Water problems and sexton beetles

Common sense and undertakers
      A lot of gardening problems can be solved using common sense. A bit of careful thought is often more rewarding than waiting for the Gardener's Question Time team coming up with the answers: I've got this ornamental grass Hakonechloa macra 'Aureola', growing in an urn at the end of the garden. During the recent hot spell I noticed that there was something different about it and a closer examination showed that the leaves had shrivelled, leaving almost a skeleton. Seasoned gardeners will immediately recognise the signs of water deprivation but newcomers may be tempted to think that some dread disease has taken hold and dispatch it to the compost heap.

Hakonechloa before watering

A few hours after watering

      When many plants are stressed due to water shortage, the initial reaction is to decrease the size of the leaf pores by shrivelling, lessening the transpiration of water into the atmosphere. This is done in the hope that it will either rain soon or the guy in the silly hat will come along with a watering can. In this case the latter occurred and you can see the result in the pictures.

      Although the Hakenochloa can grow in some pretty dry areas of woodland and mountain in Japan, it has the potential for its roots to explore for water over a much larger area and depth than a pot allows it. This is a limit many plants suffer in the artificial environment of a container and knowing it can be the difference between good and bad results: for example, growing Hydrangeas in pots can be rewarding but success is dependent on recognising that they are water junkies and need daily replenishment. A compost rich in organic material helps, acting as a sponge to retain water, but the fact that leaves and flowers form an almost impenetrable barrier to rain getting through means that they need as much help from you as possible. And don't forget plant nutrients, these are soon exhausted by big roots in a small pot, so a bit of  fertilizer every now and then will be well received. One with high potash content, like tomato or rose food is best for encouraging more flowering.

Hydrangea macrophylla - a water junkie

      So, the difference between a good gardener and the one who freely professes to 'kill everything I plant', is often just a matter of how much thought is applied. Maybe we can't all become Titchmarshes but we can avoid a lot of death in the garden. And this brings me to another aspect of dying: the afterlife.

      I was walking with a mate near Malham, in Yorkshire, when I spotted a dead mouse on the path. This may not seem particularly exciting but there was something strange about it. When I bent to look closer, I could see that it was rather flattened and in the same category as Monty Python's parrot but then........"It moved", I bellowed, "the bloody thing moved".

Sexton beetles

      Sure enough, the body was making some sickening undulations as if trying to rise from the dead. I'm not frightened of mice, but deceased ones coming back for another go take a bit of getting used to. However I needn't have worried because the causes of the resurrection suddenly emerged from under the body - beetles, big orange and black ones. These were sexton beetles and they are attracted by the smell of corpses. It seems they sometimes work in a group, digging under the body until it sinks into the hole they have made. After exuding antibacterial and antifungal secretions over it to prevent the smell attracting rivals, they then cover it with soil and the females lay eggs either into the body flesh or just under it. The larvae which then emerge eat their way to adulthood, feasting on what their parents have left of the meat. 

      This is the perfect topic for an after-dinner speech if you want to find out what everyone's had.

     

   

Galega officinalis (Goat's rue)

Goat's rue

Goat's Rue

      Goat's rue (Galega officinalis) is apparently so-called because of the way the foliage smells when bruised. Someone once left a billy goat in Wythenshawe Park when I worked there, presumably with the thought that he'd be absorbed into the farm stock. I made the mistake of patting its head and the stink which adhered to my hand was indescribable and took a good time to get rid of. It seems they urinate in their beards to strengthen the smell - an athletic feat comparable to the exertions of gifted small boys against lavatory walls (I remember Raymond Taylor doing it right over the top of the school toilet wall and hitting a passing teacher - bet Offsted 'd have loved that - like Ray, they're into targets, but a lot of theirs are even dafter). I can't begin to understand what the females goats see in ponging males, but I suppose it's a matter of what turns you on.

Flowers close-up

      Anyway, Galega is a relative of the pea and shares that familiy's characteristic of having root nodules. These are caused by bacteria which live in the root and have the ability to extract nitrogen from the atmosphere. Some of this is then donated to the plant like a lodger paying the landlord in kind. The landlord, appreciating this contribution towards the day-to-day living, reciprocates by bunging some plant sugar downstairs to the bacteria, who obligingly consume it for pudding. This, of course, is why we should always dig in the roots of harvested peas or beans, enriching the soil with nitrogen which will benefit the next crop. Farmers once used this knowledge by sowing clover then letting the field lie fallow for a year before ploughing it in. Organic growers still follow a similar procedure and a number of crops called 'green manures' are used on allotments to replace the soil structure and nutrient removed by cropping. Gardening with nature like this is actually common sense: if we grow a crop then take it away, it is obvious that the nutrient it has used in growing should be replaced - just look under a privet hedge - the soil is usually like dust, with all the structure and nutrient extracted by the plant in producing the leaves which we've clipped off and removed. The ultimate example of this occurred in the dust bowl of central United States in the thirties: winds removed the dusty topsoil and farmers were forced to abandon the land and move on. Steinbeck's story of the Joad family in The Grapes of Wrath was based on this.

Root nodules clearly visible on seedlings

      The name Galega originates from the Greek 'gala', meaning 'milk', implying that the plant aids its production. The truth of this was proved in 1873 by French research which showed that cows fed on it increased milk yield by 35 to 50%. It can also be used for improving lactation in humans. The racemes of small pea-like flowers render the plant a pretty addition to the herbaceous border and it seeds itself generously, so once you've got it there is no need to be without. Division is another easy way of propagating the plant in order to prevent it becoming too large. The fact that it can occasionally reach a height of 1.5 metres means that a support of some kind will help to keep it within designated bounds.

      In closing, it's worth mentioning that if they ever introduce an Olympic event on elevated urinating, watch out for Raymond Taylor's name.

