Pond-side plants

War in the Park

Purple loosestrife next to River Avon

      I remember a bloke who worked at a south Manchester park. His name, for the purpose of this exercise, was Ernie. He was of West Indian extraction and only had one eye. Actually, he had two, but one was glass and didn't move much, so that if you forgot which was the real one you didn't know where he was looking. This once had violent consequences in a  pub when jealous lover mistakenly thought Ernie was eyeing up his girlfriend when he was actually watching football on the TV.

      Ernie was an easy-going man and an accomplished musician, playing regularly in jazz clubs. He had numerous responsibilities in the park and would often be the one willing to work late when the need arose. This suited him because Jazz clubs, it seems, don't utter a clarinetist's peep until pigeons are well into beatific dreams about crapping or whatever else turns them on.

      One of his duties was to oversee the weekly meeting of the boat club who carried out their activities on the large park lake. The radio-controlled boats were, in most cases, scale models of real ships: one was a riverboat of the style used on the Mississippi and often featured in Maverick (remember Maverick?); others ranged from galleons to a Thames barge and one was an outstanding model of the German pocket battleship Admiral Graf Spee, which had inflicted such heavy damage on British merchant ships in the Second World War. The original had eventually been cornered by three British ships in the Battle of the River Plate and, though badly shot up, escaped to Montevideo harbour. Here, the skipper, labouring under the mistaken impression that heavy British reinforcements were on the way, scuttled the ship rather than have it fall into enemy hands.

      Boat club was on a Thursday night and Ernie usually let them over-run their finishing time of nine pm but on this particular occasion needed to get away on the dot. There was a jazz gig at Chester and it would take him some time to get there.

      "Right lads. Sorry, but I need to lock up and go".

      There was a general sigh as the men (they were all men) were hauled back from their Walter Mitty worlds where they sailed the seven seas, (muttering things like 'avast', 'hoist the mizzen' and 'ahhar lads'), to the reality of Platt Fields boating lake. With the exception of The Admiral Graf Spee, the boats turned and headed for shore, the riverboat emitting puffs of smoke from its funnel and giving a hopeful hoot which was closer to the moan of a dying man. The Admiral Graf Spee continued cruising offshore.

      "Come on George, I've got to lock the boats up and get off", said Ernie to the Admiral Graf Spee skipper.

      "You'll have to wait" was the answer coming from the man who'd just sunk half the British fleet, "another half hour won't hurt".

      It took a lot to rile Ernie but he now fixed George with a fierce glare which lost impact because George was looking at the wrong eye and thought he was addressing a nearby tree.

      "Shift your bloody boat back here, now!", said Ernie, not realising that you can't address a German sea-going skipper in that way.

      George muttered something about sex and travel, flicked his manual control, and headed the Admiral Graf Spee towards the centre of the lake.

      "Right", said Ernie and, clutching a long boat hook, stepped off the bank into the lake.

      When I used to fish in the lake as a young boy I would fantasise about the great depth of the black, forbidding looking water, sometimes worrying that staring too much would lure me into its hypnotic clutches. Ernie now shattered my illusion as he waded knee deep out towards the departing German battleship.

      I'm not sure how you scuttle a ship in the way the skipper of the Admiral Graf Spee had, but assume there's a big plug in the bottom and if you pull that out the water comes in and does its job. Ernie was equally unsure about the technique but solved it in his own way by ramming the boat hook through the fibre glass hull. He said afterwards that he'd meant to just hook it and pull it back but whatever the truth of the matter the Admiral Graf Spee miniature met the same fate as its full sized namesake. It was still heading for the middle of the lake as it slowly subsided below the waves. All that was lacking was a sunset and someone playing The Last Post on bagpipes.

      I don't know what happened to Ernie after that but suspect he may have gone on to drive the fastest milk-cart in the west.

Monkey flower (Mimulus guttatus) next to River Dove in Dovedale

      Platt Fields lake is artificial, the banking consisting of overhanging concrete stonework. This is a bit sad really, because the marginal plants, which enrich river banks and natural lakes and ponds, are not able to grow and break up the harsh interface between water and concrete. Good gardening is generally about features gradually merging with others, creating a flow of  interest rather than presenting stark contrasts.

