, reliance on a small number of crops for diet, the rise of commercial seed production, changes in population, monoculture and a dismissive attitude towards diverse strains. With human society facing an ever uncertain future and food security hanging in the balance, every gesture we can make to preserve and increase seed diversity is precious. As gardeners, I don’t think we should underestimate the crucial role we may well play in safeguarding the future of food.

Imagine waking to a world where it is no longer possible to buy commercially-produced seed. What then? Saving our own seed gives us greater independence and autonomy, making us less reliant on others to provide for our needs. I’m not saying we should never buy seed but if we have a good stock of our own stuff and strategies in place to share and swap as much as possible, we can ride out any shortages or disruptions to the supply chain. It’s also much easier to ignore the siren call of all those glossy seasonal catalogues and cheaper on the pocket, too!

I talk a lot about building resilience ~ the ability to cope with and adapt to change ~ and saving seed is most definitely a useful tool in the resilience kit. If we learn to select seeds that suit the growing conditions in our locality, then we will be able to make informed choices about what to grow and save for the future. I think this is where sharing information and experiences is so important, too, as who knows what the future holds? The stats at the top of this post could suggest that winters in Mayenne are becoming milder and wetter . . . but scientists also predict that shifting ocean currents may lead to far colder winters in western Europe which changes the game once again. If we can tap into the experience of others who have grown gardens under different conditions then that will help to safeguard our own ability to continue producing food, come what may.

Saving seed is a good thing to do for the planet, too. Nature does all the hard work, we just nip in at the end and help ourselves to the dry goods! Most processing is simple and needs nothing other than a bit of time and concentration ~ no fancy equipment, fossil fuels, treated water, transportation or plastic packaging (old paper envelopes do just fine). We can make our own decisions about how much seed to save which minimises waste: how many part-used packets of seed are thrown away because the seed is no longer viable? Costs are minimal, carbon footprint virtually non-existent and at the end of it, we have a pile of wonderful potential in the form of next year’s abundant larder. It’s also a fascinating activity, a lot of fun and a way to build friendships. What more could we ask?

What am I going to do?

My plan is very simple. I’m going to plant several different varieties of bean and track their growth through the season by noting down their milestones, then harvest them, eat some and preserve the rest. I will dry as many as I possibly can with a view to sharing the seed with anyone who would like to try them next year. I’m not actually doing anything different to normal, just paying a bit more attention to the growing conditions and yield plus planning to dry more for seed than I normally would. I will be happy to post what spares I have to others in Europe ~ I’ve already been sharing and swapping with friends in France, Spain and Finland this year ~ but sadly, can’t now legally send to the UK thanks to Brexit. My hope is that I can at least encourage gardeners within other countries and continents to share with their own ‘neighbours’ rather than try to navigate the pitfalls of global seed sharing.

I’m going to grow the following varieties all from seed I saved last year:

Dwarf beans for eating whole: purple ‘Purple Teepee’, yellow ‘Dior’ and green ‘Stanley’.
Dwarf bean for podding: orca ‘Yin Yang’.
Climbing beans for podding: Asturian fabas, borlotti ‘Lingua di Fuoco’ and Majorcan pea bean.

I’m also trialling three new heritage varieties, the first two of which are prestigious French strains which I’m eager to try:

Dwarf bean for eating whole: yellow ‘De Rocquancourt’.
Dwarf bean for podding: Tarbais (famously used in cassoulet).
Climbing bean for podding: ‘Madeira Maroon’.

I am happy to admit I chose the last variety simply on the grounds of it being so very pretty. Well, a girl has to have a bit of fun and frivolity in her life!

What I’m not going to do is get hung up on masses of data because I want to keep things simple and enjoyable; I’ll just be making a few growing notes, taking some photos now and then and doing an occasional update in my blog posts. If anyone out there fancies joining me on this escapade, I will be truly delighted ~ grow what you like, where and when you like, but please be sure to hand some saved seeds on for next year. That’s it! I will be more than happy to put links to other blogs or share photos and comments from non-bloggers in my posts if you would like me to. I’m not a mover and shaker and I certainly don’t want to be an ‘influencer’ (or whatever the latest term is) but I hope that publishing this post will be like tossing a tiny pebble into a pond, sending little ripples of seed-sharing love ever outwards. Sow, grow, save and share. Let’s see what happens, my friends! 😊

The seeds of friendship

February 27, 2024February 28, 2024Tagged ecological gardening, nature, seasonal beauty, seasonal weather, seed sharing, wildlife26 Comments