For more information about herbs and their uses go to

Common Fig (Ficus carica)

Housebreaking

Fig in a pot

      Drainpipes were a speciality of mine. I could tell from a quick look whether a pipe would hold my weight or simply come away from the wall, taking me with it. Or at least I liked to think I could. An incident which indicated a degree of fallibility in my judgement occurred  way back in the seventies when a crowd of us were locked out of a house in Blackheath in south London:

      I was staying for a few days with friends who lived with their parents and we'd just got back to the house after a visit to the pub when Georgia and Jim, the friends, discovered that neither had got their keys with them. Mum and dad were out for the night, which was rather the point, because we'd met a number of other friends in the pub and were intent on having a bit of a party. Everyone was ready to give in and go back to the pub when I noticed that one of the drainpipes passed very close to a first-floor lavatory window and the small, horizontally opening top window was open a crack.

      "I could get through that", I said, squinting upwards with the confidence imbued by a couple or so pints of bitter.

      "Nah. Not possible", said Georgia in her Cockney accent "carm own, let's gow back t' the Nag's 'Ed" (eat your heart out, Dick Van Dyke).

      I grabbed hold of the drainpipe and tested it with a professional air.

      "Safe as houses", I commented, although it looked as if it'd  been fitted around the time of the Roman invasion, and I started to climb while everyone crowded round to watch.

      I'd got around fifteen feet up when the pipe gave a lurch and the upper fastenings slipped out by about an inch. Only a couple of rusty screws were somehow still holding it (and me) to the wall.

      "Ooh", came the cries of a couple of adoring girls in the audience (with the optimism of hormone filled youth trying to impress the opposite sex, my translation was 'adoring' when in fact there was probably a stronger element of 'wish the bugger'd fall off'' - an ethos similar to that among crowds who watch formula one with the almost subconscious yearning to see a crash).

      "Oh, shit", I heard Jim say, and was quite touched that he was scared for me until he continued, "Dad'll kill me when 'e sees that drainpipe"

      Desperately I lunged for the window-sill and held tight with one hand, taking some of the weight off the drainpipe screws, then I inched gingerly higher until, taking a deep breath, I was able to transfer my hand to the bottom lip of the open window. Holding onto this, I stepped from the drainpipe to stand on the sill. Then I put my hand through and was able to open the window fully before starting the process of going through it.

      "Ee'll not get 'is 'ead through, said one of the wags. Although this was no doubt meant as an insulting comment, I'd read somewhere that if you can get your head through an orifice, it is possible to follow with the rest of your body. However, reading a theory and being twenty foot up on a window sill about to test it, are slightly different.  The thought struck me that if my head didn't fit I may spend the rest of my life standing on this narrow strip of wood - there was no way I was trusting my future to a descent via that drainpipe.

      The window was about a foot high, so I got my head through sideways easily enough, but my shoulders were a different matter and it took a lot of wriggling before I was far enough through to get my hands on the inner sill. The next step was to walk my hands down onto the toilet seat, which was directly below the window. I managed to get my left hand on, then was carefully getting the other one in position when the seat came off. I then found that surfing lavatory seats is not one of my strong points: I shot down with my chin bouncing off the ceramic bowl and ended up in a semi conscious heap on the floor, still clutching the seat. From below they simply saw the bottom half of my body suddenly disappear through the window, as if the house were a giant vacuum cleaner that had just sucked me in. All this was accompanied by a high pitched, strangulated yell as that bit of metal which sticks up on a window frame made a fair try at castrating me.

      "Er, watch out for the seat, it's a bit loose", I heard Jim shout. I was quite interested to know the difference between 'a bit' and 'totally' - there's obviously a bigger language divide between north and south than I'd been aware of.

      My meteoric arrival had caused the door to slam shut and I now staggered to my feet with a view to opening it, going downstairs and letting everyone in at the front door - the hero of the hour and the focus of my girl fans.

      During the first stage of this victory jaunt the handle came off in my hand, a fraction of a second after another of Jim's hails reached me:

      "Er, watch out for the door handle, it's a bit...."

      "Loose", I screamed back at him, as I looked at it and fondly visualised how far a door handle could be inserted into Jim, "I'm now locked in", I added in a more reasonable voice. For some reason, this amused the wags down below and there was a guffaw of laughter.

      "I'll call the fire brigade", came Jim's ever-helpful voice, "they'll bring a ladder".

      "And then there'll be me and a fireman trapped in the bog. Who's going to rescue him?" I bellowed, wishing he'd just shut up and let me think.

       My only hope lay in the chance that the square rod which goes through the lock was still visible. If I could manoeuvre it back to my side of the door I may be able to carefully slot the handle back on, turn it, and make my escape. Luckily, when I bent, I could see it was still there, halfway through the door. It took me about ten minutes gingerly clawing at it with my pen-knife while two of the drunks in the garden helpfully accompanied my efforts with  that song about two incarcerated old ladies.

      When I finally made my escape and opened the front door with a flourish, the adoring girls had gone. They hadn't given a fig about my heroism - they'd just wanted blood and my failure to join them on the ground, complete with drainpipe, was a bit of a disappointment.

      And talking about figs (subtle join, eh?), for years now, I've been growing one in a tub and it regularly produces six or seven edible fruits. The fact that the roots are contained by the tub is an asset, because figs are known to yield best in such confinement: in greenhouses they have been grown historically in beds with sunken flagstones or suchlike sunk to create the same effect. Given free root run there is a tendency to get plenty of nitrogen which goes towards promoting leaf growth. This is a characteristic of many plants: make them feel slightly under threat and the reaction is to produce offspring to take over in the case of parental death.

Successful fig cutting

      A disadvantage suffered by a plant in a container is that the roots have far less protection in very cold weather than they do if penetrating deep underground. For this reason, I thought I'd lost the plant in the extreme winter a couple of years ago. All the top growth was dead. I tried to pull it out in order to use the container for something else, but it was completely jammed in and I temporarily gave up. This was lucky because a few weeks later some green shoot appeared and it is now back to its old self, having had a near death experience. The lesson in this, of course, is to wrap outdoor containers in bubble wrap or hessian to give a bit of winter protection. Also allow it a bit of time, even though it looks dead.