      A native plant which thrives in a more natural waterside is purple loosestrife (Lythrum salicaria), Called loosestrife because it was once believed to ease tension and, in support of this,  Richard Mabey offers a quote from classical times: 'that if placed on the yoke of inharmonious oxen, it will restrain their quarrelling'. Useful to know, eh? With its purple-pink flowers it can enrich any dampish border but is most at ease on the waterside. It  grows to a height of four to five feet. Similarly useful is Monkey flower (Mimulus guttatus). This is a North American introduction which has naturalised in the wild and can commonly be seen in watery settings. Echoing the colour of monkey flower, marsh marigold, another native, is another cheerful adjunct to any pondside. Its Latin name of Caltha palustris is of use because palustris means 'of the marsh' and indicates that it thrives in a damp soil.

      The list of pondside plants is considerable and a number have been considered in an earlier blog marginals (click if interested).

Marsh marigold (Caltha palustris)

      When I was a child I was fascinated by ponds and the life they support. I can remember trying to make one by digging into the clay of our suburban garden and filling the hole with numerous pan-fulls of water from the kitchen which we then called 'the scullery'. Sometimes the water would hang around for a while but it would always eventually drain away, leaving my introduced frogs with nowhere to have a happy croak. I then progressed to the use of a large pan buried to its lip and filled with water. This worked well until my mum found it and indignantly returned it to the scullery after ejecting the equally indignant frogs. To shut me up, she gave me an old foot bath and this sufficed until I got older and could afford a liner. For details about making a water feature see making a waterfall.

Amorous frogs

Rhubarb (Rheum sp.)

 Bliss

Rhubarb

     A few years ago I had a bit of a medical problem which led to my bladder being prone to infections. I was on a number of drugs for the condition and it was under control, except for a more than normal need to urinate. This was good news for the compost heap but a definite negative in other ways. For example, we went down to Maldon, in Essex, for a wedding and were staying in the house of a friend. In the middle of the night I got the pressing need and got up to take care of it. Bear in mind I was in a strange bedroom and disorientated. The cocktail of drugs didn't help, either, together with being still three-quarters asleep, and I opened a door under the impression it was the bathroom. Luckily, my wife woke up just as I disappeared into the wardrobe ready to severely disillusion anyone returning from Narnia, and pointed me towards the actual bathroom. This was fortuitous, otherwise we'd never have been asked back.

      Soon after this episode, we went on a trip to Yorkshire. We'd already had to stop a couple of times at services but the feeling came on during a long stretch of the M62 where the distance between services had the potential to turn discomfort into tragedy. Anyway, my wife was driving and I'd had the forethought to put a bottle on the back seat for such emergencies, so I scrambled into the rear and put it to good use. It crossed my mind that I could start a cult along similar lines to  the Mile High Club, this time for peeing into a milk bottle while going at great speed along motorways. Thinking such cultural thoughts and lulled with the bliss of relief, I became aware that it had gone suddenly darker. I thought at first that maybe we were having a eclipse, but glancing up showed me that the cause was the Bullocks coach which had drawn level. An interested audience of pensioners was ogling me from their circle seats. However I couldn't stop, so I pacified myself by giving them a weak grin and rather limp Hitler salute with my other hand, all the time hoping to God that we didn't bump into them again somewhere. It struck me that it was alright for them, there'd be a toilet on board their bus and I maliciously hoped that it was blocked. A further comfort was the thought that, should we come across the Bullocks coach parked anywhere, I could easily change the 'u' to an 'o' with a black marker. That'd teach 'em.

      This brought to mind the time that we had an event (I think it was a cycle race) in Wythenshawe Park. The park toilets were grossly inadequate for a large crowd, so we'd hired mobile loos and dotted them round a central area. Unwisely, we left them overnight and in the morning all that was left was a series of burnt out hulks. The local vandals had discovered that a burning lavatory gives far more pyrotechnic satisfaction than a bog standard (pardon the pun) firework. Fortunately they'd had the forethought to make sure no one was in them before applying the match. If anyone had been, no doubt their bowel movement would have progressed satisfactorily but this would have been poor compensation for being burnt to a cinder.