It’s hard to believe that one February can be so different to another. Twelve months ago, we were just emerging from a month-long drought, quite incredible in what is traditionally one of the wettest months of the year. This February, it has been almost impossible to find two dry days together and the ground is so saturated, I’m wondering if a pair of flippers would be more useful than wellies. We’ve had some high winds, too, which are a fairly rare occurrence here ~ no bad thing given the damage they can cause. One gust was so severe, it hurled a brick through the air which, in a matter of seconds, caused some very savage damage to our rainwater collection system. The flowers are taking a terrible bashing, too. The crocus are lying on the grass like soggy scraps of silk and the myrobalan blossom, which should have reached peak beauty this week, has been battered and mercilessly snatched from the trees. I’m hoping the couple of fine days we had when the bees were busy in the flowers were enough to set some fruit but to be honest, I’m not holding my breath where jars of deep ruby plum jam are concerned this year. Poor daffodils, they are having a terrible time of it: almost every bud has been nibbled by tiny slugs so that the flowers are opening in sad tatters and now the tallest ones and heavy-headed double varieties are flattened against the ground. Only the shorter single varieties more akin to their wild cousins are holding their own and I think there must be a lesson there.

False springs, blackthorn winters . . . none of this is new, of course, and being someone who firmly believes early March is still late winter then I’m content to accept this is what happens sometimes. It’s annoying when the mild weather has forced so many things on ahead of their time but with any luck, everything will balance itself out in due course: nature has a way of sorting itself out if left to its own devices. It’s odd to think we’ve been gardening in t-shirts and dining outside given the bitter wind currently blasting down from the north but that’s why I think it’s important to grab those moments when we can and make the most of them; after all, it could easily be late April before we do it again.

Despite the dismal gloomy weather there is still plenty to celebrate. It’s a good year for primroses and we’re delighted at how they have spread in the time we have been here and are now popping up in pretty pastel clumps around the patch. The sweet violets, too, have increased greatly in number and both are a favourite addition to our salads at the moment. It’s been interesting to note the changes at the bird feeding station, with a sudden influx of goldfinches and siskins joining the general frenzy. On one day only there were also three greenfinches and that filled me with hope as they are a species whose numbers have declined in recent years as a result of parasitic disease (they are on the UK conservation red list). These are the only ones I’ve seen all winter but the fact they are here at all is encouraging. There have been birds checking out all the nextboxes, even those that seem to be spoken for already, and I’m hoping the evident increase in squirrel activity means they’re thinking about raising their familes with us again, too. One of the biggest highlights of the week came straight from the potager, though . . . the first picking of purple sprouting broccoli, always a happy, happy event!

Since 1st January, it has been illegal for householders in France to throw food away and councils have been charged with putting strategies in place to support people in recycling their food waste. Several French NGOs monitoring the situation have recently reported that the infrastructure simply isn’t in place although it seems some cities are doing better than others. As for rural areas like ours, the expectation is that everyone will now make compost although with no collection system for food waste in place, I’m left wondering what exactly people without gardens are supposed to do. An obvious starting point would be to reduce the amount of food waste in the first place and I’d love to see more in the way of encouragement and education in this area. However, for now it’s all about composting.

Growing our own food teaches us much about food waste ~ or, at least, the lack of it. These end-of-season leeks are so small and scrappy, no supermarket would touch them with a barge pole and yet they still offer us a fresh, nutrient-rich and delicious veggie option from the garden.

I received an email inviting me to collect our new composting bin from a local village this week with the proviso that I attend an hour-long initiation session first to be taught how to use it. I contacted the lady in charge and asked whether, since we have been making compost for more than thirty years, the hour session was really necessary? I would never profess to being an expert in anything but this really did smack of teaching granny to suck eggs and was an hour I could spend on more useful things (like turning the compost heap, maybe?😆 ). The reply was that my ‘mastery wasn’t doubted’ but the session is obligatory as the Circular Economy officer has to be sure everyone has received the correct training. How typical of modern society, individuals not trusted to know what they are doing and councils ticking boxes to cover their backs! I can’t get excited or upset about this stuff so I politely acknowledged the council’s stance and then asked them to give our bin to someone else. We can manage without it perfectly well and we know how to make compost with our eyes shut. There are lots of people complaining that they will have to take time off work to attend these sessions and they have a valid point; surely the option of attending voluntarily would be a much better one, especially in terms of engendering a positive attitude within the community to the beauty that is homemade compost?

Our system might not be pretty but we manage to produce some decent compost all year round.

On the subject of food waste, we’ve done a bit of an inventory this week to check how our stored produce is doing. It is a complete waste to grow, harvest, process and preserve food then not eat it, and although we inevitably lose a few bits and pieces to the compost heap over winter, by and large we manage to eat our way through it before the new season’s harvest begins. I’ve been pleased at how well some of our experiments such as drying aubergines and various beans, freezing sliced peppers, preserving artichoke hearts and sundried cherry tomatoes in oil and bottling various types of tomato sauce have worked and also at just how much fruit we were able to store from last year. For my breakfast bowl, I still have the option of stewing up strawberries, redcurrants, blackcurrants, blackberries, gooseberries, whimberries, cherries and apples and, looking at the strong fresh growth on some of the newer things we’ve planted, I reckon the list will be even longer this year.