      The fig, Ficus carica (closely related to the rubber tree), originates in Western Asia and the Mediterranean, so you wouldn't expect to see it growing wild in Britain. However, it turns out there are a lot of them growing along the banks of the River Don in Sheffield. Apparently they date back to the time when Sheffield led the world in producing steel. This involved taking water from the river and using it in the cooling process. When the water was returned to the river, it was warm enough to cause the Don to run at a constant 20deg.C. - the temperature required for fig seeds to germinate. As further proof of this as a cause, the trees stopped germinating after the industry collapsed, although those already growing continued to thrive.

Cross-section showing the strange inner flowers

      Figs are, botanically speaking, not actually fruits - they are swollen stems with the minute flowers inside and some forms need pollinating by a specially adapted wasp: this crawls in through the small orifice at the tip of the fruit and begins a complicated life-cycle which is beneficial to both itself and the fig. However the cultivated fig we commonly grow doesn't need pollination (it is parthenocarpic), so there's no danger of eating wasps in a fig butty. They can be easily propagated by taking cuttings in summer. I've even got them to root very successfully in water in the warmth of the house.

Next year's embryonic fruit in leaf axils near tip. Remove larger ones below.

      Knowing when the fig is ready for harvesting is easy: wait til it goes a dark colour, softens, and hangs down rather than being held horizontally. Cracking is another indication of ripeness. In a warm climate it isn't unreal to expect up to four crops in a year, however in Britain one is a more realistic aim. The buds lower down the shoots become too large and tender to last the winter, so these should be removed in autumn. This causes stimulation of the new fruits which are developing like little marbles at the tips of the shoots.

Ripe Fig

      I spotted an interesting fig recipe in a blog by The Novice Gardener tap here. She does some really good stuff on growing and using - well worth a visit.

Dog daisies and dragonflies

 Poo Problems

Damsel flies - female laying eggs

     Some of our friends have taken to going on exotic cruises in different parts of the world. Venues like the Danube, Amazon and Nile aren't really to our taste, but my wife and I thought we should at least see what we were missing, so we pored through the travel brochures and eventually made our choice. We booked a trip down the Macclesfield Canal in a narrowboat. We're not really into exotic foods either, so this was ideal for us: a floating restaurant with an impressive menu of  tomato soup and a wide ranging choice of hotpot or beef pie.

      And so it was that we found ourselves eating soup in a stifling cabin and gazing out at the exotic Cheshire countryside as the ship negotiated the Straits of Bollington. The banks were lined with envious onlookers in the form Canada geese seemingly transfixed by the majesty of our passage. As we gazed out through the none-opening windows, I got the distinct feeling of being in a zoo in reverse, half expecting the audience to start throwing nuts. However, they were too engaged in their favourite pastime of defecating and I quickly came to appreciate that their glazed looks were due not to our majesty but to the bliss of relieving themselves. They do this with such abandon and quantity that it brought to mind that Benny Hill sketch where hundreds of people pour out of a phone box. Accuracy is also involved: their offerings are placed with unerring aim exactly where someone is going to put their foot.

      When it comes to treating the family, our generosity knows no bounds and Nick and Laura, who couldn't think up an excuse in time, came along with us. Initially there was much jocularity as terms like 'hoist the mizzen and 'heave to lads' were bandied. However, the fact that we couldn't actually see any water - the banks were about a foot away - rendered these nautical terms redundant other than when the cook clambered on board, causing the ship to rock, and eliciting a weak 'heave up, lads' from Nick.

      All of which reminded me of an incident in my working days: there was a big dog poo problem in Wythenshawe Park where I was stationed at the time. There didn't seem an easy way around it until I spotted an advert in a trade mag for a machine which was designed to pick it up. I rang the given number and asked if they could bring one to give a demonstration, then I got in touch with the other park managers to come round and see it.

      The big day arrived and I was waiting for the marvellous machine to arrive when I suddenly realised I hadn't got any samples for it to work on. With this in mind, and armed with a plastic bag, I wandered out into the park. Nothing. Normally you would step straight from the office door into something disgusting but, on this occasion, not even a brown stain. I wandered around the two hundred and sixty acres of Wythenshawe Park gradually coming to the conclusion that a major case of canine constipation had hit the area. Back in the office, in an effort to quel my rising panic, the receptionist suggested I had a word with Colin the park warden - 'he's very creative', she smiled.

      She was right. Colin got some clayish soil and rolled it into sausage shapes, lumps with drawn-out ends and  some curly ones. Then he got carried away and coloured the soil with sand. The result was brilliant. I coned off an area of the main drive and we laid them out ready for the demonstration.

      Eventually the bloke arrived with the machine on the back of a low loader.
   
       "It's called FIDO", he informed the assembled managers, "short for Feces Intake Disposal Operation". He seemed impervious to the smirks from the high powered management team as he proceeded to put FIDO to work. It was pretty impressive. FIDO was basically a golf cart with an added suction pump and a wide bore, see-through tube which went over the top of the vehicle and down into a storage box. The driver sat with one hand on the steering, while he manoeuvred the end of the tube over the poo.This it sucked up with a satisfying slurp and we watched it whizz through the pipe before being deposited in a large tank. If the target was hard and difficult to remove, a subsidiary pipe could be operated to release disinfectant onto it and this had the added advantage of a softening effect.

      "You can travel at up to twenty miles an hour doing this", the man informed us, "but if you want to go faster, we've got another machine called RALF. It turned out that RALF, which was also on the low-loader, was a motor-bike with similar suction  fittings and the collection box behind the seat. RALF, the man unsmilingly informed us, stood for 'Ride Along Lifting Feces'. My vision of an exuberant poo-picker hurtling through the park at 70mph was dispelled when he pointed out that the added speed may be of importance for moving between sites.