      Rhubarb also has a reputation for encouraging healthy movements. It is such an easy crop that anyone can grow it with a high potential for success. Not only is the stem good in crumbles, pies and other desserts, but the leaves extend its use in other directions: an old bloke on our allotment recommended boiling them in water, then using the resulting liquid to clean algi off greenhouse glass. I've not tried this but the logic is there - rhubarb leaves have a high oxalic acid content and this has corrosive properties. Garden Organic (used to be known as the Henry Doubleday Research Institute) give the following recipe for controlling aphids: boil 3 pounds of leaves in 6 pints of water for half an hour, strain through muslin or an old stocking then dilute with water to rhubarb at quantities of 5:1. Some added soapflakes will help it spread and stick more effectively.

      Originally from Siberia, edible rhubarb (Rheum rhaponticum) finds the British climate a soft touch by comparison. When I first heard of the rhubarb triangle I thought it must be related to the Bermuda one, with mysterious disappearances taking place on the vegetable plot. However it turns out to be much more mundane, referring to an area in Yorkshire where Wakefield , Morley and Rothwell form the angles encompassing the main rhubarb growing area. They probably get a lot of Christmas cards from the custard industry.

Purpose made forcing pots with removable tops for observation

      Forcing rhubarb is a way of getting an early crop. The plant should first be given a year without being picked in order to establish (this also applies with normal cropping), then in the second year it is covered with a large pot, or black plastic, just as it begins to grow. The principle is that a plant needs light to grow and photosynthesise: place it in the dark and it automatically grows upwards towards where it perceives the light should be. This can be seen when you wrongly position something like a pelargonium in a dark corner of the living room and it produces leggy, unattractive growth as it strives upwards. By forcing, the crop can be obtained a month or more earlier and is less tart. This takes a lot out of the plant and it should be rested the following year in order to recover. An even earlier crop can be attained by lifting the plant in November, leaving on the soil surface to receive the frosting which breaks down the tendency for dormancy, then taking into a cool greenhouse or shed and covering. Where this is done commercially the cropped plant is usually then destined for the compost heap.

      Some forms of rhubarb provide sculptural interest in the garden. Like its culinary relative, it needs deep, moist, humus rich soil and benefits from an annual top dressing of well-rotted organic material. Especially effective near water, it can be a Gunnera substitute for the smaller pond, being more compatible in scale. A variety like Rheum palmatum (Chinese rhubarb) can produce red flowers up to a height of 8 feet.

      So, as you can see, rhubarb is pretty versatile and so easy to grow it really is worth giving it a bash.

   

Epilobum angustifolium and Dictamnus albus

A Burning Problem

Mysterious footwear?

      Have you ever thought about shoes in the road? The number of times you come across shoes left along the highway seems to have something significant about it. It's possible you haven't noticed this phenomena but, having read this, I can guarantee you will. The odd pair of knickers behind a park bench speak for themselves but shoes? and usually only one (nearly always a woman's)??

      Alien abduction is the first thing that springs to mind - the victim was hauled up so suddenly that the shoe was left behind and I suppose it's conceivable that it could be only one, perhaps because the lace was undone. However, I think this is a bit unlikely, based on the fact that it never happened to Spock or Captain Kirk when they were beamed up. Another possibility is a broken heel.  I saw it happen to a woman in a film once: a heel broke off and she simply took the other one off and walked barefoot, keeping her dignity. That's the 'sod it' factor, how can I walk if I'm listing to port? This solution may work for Hollywood but she wouldn't do that round our way - not with the amount of dogcrap on the pavement. A better solution would be to walk with one foot in the gutter and the other on the pavement, rectifying the uneven elevation. However this could be problematic if it's your right shoe that's lost the heel and the kerb is on the left due to the direction you're travelling: the foot with the heel would then be twice as high. My first reaction to this conundrum was that you'd have to walk the other way round the block in the hopes that you could reach your destination that way. When I think about it though, this, of course, that's ridiculous - you'd just have to walk along the gutter on on the other side of the road.

      And what about the one-legged person? Did Long John Silver have to buy two shoes and throw one away? I should have thought that, in the cause of decency, the shop should  sell them one at a time. Probably there is a balance between one legged people with the left leg and those with the right so, in the long run, they'd be able to sell them both. However, if they do have to buy two, one may end up chucked through the car window.