New growth on the Japanese wineberry we planted last year. Those red stems bring a welcome splash of colour to the soft fruit bed but the thorns are lethal!

I wouldn’t dream of buying unseasonal produce like strawberries and tomatoes at this time of year but when we can use our own from last year, still packed with the colours and flavours of summer, then I’m a happy bunny. I was also reminded of the benefit of drying so many jars of summer leaf and petal, most of which is used in herbal teas. I had a day last week where I felt distinctly under the weather which is very unlike me; tired, chilled and achy, it seemed I was going down with some sort of nasty bug so it was time to turn to the garden medicine chest. I brewed several large mugs of yarrow, peppermint and elderflower tea during the day and also took a few spoons of fire cider; I wished I’d been able to dry some echinacea last year, too, but I didn’t feel the plants were big enough to harvest in their first year. No matter, by the next morning I was feeling as right as rain and very grateful to have such simple but effective healing at hand. I will certainly be drying plenty more this year and the hint of abundant new growth on the echinacea plants suggest that it will definitely be in the mix this time.

Peacock butterfly on an echinacea flower last summer: I’m hoping for plenty of both beauties this year.

I’ve finished my Open University course and have been awarded my digital badge, nothing to get excited about but it’s a bit of fun, I suppose! I’m now feeling very ready to embark on further citizen science projects and more rigorous and disciplined species identification, furnished as I am with a wealth of support and useful resources. I’ve even managed to help with a few identifications on iSpot which has helped boost my confidence. I’m also submitting regular observations to the Oiseaux des Jardins site, just a quick ten minute count of the birds in the garden as well as frogs, toads, hedgehogs and red squirrels if they’re about. As a regular contributor, I now have access to all the observations being logged in Mayenne and Sarthe which makes for interesting local comparisons. I’m also hoping that my own observations will serve as a useful personal record for the year as I shall make sure that, for example, my very first sightings (or soundings!) of summer migrants are logged.

When fellow blogger Debra shared a link to an EU citizen science project run by Increase, which stands for (deep breath) Intelligent Collections of Food Legumes Genetic Resources for European Agrofood Systems, I was very keen to register. The idea of being sent a package of beans to grow, charting their progress along the way, harvesting, cooking, saving and then sharing saved seeds with others next spring appealed to me greatly. It’s just the sort of project I believe we should be undertaking for the future of food security, one which explores and supports genetic diversity in seed and the suitability of species to the growing conditions in different localities within the EU. This is right up my street, citizen science and global diversity . . . I have the badge, for goodness’ sake! Bring it on, where do I sign? Well, the sad reality is I don’t because anyone taking part is obliged to download an app to a handheld device which, of course, I don’t have. This kind of thing frustrates the heck out of me because a scheme like this ought to be inclusive; I have a laptop, fast broadband connection and a good camera, so why on earth can’t there be an option for desktop software, too? After all, I’ve managed to participate in every other project so far without a smartphone, including the Europe-wide eBMS butterfly survey. The INCREASE team welcome feedback and kindly supply the email addresses of four of the key personnel involved in the ‘Share the bean’ project, so on 4th February I wrote to all of them politely stating the case for all those people like myself who would love to participate but are excluded. I’ve yet to receive a reply.

Beautiful beans! Clockwise from top: Majorcan pea bean, ‘Yin Yang’ orca bean and borlotti ‘Lingua di Fuoco’.

Ah well, life’s too short to feel sad about such things so I shall simply continue to grow my own beans and share seed whenever I can. In that vein, I’ve been doing some wonderful seed swaps in the last few weeks with other gardeners in several countries across Europe, many of them good friends I’ve made through blogging. Personally, I think a few seeds is one of the greatest gifts we can offer another human being, they hold such potential and promise; often insignificant or dull-looking little things, they are packed with energy and vitality and come brimming with the delicious possibility of food and flowers for the future. What better way to grow a friendship than through sharing a little bit of gardening love? As individual gardeners, it’s easy to feel like what we do is fairly insignificant but by sharing and comparing experiences ~ whether with a close neighbour or across thousands of miles ~ we have an important part to play in the preservation and expansion of seed diversity whilst developing a shared resilience and adaptability in the face of change. It’s such a satisfying, rewarding, life-affirming thing to do, generating optimism and building camaraderie. Send some seeds, spread some smiles. No app required. 😉

Some of the varieties of aubergine we grew last year were gifts. We weren’t the only ones to appreciate them.