     "The thing you've got to be careful of with this", he said, "is that you don't put your butties in that saddle bag".

Dog daisies and other wildflowers surrounding a peacock butterfly on a corncockle

      While we're thinking about dogs seems a good time to bring up the subject of dog daisies. Also going under the names of ox-eye daisy and moon daisy, these are the plants much favoured in wildflower meadows and motorway embankments. We've looked at them briefly when considering wildflower meadows http://gardeningwithjohnsteedman.blogspot.co.uk/2012_08_01_archive.html but they give such good value I feel they deserve a closer look: the Latin name is Leucanthemum vulgare (from Greek leukos, meaning white, anthemum - flower and vulgare - common)  and they are as happy in a herbaceous border as they are living rough in more natural environments. Being a native perennial, they attract a wide range of butterflies, bees and other insects. They have no way of spreading by runners or other vegetative means, so are reliant on seed regeneration. This means that other more dominant species will have to be controlled if you want to create a meadow with them, so that the seeds are allowed free, uncontested germination. How to do this is outlined in the link above. Richard Mabey, in 'Food for Free', lists their leaf crowns as suitable for use in salads, so that they are useful as well as being aesthetically pleasing.

Dragonfly laying eggs

      In a recent trip to a local park I was attracted to the antics of dragonflies and damselflies as they carried out their mating rites. The male has a pair of pincers at the end of his body and he uses these to grasp a female round the neck while she bends her body round to make contact with the point at which the male inserts his sperm. Stand stock still if you see this happening and listen carefully. You'll hear him, in best Morcambe and Wise tradition, muttering "gerrout of that".

      When mating is completed, the male often retains his grasp on his partner until she eventually lowers her ovipositer under the water and lays eggs on a suitable plant. Apparently the reason he keeps hold is that he doesn't want his sperm rendered useless in the event of  some other amorous male grabbing her before she's laid her eggs. The last one in is the one that counts. Women's lib doesn't seem to have made much headway in the world of dragonflies.

      People get a bit confused about the difference between dragonflies and damselflies and from what I can make out the answer is 'not much'. Dragonflies land with their wings open and damselflies land with them closed. Another thing is that a dragonfly's eyes touch, whereas there is a clear distance between those of the damselfly.

      Although we tend to think of the winged dragonfly as representing the main part of its life story, this is far from the truth. The nymphs which emerge from the egg can live for up to five years under water (dependent on species), fiercely predating on tadpoles, small fish and other pond life. They then emerge and burst into full winged glory, live about a month, then die. As the adult, they hunt mosquitoes and other insects, sometimes as large as butterflies, and are the fastest flying insect, reaching speeds above 40 mph. They can also fly backwards.

      Just thought you'd like to know.

   
   

   

Adiantum cuneatum

The Magic of Radio

Maiden hair fern

      We've employed a mobile mechanic to see to our cars over the years and now he also maintains my daughter Laura's Nissan. She wanted it servicing and the m.o.t. doing a few days ago, so she brought it to our house and he picked it up to take it to do the test. He was back within minutes:

      "It's in a bad way", he said irritably, haven't you noticed that horrible crunching noise? Your back bearings are knackered".

      "Oh, that noise", she said dismissively, "I've not been worried about it because it goes away when I turn the radio up".

      This is her version of burying ones head in the sand and I suppose we all do it to some extent. Life wouldn't be bearable without the ability to turn ourselves off from the atrocities on the evening news or the certain knowledge that we're overpopulating and polluting our planet to extinction. Live for the moment, it may be the only one there is. This is how I approach do-it-yourselfing: the job only gets done when whatever it is stops working or (and this is the more frequent likelihood), when my wife tells me to do it.

      The bathroom floorboards creak. They always have, but it had got to the stage where my services were called for and I got out the hammer. It seemed quite straightforward really - just bash a few nails in to stop the boards moving and everyone'd be happy. This is probably what Napoleon thought when he decided to give Russia a visit, then he cocked it all up by forgetting to add hot water bottles to the luggage list. What I forgot was the fact that some damn plumber was quite likely to have situated a hot water pipe right where I needed to bash a nail.

      I've never actually seen Old Faithful in Yellowstone Park but what happened when I bashed the nail must come a pretty close second. A jet of water shot out of the bathroom floor, causing me to step back to avoid being elevated on it like a ping  pong ball at fairground  rifle range. Although this may be a slight exaggeration, what followed wasn't: I resorted to rule one in such cases which states 'if in doubt - panic', achieving this with such remarkable success that my wife evacuated the house while I nearly did the same with my bowels. It wasn't the fear of the ceiling below collapsing under a flood of water that engendered such fear, but my wife's probable reaction to it. To say she didn't have high regard for my handyman prowess would be an understatement on a par with 'Michael Foot was a fashion icon'. Resources like using the technique of the little boy who stuck his finger in the dike weren't available to me. The point being that it was alright for him because the water in the dike wasn't hot. Anyway, after doing my little John Cleese dance again ( I 'm sure he got it from me), I resorted to the rather mundane alternative of rushing downstairs and turning the water off at the mains. I then rang my mate who is an expert at dealing with such situations and he came and sorted it out by cutting out the section with the hole in it and replacing it with a new piece, held in place by pressure joints. However, the bathroom floorboards still creak. I justified this to my wife by pointing out that if a burglar should break in, we'll hear him.

      "But only if he goes for a crap", she responded. She thinks she's funny.

      The panic engendered by this event echoed something that had happened way back when we were in our first house: I was standing at the sink washing up when something hit me on the back of the head and a series of explosions followed. I dived for cover and could feel wetness trickling down my head. It must be blood. I was dying. This being during the cold war, we were under attack by the Russians. That daft bugger Khruschev had bashed his shoe on the red button by mistake.  