      These things are possibilities but the most likely answer, I feel, lies in spontaneous combustion. In Bleak House, Dickens describes how Mr Krook is a victim of this. In that case there was nothing left of him but an evil smell, greasy soot, a chunk of burnt thigh and a pool of oil. Although this was a novel, Dickens had done copious research and the story was based on a number of known cases. Lots of theories about how this happens have been propounded, the most widely accepted one being that of the wick effect: having first been ignited by a fag end or something, the person burns and fat from the body works like candle wax, keeping it lit for ages. Whatever the cause, it's a fact that, in 1951, a Mary Hardy Reeser of St. Petersburg, Florida was found almost totally cremated. All that was left was a pile of ash and a foot. The point is though, that the foot was still wearing - wait for it - A SHOE! I rest my case.

      A plant - Dictamnus albus - is also known as 'burning bush'. It produces volatile oils from its leaves and these may become ignited in hot weather. You can hold a burning match close and watch the resulting conflagration. It sounds advisable to only do on someone else's Dictamnus, because it wouldn't do a lot for your herbaceous border. However, the burst of flame is fleeting enough to not damage the plant. It's thought that this was the burning bush depicted in the Bible, when God spoke to Moses on Mount Sinai. I can't remember the rest of the story, maybe Moses used it to light his pipe. It grows to about three foot high, with woody stems, and looks a bit like rosebay willow herb, another plant associated with fire.

Rosebay willowherb or fireweed (Epilobium angustifolium)

      Rosebay willow herb is also known as 'fireweed'. This is due to its characteristic of colonizing areas of woodland which have been burnt down. A perennial herb, it dies out as the trees reestablish but the seeds stay viable in the ground for many years, ready to make another bid for glory should fire or felling again create the right environment. At one time it was a rare plant in Britain and only really exploded onto the scene with the coming of the railways in the 1800's- the bare ground accompanying them suited the plant and the 'wind tunnel' effect of the trains helped spread the airborne seeds. The bombing of the cities created a wealth of new sites and a new name 'bombweed' became popular, as harsh areas of rubble became hidden under a sea of pink.

      The soft, downy seeds become a snowstorm in late summer windy days and, at one time they were used with thistledown in Scotland to stuff mattresses. The fluff was also used, mixed with cotton or fur, to make stockings and other items of clothing. Meanwhile, in the kitchen, the young tender stems can be cooked and eaten as a vegetable and are claimed to be a good asparagus substitute. I haven't tried it yet but will give it a go next summer. The dried leaves are used to make tea and I've heard it said that it's difficult to tell it from the real thing.

      Although it was once considered a garden plant, rosebay willow herb quickly outgrows its welcome: the thick woody roots spread horizontally and its dense clumps suppress other plants, although foxglove seems to thrive happily with it. However the white form - Epilobium angustifolium album - is a bit less belligerent and can be a stately addition to the herbaceous border.

   

Colour in Autumn

Finding Religion 

Prolific colour in autumn

  I've noticed that I seem to inspire a lot of my friends spiritually: Dan was a mate who was a bit religious before we went on a hike over Bleaklow, a hill in Derbyshire. When we got back, compared to Dan, the pope was an atheist. I seem to have this evangelistic potential. I have a recurring picture in my mind of the J.S. lifeboat saving countless struggling souls from the surface of life's stormy sea. Meanwhile, squashed deeper into my semiconscious is a haunting, faded picture: It is of someone looking remarkably like me pushing them off the cliff in the first place.

      The plan was to leave the car at a place called Lady Cross, on one side of Bleaklow, climb up Black Clough to the top, wander across to Bleaklow Stones, then drop down to the Snake Inn via Doctor's Gate and the short length of linking road. Then we'd do it in reverse.

      We completed the first part, had a beer in the pub and ate butties surreptitiously withdrawn from paper bags on our knees under the table (the landlord was always snotty about having to buy the food from them). Then we set out to retrace our footsteps back to the car. What could be simpler? you ask. Well, as it turned out, the discovery of D.N.A. would have been a doddle in comparison.

      The weather had deteriorated while we were in the pub and a thick mist descended by the time we got to Doctor's Gate.

      "We'll need the compass in this fog", said Dan and, to keep him happy, I obliged by searching through my pockets for an implement I'd never possessed.

      "Oops", I said, "seem to have forgotten it. Doesn't matter though, all we have to do is follow the stream to the top, then wander across to Black Clough and follow that down to the car. It'll be a doddle".