I spot . . .

February 18, 2024Tagged bees, ecological gardening, iSpot, nature, seasonal beauty, wildlife17 Comments

My goodness, what a strange week it’s been. Minimum and maximum temperatures have been as much as 8°C above the expected, the rain stopped, the sun appeared and I have been gardening stripped down to a t-shirt. We have enjoyed morning coffee, lunch and an evening glass of wine sitting outside, serenaded by tumultuous birdsong and surrounded by drifts of spring flowers, all sweet and pretty in purple and yellow. It feels, sounds and smells like April and therein lies the worry . . . it’s only mid-February and this is far from normal. It could, of course, just be ‘one of those things’, an anomaly typical of fluctuating climate patterns, a spin-off from the exploits of El Niño or whatever. The 17°C we reached on 15th February was a degree cooler than the record high in Mayenne for the time of year so it’s been warmer in the past; three years ago, the February weather was bitterly cold and this time last year we were in the middle of a drought. Who’s to say whether this is a mere blip or a taste of things to come? I worry greatly that it’s the latter and wonder yet again what more we can do to try and turn things round but in the meantime, true to character, I am drawn outside to immerse myself in the beauty of the natural world.

What beauty, too! Cycling home from the dairy farm shop, I revelled in the intricacies of bewitching fair-weather cloud formations and the exuberant songs of skylarks, spiralling ever higher into the sky, their fluid crystalline notes cascading back to earth. Suddenly, there is a brilliant and lush greenness to the landscape, the combination of wet and warmth being just what grass and winter grain love; there’s a soft and subtle haze to some trees, too, as leaf buds stretch and swell. On the lawn, purple and yellow crocus open their vibrant cups to reveal deep saffron stamens, primroses and violets ~ those sweetest of spring flowers ~ are scattered in random scented patches and celandines offer precious forage to early insects in brilliant yellow starbursts. The myrobalans, dusted with dainty blossoms like sugared almonds and confetti, hum with the happy attentions of honeybees high in the fretwork of their branches.

Spending my days outside has meant I haven’t quite managed to finish the Open University ‘Citizen Science and Global Diversity’ course; I’m halfway through the final unit of work and with the wet weather back again, I should get it done this week, although I’ve chosen to squeeze in a blog post first! I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed studying anything so much and I’ve learnt a great deal that I hope will help me to be a better amateur naturalist. For starters, I’ve been working hard on identification and I realise that I need to be more rigorous when it comes to pinning down specific species, rather than settling for a ‘best fit’ because I ~~can’t be bothered~~ don’t have time to do further research. As a bit of a self-assessment, I started with the magnificent owl I saw last August; I’ve never been comfortable with my identification of it, having been thrown by its huge ‘ears’ and the fact that I couldn’t find a matching image anywhere. Starting from scratch, I worked through several resources in a more disciplined fashion and I am now confident that what I saw was an Eurasian Scops owl (Otus scops). The owl is a summer migrant and makes a repetitive whistling noise very similar to a Midwife toad; we often hear the latter on summer nights and I’m now wondering if on some occasions it was actually owl rather than amphibian. The ‘otus’ part of its Latin name refers to ears, those feathery tufts that completely confused me since in many images of the species, they aren’t obvious. Apparently, it’s usual for them to be raised when the owl is alert or stressed and seeing as we definitely made each other jump at the time, that would explain it. Maybe my ears did the same! 😂

If someone were to ask me how I feel about artificial intelligence, I would have to say that I have grave reservations and I find some of the implications a bit scary to say the least. However, I would qualify that response with an acknowledgement that there are aspects and applications (in the field of medicine, for example) which are beneficial and I will also admit to quite enjoying exploring the Pl@ntNet website this week. The idea is that you can upload an image or several of a plant that needs to be identified and the computer will match it as closely as possible using the database of images; what’s more, you can then add your own image to help improve the strength of future identifications. As an example, I uploaded an old photo of what I already knew to be an Early purple orchid (Orchis mascula), a beauty that adorns our grass verges in April, often woven through with bluebells and stitchwort.

This is the response I received, with an almost 44% rate of confidence. Is that enough to be certain? In the case of a plant I wasn’t familiar with, I would definitely want to study the comparative photos more closely and explore a wider range of resources in order to be sure. It’s a bit of fun, though, and is definitely a useful starting point in plant identification. I’m very pleased that I’ve managed to gather a good list of various resources to help me with identifying local flora and fauna with greater accuracy this year, including a field checklist for birds in Mayenne which should stop me from wrongly identifying any species as something that isn’t here.