      What was trickling turned out to be wine - a lot of it. We had made  it and filled bottles, stacked on top of the freezer in a wooden rack which acted remarkably like a rocket launcher.  Apparently the wine must have still been fermenting when we bottled it and the ensuing pressure caused the corks to blow out. On the positive side, this had great educational value: when one went off, the rest of them joined in - a perfect example of a chain reaction. Anyway my wife ran in to find me lying on the kitchen floor thinking I was dying and stinking like a brewery. The bottles which remained intact we gave away to people we didn't like and after that, we reverted to cheap German wine. Even anti-freeze is better than a Russian attack.

      So my life, probably like that of most people, stumbles from cock-up to cock-up but I've recently learnt a pristine, gold plated truth from my daughter: when it starts to hit the fan, turn up the radio.

      You've probably guessed that the obvious link with this is Ligularia stenocephala 'The Rocket', although that's not the only one that came to mind. I've mentioned it before in relation to sites adjacent water, where it thrives in the moist soil http://gardeningwithjohnsteedman.blogspot.co.uk/2013/02/marginal-plants.html. During dry weather the leaves tend to droop at the height of the day, so it's best if it has some shade at this time. However, this isn't always possible and I find it picks up later when the day gets cooler.

      Perhaps a less obvious link is Adiantum cuneatum (maidenhair fern). 'Cuneatum' means 'wedge shaped' and it refers to the leaves. Not hardy enough to grow in the garden, this thrives in the humidity of a bathroom. Its common name 'maiden hair fern originates from the hair-like appearance of the leaf stems and was the basis of a one time belief that it was a cure from baldness. The thinking behind this emanates from the doctrine of signatures, which was a theory that a bloke called Theophrastus came up with: he thought that plants which resembled parts of the human body could be used to cure sickness in that area; a cyclamen leaf is shaped a bit like an ear, for example, so if you had an ear problem, stuffing one down it should do the trick. You wouldn't be able to hear anything though, because there was a cyclamen leaf stuffed dow..... Well, you get the idea. Another example can be seen in lesser celandine: the roots have appendages which look a bit like piles, so they used to make a root tea by pouring on  boiling water. I'm not sure what the next step was, but assume that you'd have to have someone with you to scrape you off the ceiling if it involved applying boiling tea to hemorrhoids.

      The Adiantum in the picture is on a north facing window sill, so gets very little sunshine, and it thrives. Originating in tropical North and South America and the West Indies, the plant has very delicate leaves and exposure to direct sunlight can cause browning fairly quickly. I took one to a talk on a hot day and, after about an hour in the car, the leaves were a sad sight and not a good advertisement for my credibility as I spouted about how to get the best from plants.  I've found that, during the summer, watering is best done by standing the fern in a tray full of water until it has all gone, leaving it a couple of days, then repeating the procedure. In the winter, much less water is required. If you grow the plant in a drier part of the house, it will benefit from being regularly sprayed with water during the summer.

Maiden hair fern showing black, hair like stem. Hence the name

      Another plant thriving in the same situation is Anthurium andreanum, the flamingo flower. In fact there are any number of good 'bathroom plants' and it's worth doing a bit of research to determine the best one for the situation you've got. A good houseplant book is the Reader's Digest 'Success with House Plants. Its a pretty old publication and I'm not sure whether its still in print but it's usually easily found in second hand book shops and charity shops. At the back is a comprehensive table of plants showing their individual needs for light, humidity, temperature and so on.

     These plants like a moist atmosphere, and if the bathroom isn't humid enough, you could always try banging a nail through the hot water pipe.  

Anthurium andreanum (flamingo flower)

   

Marguerites - Argyranthemum frutescens

 It's A Dog's Life

Argyrnanthemum frutescens, sometimes called dog daisy or marguerite.

    Rex was a golden Labrador and, for years , he was my constant companion. His areas of expertise were in breaking wind and sleeping, in that order. He was also a keen hiker and accompanied me on all outings, but he believed in minimising effort. For instance, he always required five-bar gates to be opened for him. He was too aristocratic to undergo the undignified squirming under accepted by most dogs as the natural way of doing things. If the gated didn't open, Rex had to be carried.

      I once weighed him on the bathroom scales and came to the conclusion that he was seven stone, although I never had complete confidence in my findings because of the difficulties involved in the operation. Obviously, a dog's legs are situated on each corner. Therefore, in the case of a big dog on small scales, it's necessary to angle the legs inward, resulting in him quickly overbalancing. This means that the scale has to be read in the short time between the last leg being positioned and the inevitable toppling. To even reach this stage was a challenge, because each time I put the fourth paw on, Rex would yawningly remove one of the others onto the floor in order to maintain the status quo. I got the feeling that he humoured me, considering me not a bad chap, just slightly deranged, needing to be kept happy. Eventually I had to encircle the three legs over the scale with one arm, while taking him by surprise by whipping the last paw on and, at the same time, taking an average reading as the needle shot between five stone and nine, before he fell on top of me.

      He wasn't a vicious dog. There was no need - he possessed far more effective weapons than teeth. On occasions when he got indignant about something I had done, I would be treated with disdain, lack of cooperation and even retribution if it was something he felt really strongly about. The ensuing punishment would be meted out when least expected, then  he would revert to his former good humour. For example I, on one occasion, ate a bar of chocolate without giving him any. He sulked until he saw his chance when we had guests later in the day: we were sitting chatting happily until Rex, who was lying at my feet, farted explosively. Not content with this, his head jerked up and he eyed me accusingly through the blue haze, causing everyone else to do the same. Anyway, with this type of vengeance in mind, I let the weighing stand at seven stone. He was considerably more than that on a wet day and I often got plastered with mud carrying him over some gate or stile. On one occasion I refused to carry him, on the basis that the gap under the gate was big enough for him to crawl under:

      "Right", I said, "That's it. You either come under, jump over, or stay and starve. I'm going". With that I marched frostily down the field without looking back. When I eventually reached the other side of the field and turned round, it was to see him sitting, on exactly the same spot, absently snapping at a fly before further relieving the boredom with a good scratch. Inevitably I returned and came a few steps closer to a hernia.

      Then there was the time he fell in love. We were visiting friends and their dog suddenly emerged from under the sideboard. She was one of these miniature things, I don't know what the breed was, but she stood about a foot high and seemed to consist mainly of hair. A dwarf haystack sprang to mind. I'd forgotten about Rex, but at this point he made his presence felt: with a woof of uncharacteristic doggy enthusiasm, he shot in pursuit of her, taking a short cut under the coffee table. Rex and coffee tables never mixed well and so it was on this occasion. A coffee table is slightly lower than Rex and the result of this lack of forethought on the part of the inventor meant that this one momentarily accompanied him rather like a saddle. The tea and coffee on it was liberally distributed over the carpet as pursued and amorous pursuer shot out into the kitchen with me following. He must have thought it was his birthday when the object of his intentions turned at bay, and he prepared to make a final dash across the lino. However, lino is another material Rex didn't go well with. His paws slipped on the smooth surface and all his legs were moving in a blur while he stayed on the same spot, reminding me of a Tom and Jerry cartoon. Anyway, this enabled me to grab him and his chance was gone. For a moment, an eye became visible from somewhere within the at-bay haystack and I could swear it looked disappointed. The physics of the intended act seemed to have escaped them both in the rush of passion: the chance of a Labrador making it with the haystack was about as probable as an ant doing it with an elephant, even allowing for the use of a trapeze. All conjecture as to the future of the relationship is irrelevant. We never got asked back.

      'Dog Daisy' is a name loosely applied to the ox-eye daisy and the marguerite, possibly because dogs like Rex enjoy cocking their leg up on them. This really underlines the inaccuracy of common names, because these are actually two different genera of plant. The binomial system of naming plants was brought into use in 1752 by a bloke called Linnaeus and it meant that each subject would have only one name, often Latin, which would be the same all over the world. Bearing this in mind, the true name of the plant we tend to grow in pots for the summer is Argyranthemum frutescens. Rex may have appreciated its lavatorial properties but, on the whole, he preferred lamp posts.

Ox-eye daisies with poppies at Hyde Hall

      Argyranthemum frutescens is still often offered in the garden centre as 'marguerite'. It is a woody perennial and not fully hardy, so most people tend to throw it away in autumn after getting constant flowers all summer. I (with an eye to the cost of the things) have found it easy to overwinter in a cold greenhouse: I simply lug the pot in and leave it in a dry condition for the duration of the winter. It loses all its leaves and gives a fair impression of a totally dead specimen until early spring when new leaves start to appear. If you're not sure whether its still alive, test by scraping back a bit of bark with a thumb nail. A green colour indicates that the cambium, situated just under the bark, is alive. Brown means that you'll have to fork out for a new one. Start this little test at the tips of the branches and work your way towards the base. Usually the tips will be dead while the rest of it is o.k.. To get rid of the dead wood and retain a nice shape, prune back by about a third. Start watering as soon as leaves begin appearing and feed it with rose fertiliser. This is high in potassium and encourages flowering growth.

      The plant is well worth while having this attention paid to it, as it will offer the reward of summer - long flowering in a sunny position. Dead heading is as important with this as it is with most perennials and I find it quite a relaxing part of the daily summertime routine.

      In spite of your best efforts, a vicious winter will sometimes kill the plant even in a cold greenhouse, so hedge your bets by taking two to four inch long greenwood cuttings in spring or semi-ripe cuttings in late summer and bring them through the winter in a slightly more protected place like a closed porch or the unheated spare bedroom window sill.

Marginal Plants

 A Love of Water

Astilbe, Primula florindae, Lobelia, Ligularia 'The Rocket' - all lovers of damp soil

      One day one of my old mates will descend on me bent on vengeance. I change their names but at some stage one of them is going to come across these epistles and recognise himself. Ah well. May as well enjoy life while I've got it.

      Max (name changed), is a fishing buddy. He's an Italian. A unique one. At least I think he is but, as I don’t know any others, perhaps they’re all like that. He has a reputation for being a hot angler which has been achieved in the same way as ninety percent of climbers achieve theirs - he talks about his success. Climbers do it in the pub, where they've gathered to discuss how the weather is 'too bad to go up today'. Their stories of death-defying deeds expand in direct correlation with the amount of beer that goes down their throats. In Max's case he doesn't need the beer. He'll tell anyone who doesn't move fast enough when they see him coming. The common denominator in all this is the fact that it's all in the head - the climber doesn't actually scale the rock face and Max doesn't actually catch fish.

Mentha aquatica (Water mint)

   
       We like rivers, especially small ones, because they change with each flood, giving them character  lacking in lakes, and this leads to us roaming the banks finding promising spots. The books will tell you that fish are sensitive. They quickly detect movement or noise on the bank and move away. This is a bit at odds with Max's technique: he crashes through the undergrowth, looms over the water, shouts to me about this being a likely spot, then casts in.  The  size of weight he uses on the line means that it  whistles as it sails through the air and the impact when it meets the water ensures that any fish in the area make for the bomb shelters.

      Then there's his fly fishing technique: fly fishing involves an artificial fly being presented on the water in such a way that it seduces a fish to pop up and eat it.  Max's  methods border on the spectacular: the artificial lure is extremely light and so projecting it across a wide expanse of water entails the employment of a particularly dextrous technique. The rod is moved  backwards and forwards in the manner of a whip, each forward motion attended by the release of a little line from the reel. In this way the length of the whipping line is extended until there is enough length to allow it to settle on the water in the required spot.