It’s unusual for us to be able to spend so much time working in the garden at this time of year and, although the ground is still very soggy, we’ve been able to accomplish a good deal this week. Roger has been shifting a mountain of compost made from turfs, grass clippings and dead leaves which have been breaking down over the last two years; it’s wonderful black stuff, alive with earthworms and the perfect addition to all our planting areas. Part way through the pile, he uncovered a startlingly bright green caterpillar which I thought might be an Angles Shade moth but couldn’t be certain. This was the perfect opportunity to try out my new account on iSpot so, having abandoned my gardening post to take a photo (and so it begins . . . 😆), I uploaded my first official observation. Within hours, I had confirmation of my identification from a lovely lady who welcomed me to the site and gave me some very helpful tips. I’ve never seen adult Angle Shades here which isn’t surprising as they look like withered dead leaves and are supremely camouflaged but it’s good to know they are here, and as they are a day-flying moth species I am on a mission to look out for them this year. Paying careful attention to everything else that has caught my eye, I’ve also identified Square-spot Rustic moth caterpillars and Nursery Web spiders in the tunnel and probably far too many Cabbage moth caterpillars outside . . . but they are part of the garden ecosystem and as we are never short of vegetables plus other creatures feast on the little fat munchers, I’m happy to live and let live.

A week of busyness and the garden is looking pretty much ready for the new growing season. We’ve been redefining the edges of our planting areas as one of the big drawbacks of not using raised beds is that the grass has a tendency to encroach and over time the planting spaces are reduced. I’ve also extended a bed to give us a bit of extra room, first laying down cardboard then topping it with a thick layer of the yummy black compost followed by twiggy sticks, dead leaves and sawdust, donkey dung and a topping of grass from the first clip. I will continue to add amendments like coffee grounds, comfrey and ‘liquid gold’ between now and May, then plant the space with sweetcorn. The potager looks relatively empty at this time of year as the supply of fresh food dwindles; we’ve eaten the last of the celeriac, black radish and Savoy cabbage and are down to the smallest leeks. There’s still kale, of course, with plenty of Jerusalem artichokes, and I was chuffed to see the first purple florets forming on the broccoli. Empty it might be, but there’s a certain satisfaction in seeing the beds free of perennial weeds, fed, mulched and ready for planting: let the new season begin!

In some ways, it already has. Herbs like chives and mint are already on the menu, and there is strong new growth and the first leaf burst on all the soft fruit bushes. The rose garlic I planted a couple of weeks ago is through the ground, the autumn-planted white garlic is romping away and new pink stalks and frilled leaves of rhubarb are pushing through the hay mulch, a sight to gladden my heart. I’m still very happy tucking into bowls of our summer berry fruits and apple compote from the freezer but there is nothing like the first helping of rhubarb to bring smiles to my breakfast bowl.

The autumn-fruiting raspberries are sending up lots of healthy new growth.

I gave the goji berry a severe pruning in early winter . . . it seems to have done it a world of good and we might even get some berries this year.

The tunnel has been seriously balmy this week and with our Persephone period over, plants have responded to the temperature and increased light level by growing at an alarming speed: I’ve almost been able to stand and watch the potatoes bursting through the soil and broad beans bombing up by the hour. The hardworking winter salad crops, which have looked a bit jaded of late, have found another gear and lifted their heads once again so that we still have weeks of pickable leaves to come. Some like the rocket and komatsuna have started to flower but that’s fine, they’re a great source of food for early insects and I like some to set seed for next year. I’ve sown a tray of mixed lettuce seed but only as an insurance policy, I scattered dry seed heads all over the garden at the end of last summer in an experiment to see if volunteers will appear this spring. Certainly, they are popping up all over the tunnel along with coriander and calendula, so we will be very sorted for colourful, tasty salads without having lifted a finger.

It’s already very clear that my laissez-faire attitude to things in the garden is going to be essential this year if I insist on downing tools and chasing things with my camera every few minutes. I’m determined to keep better notes this year, especially appertaining to the first time I see species emerge, so this week has seen me ridiculously excited as several little beauties have appeared. On February 15th, the warmest day we’ve had, I saw the first Brimstone, Peacock and Small Tortoiseshell butterflies; interestingly, I recorded none of the latter on my transect walks last year (which I didn’t start until June) so I’m wondering if they are an early season species here. There have been honeybees and Buff-tailed bumblebee queens around on milder days for several weeks now, but the 15th was the first time I’d seen them collecting pollen: this means the honeybee queens are obviously laying and the bumbles are provisioning their nests. On the same day, I also saw three different kinds of solitary bee. Oh, happy me!

I knew from my first tottering steps into the world of wild bees last year that a foxy-furred bee on the snowdrops was probably an Andrena or Mining bee, possibly a Red-tailed or Early Mining bee (Andrena haemorrhoa) male but I was far from certain. Back to iSpot, where I connected with a wonderful entomologist who is being not only helpful with identification but also incredibly patient and kind with my fumbling attempts. If it were in the UK, he said, it would almost certainly be Andrena thoracica, the Cliff Mining bee, but he reminded me that there are hundreds more species of solitary bees in France so it would take a local expert to be sure. I’m not setting out to name and recognise them all ~ far from it, in fact ~ but I’ll feel like I’ve made some progress if I can at least hit on the right family to start with and go from there. Encouraged by such a friendly and supportive network of nature enthusiasts and experts, I had a stab at identifying the smaller bee in the photo at the top of this post as a Furrow bee, possibly a Common Furrow bee (Lasioglossum calceatum), and was delighted when that was tentatively confirmed, although there are so many lasioglossum species in France that I will again be content simply to identify the family, unless I happen to hit on a highly individual and recognisable species. Speaking of which, Roger saw the first Violet Carpenter bee (Xylocopa violacea) yesterday (17th) so I dashed off to look for it; I didn’t see it, but instead found a small bumblebee feeding on rosemary flowers by the front door. It was a fraction of the size of those huge Buff-tailed queens, very furry with a fairly subdued reddish tail and almost too quick around the flowers to catch with the camera. I know this one: it’s an Early bumblebee (Bombus pratorum), a queen I think, and the first of its kind I’ve seen this year. What a wonderful start to the season . . . and it’s still only February.

Back to work, and one of the tasks for this week has been lifting the Jerusalem artichokes and selecting the best (big and straight with the least knobbles) for replanting. Last year, I failed to do this properly so we’ve ended up with two patches to tackle now; they’re a wonderful staple winter vegetable but let a few tiny tubers stay in the ground and you have a forest next year. In truth, I’d happily grow them just for the flowers but there are limits to how much good growing space I’m prepared to sacrifice. I’m also planning to grow fewer this year (ditto squash yet again) as we haven’t come close to eating our way through them. It’s been bit of a mucky job with the soil being so wet and I’ve been careful to shake the clinging mud full of worms back onto the soil as I go along. You’d have thought I might be able to settle down and concentrate on the job but no, my attention has been seriously grabbed by an array of scurrying ground beetles in different colours and sizes. These are ground-dwelling predators that are hugely beneficial to an ecological garden as they prey on creatures like slugs, snails, aphids and moth larvae that can be destructive towards crops; unfortunately, they do eat some beneficial species, too, but that’s nature for you. I found several larvae as well as adults but prize for the most beautiful has to go to a Golden ground beetle (Carabus auratus) whose metallic green and gold body is quite something to behold. I saw this one several times over a couple of days, recognising it because it seemed to have a bit of a dent in its carapace over the right wing. Recognising individual ground beetles now? Honestly, what has become of me? Maybe I should think about getting out more . . . 😉

Citizen science

February 10, 2024Tagged citizen science, nature, seasonal beauty, The Open University, wildlife18 Comments

Isn’t it funny how sometimes you set out on one path only to end up somewhere completely different and unexpected? With the weather having deteriorated in recent days to heavy blustery showers and little to be done in the garden apart from mixing more buckets of compost, celebrating the germination of peas in the tunnel and enjoying the first daffies in flower, I decided to spend a bit of time getting myself organised with resources to help me identify wildlife with better accuracy this year. I know that once the growing season starts in earnest, I will have even less desire than usual to be staring at a screen thus it makes sense to bookmark useful websites now so they are there when I need them. In this way, I came across iSpot which promises to be a very helpful site where I can ask for opinions from experts rather than relying solely on having to match my observations to whatever photos or information I can find. Although there is a large overlap of species between Mayenne and southern England, it is possible to seek advice on global observations so if I happen to come across something that doesn’t occur on the other side of the English Channel, help will still be at hand. It was whilst investigating the site that I noticed a link to a free online Open University course with the title ‘Citizen Science and Global Diversity’ and within seconds I was signed up and hooked . . .

I am an Open University alumnus and I have a real soft spot and a lot of respect for this educational institution that offers the opportunity for people to study part-time at home rather than having to attend a conventional university. It allowed me to study for both an honours degree and Post Graduate Certificate in Education (my teaching qualification) whilst being a full-time mum and homemaker and although it was tough at times and very hard work, it taught me many things beyond the academic including time management, personal organisation, independence, efficient study skills and the power of self-belief. Distance learning isn’t everyone’s cup of tea but it suits me just fine; the free OpenLearn courses aren’t tutor-supported but are very user-friendly with no pressure or time limits, and I’m happy with assessment being based on simple quizzes rather than full-blown written assessments. There is a huge range of courses on offer from one to one hundred hours of study, well worth a look for anyone who fancies dipping a toe into a bit of faculty fun. The ‘Citizen Science and Global Diversity’ course requires about 24 hours of study over an eight-week period but I’m enjoying it so much (plus it’s still raining) that I’m motoring through it, despite heading off at tangents whenever something catches my imagination.