      The first time I went fly fishing with Max, the technique was new to me in practise and I made the mistake of standing a few yards behind him while he gave a demonstration. It was at this point that I narrowly missed parting company with my right ear, because he suddenly flung himself into a frenzy of casting which had the potential to  prove lethal to anyone within twenty yards in any direction. Bearing this in mind, it seemed logical to me that it would be to the caster’s advantage, as well as that of any unfortunate passer-by, to ensure there was no obstacle to the free movement of the line. This point always eludes Max and you can guarantee that his fishing spot will be surrounded by twigs, leaves and, on occasion, even small branches which have succumbed to his wild flailing. I once saw a bald sparrow which I suspect had been slow to see the danger. Sometimes the hook will lodge in a more resilient part of a plant and he spends more time climbing trees to retrieve his fly than he does fishing. It never seems to occur to him that standing in front of a tree is not the most advisable position. Although he reckons he can cast his fly onto a pinhead, he has great difficulty in landing it anywhere near a rising fish and I can only assume he concentrates on the  pinheads.

      Max was the one with a supply of flies when this sort of fishing was new to me and it was here that his competitive nature came to the fore. On one occasion he insisted that I try this floating creation which resembled a moth-ball, while he used something uncannily like a real fly: “eet bobbles in the fast bits”, he informed me, referring to the moth-ball, “they won’t be able to resist that”. So I slung it in and watched it bobble. Unfortunately watch was  all the fish did as well. Finding a trout with a penchant for mothballs is not an easy thing, I discovered, and my only comfort lay in the fact that Mussolini was having the same problem with real - looking flies.

      My job in management meant that I could never get the same satisfaction as someone who actually changes things. Even if you only dig a hole, you can see what you’ve done at the end of the day and get some satisfaction from that. I think this same philosophy is shared with Max, because he may not catch anything but he certainly changes things. The trees in the vicinity of his endeavours look different from the same species elsewhere. It's something about their lacy appearance – it gives the impression of new hybrids produced by some ambitious nurseryman.

 

Pontederia cordata (Pickerel weed)

      His approach to coarse fishing is equally unique. The bait we favour for catching chub and barbel is luncheon meat  (Spam, to be specific) and Max uses it without reserve. He will frequently attach what looks like half a tin of it to his hook, cast, and watch the bait sail somewhere into a far field, while the hook and weights crash into the water a few feet away. When I first started fishing with him I thought maybe it was some cunning new gambit: the attention of the fish would be drawn to the airborne Spam (perhaps to the accompaniment of a fishy shout of ‘hey lads, look at that’), causing them to not notice the weight. This would suddenly descend from nowhere and knock one of them out. Eventually a notable lack of unconscious fish led me to reassess the theory. In fact I could, at times, swear a sort of choking sound was emanating from the water but maybe it was my imagination, because science has yet to prove that fish can laugh.

      And river banks are remarkable for plant life - those which thrive in a harsh environment subject to flood and drought on a regular basis. In the garden the pond is the nearest we get to these conditions and it seems logical to choose subjects adapted to them. The thing to remember though, is that the pond (in most cases) is artificial, liner giving way to the ordinary soil. To create the dampness of the river or lakeside therefore, it helps to bury a bit of liner, fill it with soil, and then add water, creating a bog effect. We don't want it to hold stagnant standing water - just retain dampness - so the addition of a few holes, by puncturing the liner with a fork, will achieve this.

Lysichiton americanus (skunk cabbage)

      The choice of plants for this sort of environment is large, so I'll only highlight a few of my own favourites. It is worth noting that, for this sort of thing - choosing a plant for a particular environment - any good gardening book will provide comprehensive lists.

      Water mint (Mentha aquatica) is a vigorous grower which not only provides shelter for wildlife but is utilitarian in that a nice tea can be made from it. Simply add a few leaves to hot (not boiling) water, leave it to brew for about three minutes, then transfer it via a strainer into a mug.

      Lobelia is a plant we tend to associate more with bedding schemes or hanging baskets, but L.cardinalis is a tall water- lover offering attractive red flowers and often with red tinged leaves. Lobelia siphilitica has blue flowers and thrives in similarly damp conditions. There are numerous varieties which like the same environment - ideally a basket of acid soil sunk in shallow water. Ligularia, Primula, Mimulus luteus (monkey flower), Pontederia cordata (Pickerel weed, so called because it comes from areas in America frequented by  pickerel fish), Caltha palustris (marsh marigold) - the list is endless but have an eye for scale: if you have a small pond avoid subjects like Gunnera mannicata which will look ridiculous adjacent a six foot puddle. This is also true for Lysichiton americanus (skunk cabbage), which looks great when flowering but produces after-growth resembling a five foot cabbage. The 'skunk' bit I find a bit dubious because I've never been able to detect the smell the name refers to. Plant labelling is a lot better than it used to be, and the ultimate size of a plant is usually outlined, so make good use of the information offered.

      Writing this lot has worn me out, so I'm going fishing now.

      By myself.
     

   

Water Lilies

Lilies and Bikes
A friend told me an unfortunate story the other day: his wife had suggested they go for a walk, as the weather was nice. However, he'd got a bad knee and didn't fancy that but suggested a bike ride instead. I didn't quite follow the logic of this, because I'd have thought knees are exercised pretty vigorously on a bike. Be that as it may, the conversation continued along the lines of:

"I'm not that good on a bike. Still a bit wobbly."

"Well, the way to improve is through practice. Tell you what - we'll go along the canal bank."

Now, it may only be me, but it seemed that this conversation was moving in the same way as the build up to  Towering Inferno or Titanic and you couldn't expect a big prize for guessing the ending.

"Alright then," she said dubiously, "I'll follow you".

So they set off and for some time all was well. Then my mate, who is a keen birder, suddenly stopped and pointed across the canal.

"Buzzard", he said.

His wife, more intent of staying upright, forgot where the brake was and ran into the back of him. Then, in his     words: 'unable to free her feet from the pedal clips, she wobbled towards the canal in slow motion. It was almost artistic, like a scene from a David Lean film'- at this point his eyes glazed with the memory - 'then she careened over the edge, at one with the bike. The water closed over them and I stared in dismay. A good few seconds later, the now still surface was broken as the bike slowly rose, held in white knuckled hands and bringing to mind the presentation of Excalibur by the Lady of the Lake.'