Citizen science is something I’ve been involved in for many years, both at home and as part of classroom projects; it’s by no means a new concept but one which has grown in popularity since the 1990s and continues to do so, offering non-professionals the opportunity to participate in a wide range of projects covering many different areas of science. Needless to say, it’s the biology- and ecology-based projects that have always appealed to me, whether a simple case of counting birds for an hour in the garden or charting the growth and yield of different varieties of potato over several months. I think it’s a very positive thing for several reasons, perhaps one of the most salient being the chance it affords ‘ordinary’ folk such as myself to engage in valuable scientific study which brings meaning to otherwise two-dimensional concepts. Where the natural world is concerned, I believe this is essential; it’s easy enough to read headlines about declining species and the like but what real meaning do they hold for us if we’ve never connected with those species or nature in general? Connection leads to awareness, learning and concern, all of which are more likely to encourage us to truly engage with the issues and perhaps adopt life-changing ~ or at least, habit-changing ~ actions. I think involvement in such projects also brings home the ‘connectedness’ of things so that even if the study lies within a very specific field, it’s impossible to ignore the wider web of relationships. For instance, when I had narrowed the name of a tiny blue butterfly I’d seen on one of my transect walks last year down to the possibility of two virtually indistinguishable species, it was only through researching food plants and ecosystems favoured by the adult insects that I was able to make a secure identification. From entomology to ecology to botany . . . what a glorious scientific adventure.

Something else I love about participating in citizen science projects is that I can carry the inspiration, curiosity and sense of wonder over into my ordinary wanderings and ask my own questions which spark more research, learning and a deeper understanding of the local environment. One of my walks this week was a typical example of how this happens. It was a cooler day of late with the temperature hovering around normal (9°C) but there was a chilling dampness to the air and the drizzly sky was of the oppressive grey kind, that low lid of murky cloud that threatens to squeeze any joy out of the day. I wrapped up warmly for my walk and wondered how those Buff-tailed bumblebee queens I had been watching feeding on the heather a few days previously were faring now. Honeybees, I know, will go back into a cluster if the temperatures drop but can a bumblebee queen return to her diapause den after feeding briefly and sit out the cooler weather or, once emerged, is she committed to building and provisioning a nest? Trying to find a definitive answer to my question was like tumbling down the proverbial rabbit hole as I went from one article to another in search of information; I’m not sure I ever found a clear answer but I learnt a lot of interesting stuff along the way. Despite there being a species called Early bumblebee, it seems the Buff-tailed are generally the first to show themselves and in fact, studies have shown that some colonies continue to be active over winter, in urban locations such as parts of London where the microclimate tends towards relative warmth, and gardens and parks are planted with non-native species such as mahonia that provide an essential source of food. I haven’t seen any evidence of bumblebee activity over winter so I’m pretty sure ‘my’ queens are newly-emerged, and once again, I was reminded of the importance of making appropriate planting choices with them in mind as well as encouraging the earliest wild flowers to bloom in abundance all around the garden.

Celandines are an important early-flowering ‘weed’ in our garden . . .

It was an interesting activity to walk the lane stretch of my butterfly monitoring transect route with a focus on the plant life, everything looks so different now compared to the lush growth that will come later in the season. One of the problems I have trying to take close-up photos of small insects or flowers is that between the roadside verge and hedge bottom there is a deep water-filled ditch; this is why floods are so rare, the run-off from torrential rain has somewhere to go. In places, the ditch is almost impossible to traverse and I often end up doing some strange kind of yoga stretch with a foot balanced precariously on either side of the drop, wondering how on earth I’ll manage to right myself once the snap has been taken. Anyone who has ever played the game ‘Twister’ will understand . . . it’s a good job the lane is so quiet and I’m usually spared an audience!

A smattering of snowdrops between hedge bottom and ditch.

Although there’s not a lot to see at this time of year, I can at least study the winter branches and stems along with the soft new growth without the need for gymnastics and it’s satisfying to connect with my familiar route in this way. There is barely anything flowering; in fact, all I saw was hazel and gorse in the hedges and nothing in the verges except one scattered patch of snowdrops and a small clutch of celandines. What a difference to the flower-rich pageant that summer will bring.

A verge along my transact walk full of orchids in May: there’s a deep ditch in there somewhere . . .

Not a lot of forage for insects, then, but what I did notice is that the hedges are still full of rosehips along with plentiful holly and ivy berries. This is a tad surprising given how we have healthy populations locally of the kinds of birds who generally tuck into these winter foods so I’m wondering if perhaps it was a good year for wild fruits and they are so abundant that there is more than enough to go round. Also, as the cold weather (so far) came in a short snap rather than a prolonged spell, maybe the birds simply haven’t needed to strip the hedgerows bare. It also occurred to me that there are far fewer fieldfares and redwings around now; both winter migrants, they were here in their droves when they first arrived from more northerly lands, clearing up the windfall apples from beneath our trees but the landscape is eerily quiet where their flapping flight and chattering calls are concerned apart from the occasional small flock passing through. In a similar vein, I haven’t seen a single brambling this winter and that is unusual, too. They normally travel in large flocks mixed with chaffinches (their French name translates as ‘northern chaffinch’) and a couple of years ago, there were literally hundreds of them at a time in the garden. Have weather conditions been milder further north this year so that these colourful little visitors haven’t needed to travel this far south?

I took this photo a couple of weeks ago on a sunnier day but those holly berries are still every bit as abundant.

One bird we are certainly not short of locally is the common kestrel (Falco tinnunculus) or faucon crécerelle in French. A small and pretty falcon, it is perhaps the most easily recognised bird of prey where it occurs because of its hovering flight (its old English name was ‘wind-hover’); it is also well-adapted to living in urban areas and can often be seen hunting along the sides of motorways. They regularly patrol our garden where an abundant vole population is undoubtedly a big attraction and I am pretty much guaranteed to see at least one when out and about on a walk or my bike. This walk was no exception and I stood for several minutes watching as a kestrel left its tree perch to course a field, then hovered above a potential meal with wings spread and tail fanned like a rudder to keep it virtually motionless in the air despite a stiff wind. Although it was some distance away, I knew it was a male on account of the clear distinction between its slate-grey head and bright russet back; the female’s plumage is not quite so bright and is more uniform in colour. As the bird steadily dropped to a lower level before making its final swift descent to capture the unsuspecting prey, I made a mental note to check its conservation status when I got home. The IUCN (International Union for Conservation of Nature) ranks it at the level of ‘least concern’ which suggests population figures are healthy and the birds face no specific or immediate threat. However, in France, the citizen science network STO-EPS showed through monitoring a decline of 19% over the period 2001-2018 whilst in the UK, the decline has been measured as 40% between 1995 and 2020 and the kestrel is consequently on the amber list. The possible reasons behind such declines are numerous and complex but I feel sad that one day this beautiful bird might no longer be a common sight. All the more reason for stopping and spending time with them when I can.

Back to the garden, and my flowering plant count was noticeably higher: viburnum tinus, winter-flowering pansies, snowdrops, primroses, hazel, sweet violet, dyer’s chamomile, daisies, heather, rosemary, wild strawberry, crocus, celandines, periwinkle and witch hazel. There’s nothing like the 70+ species I counted in early November but once again, I was reminded of the importance of gardens as habitats and food sources for all manner of wildlife; we might not have much in the way of nectar and pollen on offer at the moment but there is a much greater abundance both of species and flower numbers than I saw in half a mile of hedges and verges. When the sun finally decides to shine again and the weather is more amenable to flying insects, there is at least some reliable forage for them within our boundaries. A few days after my walk, when the rain eased a little and there was even a slight rumour of sunshine (very short-lived, as it turned out), I went to the car to fetch a lighter waterproof for walking and suddenly realised there was a deep and familiar buzzing coming from the heather. Not one bumblebee but five, huge velvety Buff-tailed queens working rapidly through the bell-shaped flowers with their short tongues. I was so happy to see them back and ~ walk temporarily abandoned ~ I spent some minutes watching them closely. When I downloaded the photo below, I was puzzled by the little cream blobs on the bee’s neck but on zooming in, discovered they were some kind of mite clinging to her hair. A little frantic research told me that they are quite normal, in fact most bumblebees carry them, and they are only a problem if the mites become too numerous and prevent the bee from flying. Well, there’s something else I’ve learned this week. I just love where nature takes me! 😊

	lisinmayenne on Taking it on the chin
	Shengliver on Taking it on the chin
	lisinmayenne on Taking it on the chin
	Going Batty in Wales on Taking it on the chin
	lisinmayenne on Taking it on the chin
	contemplativeinquiry on Taking it on the chin
	lisinmayenne on Bean counter
	Debra on Bean counter
	lisinmayenne on Taking it on the chin
	lisinmayenne on Bean counter
	Debra on Bean counter
	Kate@VanhaTaloSuomi on Taking it on the chin
	Willa on Taking it on the chin
	lisinmayenne on Taking it on the chin
	lisinmayenne on Taking it on the chin