"Thank God," he said in relief, "that's a new bike".

When the Lady of the Lake eventually emerged, the poetry of the situation dissolved somewhat:

"Well", she said through clenched teeth,  dripping mud and frog spawn and squinting through a curtain of bedraggled hair, "the next time you see a bastard, you don't need to stop, because  I don't give a shit".

"Buzzard", he corrected miserably, but under his breath. In these situations you need to know when to stop.

His wife's name isn't Lily but it was her situation that led me to think of how we can easily overdo the planting of our ponds. If you are keen on wildlife it is sometimes a temptation to go overboard with native plants, following the line of thought that these will be a greater attraction to other forms of life. In this case though, it may not be a good idea unless you've got a sizeable pond: the white flowered Nymphae alba has big leaves that spread to about six feet and end up forcing each other into a jumble which completely hides the surface of the water. When flowers appear, they are often lost in the mass of greenery. Similarly the yellow flowered Nuphar lutea has even larger leaves and needs plenty of space. Its common name is brandy bottle, because the seed head looks like the old fashioned containers. Another native, Nymphoides peltata, the fringed water-lily, has small leaves and yellow flowers, making it more suitable for a small pond. It has a tendency to spread but is easy to thin out. With much the appearance of a water lily, it is botanically classed differently.

Nuphar lutea (brandy bottle) - flower

Nuphar lutea (seed head)

If you have a large pond, the world is your oyster, choice wise. However, many varieties share the size problems of the natives, so it pays to do a bit of research: dwarf varieties make it possible to grow water-lilies in the smallest of situations, such as half-barrels. Nymphaea 'Pygmaea Helvola' is a good example. With yellow flowers, its spread is around a foot to eighteen inches,dimensions it shares with a number of other varieties.

Display of water lilies at Bodnant Gardens

Another important consideration when planting water lilies is the depth of the pond. Some of the larger forms will only thrive in two or three feet, whereas smaller forms require considerably less. The depth should be increased once the plant is established, so that it is receiving optimum light in the earlier stages of growth. This is best done by standing the basket on bricks and gradually removing them until the optimum water covering is achieved. Plant labels are now informative enough to outline the specific depth required and the ultimate size of the variety chosen.

Lilies not only add to the aesthetics of a pond, they restrict light to the area underneath and algi, the stuff that causes cloudiness, needs light to thrive. This is not the complete answer to algi - only a component, so we'll have a look at supporting remedies in a later blog. At the same time, I'll update you on my mate's marriage.

Hard Pruning Ornamentals

Flashy Gardening

      My wife and I went to a fancy dress party one new years eve many years ago. I had agonised what to go as and had finally settled on a flasher. Inspiration for this had come from an incident that had happened at work: I was a park gardener and we had recently experienced a number of reports of a man jumping out of the shrubbery and exposing himself to women. Two of the parks managers had resolved to put an end to this by catching the bloke, so they hid in the bushes close to his favourite venue, with the intention of grabbing him if he made an appearance.

      Unfortunately for them, the gardening staff were disgruntled with some recent management decisions, so someone phoned the police and reported the fact that two men were lurking in the bushes. The police - well aware of the flasher problem - responded with alacrity. The two bosses were crept up on, unceremoniously hauled out and caused to produce a red faced explanation. In the meantime, the flasher presumably covered his assets and sneaked off to pastures new, while the park  staff prepared to dine out on this delicacy for the rest of their careers.

Flasher deterrent (Rosa omeiensis pteracantha)

      Shrubs differ from trees only in that they tend to have multiple stems, so many of them can get pretty big, affording a flasher plenty of privacy. One way round this is to use plants which tolerate hard cutting-back annually. The smoke tree (Cotinus coggygria) is an example: cut back in March, it will produce much bigger leaves and better autumn colour. On the down side, this treatment means that the plant will not produce the flowers which give the 'smoke' aspect of its name, but you can't win 'em all. Stag's horn sumach and some of the coloured elderberries can also be treated in this way. Eucalyptus gunnii is yet another example - leave it untouched and the attractive blue juvenile foliage is replaced by elongated green leaves supported usually on a spindly trunk. In my experience, a cut-back every third year is ideal but that varies with the growing propensity of your soil.

Cornus sanguinea 'Winter Flame'

      A winter display of stem colour is another feature much improved by hard cutting-back (see the blog 'winter interest in the garden'), dogwoods and willows lending themselves particularly well to this. Only the new first year growth is coloured, so if you don't prune them they become far less attractive. Dogwoods (Cornus species) are so called because butchers used to make skewers from the hard wood of our native Cornus sanguinea, and these they called 'dogs' (file this under 'really useful information'). For attractive willow stems try Salix alba 'Britzensis' (orange), S.acutifolia (purple) or S.'chermesina (red). Of the dogwoods, Cornus 'Winter Flame' (see picture), C. 'Flaviramea' (Yellow) and C.alba 'Sibirica' (red) are some of the best in a wide selection.

Cornus alba berries (alba means 'white', referring to the berries)

      For a plant to make growth, it takes structure and nutrients from the soil, so, to make up this loss, always add a top dressing of well-rotted compost and handful of blood, fish and bone after pruning.

      Anyway, getting back to the fancy dress party: dressed in a dirty mac (which gave me the option of converting to Columbo, should the need arise), I rang the doorbell at the party house.Then, encouraged by my wife, dramatically threw my coat open to display my whispy swimming- trunk- clad body, as the door opened. This may have been jocularly received, had it been the right house. However, the stoney-faced lady who opened it simply stared at me for a moment before pointing down the street, uttering 'next door but one' and slamming the door. At this point my wife seemed to be having some sort of convulsion. It's a problem she has - a cross between shaking and crying. Anyway we hurried off to the right house and I joined about ten other original thinkers who had also turned up as flashers. So I became Columbo.