      If I ever get round to compiling a book of famous last words, 'it'll be a doddle' will feature prominently.

      Two hours later, having followed one stream up, and then walked down the other one, we found ourselves in vaguely familiar territory. This familiarity was explained when we found a sign, leaning drunkenly and informing us that we were back at Doctor's Gate. We had walked in a circle on the top. By our reckoning, to walk back to the car by road was about fourteen miles and it was only six if we tried again and went over the top, so we decided to have another bash at it.

      Heavy rain  set in as we followed the muddy track along the stream. Looking back now, I think the map may have been faulty, because we followed the stream as closely as possible but didn't end up where we should have. The moment of truth came when the stream had dwindled to nothing and we were walking through a thick wall of mist in the direction we deemed would lead us to the top. All semblance of a path had long since disappeared and the tufty grass had given way to ten foot peat cakes iced with heather. The rain continued in a deluge and we seemed to have walked a lot further than the map thought we should have. In addition to this, it was fast going dark and we were probably miles from civilisation. Dan had gone strangely quiet.

      At this point the storm started. we'd heard it rumbling in the distance, moving closer. Now the thunder occurred almost simultaneously with the lightening, which seemed to be forking into the hillside at an uncomfortable proximity and with frightening frequency. I turned to say something to Dan, to find him prostrate on the streaming peat.

      "Get down", he screamed "lightening strikes things that stand above the ground". I looked down at his now black face and decided that frying was preferable to drowning.

      "Come on", I said reasonably, "it's passing over now. See, the rain isn't as bad".

      As if in reply, the mother and father of all bolts of lightening sizzled to extinction at what appeared to be a few yards distance, accompanied by a crash of thunder which deafened me for a few seconds. My hearing returned with a low drone and I thought for a moment that it had been permanently affected. I needn't have worried, the drone was Dan going through the Lord's Prayer. There may be a bit of a tendency to laugh at this but I didn't, because it worked. The blinding flash of light had momentarily outlined something ahead of us through the mist.

      "There's a post over there", I said excitedly.

      Joe muttered something and I bent to hear properly.

      "Give us this day our daily....."

      "No, you don't understand. I reckon that where there's one post there's probably another, marking the top of the ridge". I said this on the basis that our old ordnance survey map had a line of dots going along the top of Bleaklow. There was nothing to show what they were on the key, therefore they must indicate posts. Got to be. All we had to do was follow them.

      Dan rose slowly and dramatically to his feet like something  Hammer Horror would be proud of.

      "I can't see a post", said this apparition, "you've got a thing about posts. You hit 'em in boats, you hang on to them in lakes, you're a lunatic, you are" (for those stories try this and this).

      His voice was cracking and I could see that he was going over the edge. He always had been a bit highly strung. It was at this critical moment that another flash of lightening illuminated the landscape in front of us.

      "Bloody hell, there's a post over there", said Dan. I don't know what I'd have done without him.

      And here I'm going to end this tale. Suffice to say that we managed to follow the posts to safety, albeit miles from the car, and spent the night in a barn. I heard a few more comments from Dan which I didn't know were in the Christian lexicon and I haven't seen him since. Perhaps I'll outline the rest of the journey in another blog.

Strange winged stems of Euonymus alatus

      A plant which could have been useful in this trip up Bleaklow is Silphium laciniatum, also known as the compass plant. It comes from the U.S. and the flat sides of the leaves always face east and west. Apparently early settlers were able to travel in the dark by feeling them, so perhaps Dan's blood pressure would have benefited from their presence. However, a more seasonal gardening subject is that of autumn colour and one plant which never fails to come up with the goods is Euonymus alatus:

      Unusual for its winged stems, this is a shrub which can reach 6ft high and can spread as much as 10ft. A more compact version, perhaps better suited to the smaller garden is the variety 'Compactus', which only reaches 3ft high. Readily available in most garden centres, it originated in Japan and China but is well suited to our climate. A friend in the north of the Lake District has one in his garden and the fact that it came into colour at least ten days before those in the Manchester area (some eighty miles south) gives an idea of climate difference over a relatively small distance.

Katsura tree (Cercidiphyllum japonicum)

      Another import from China and Japan, this time much bigger, is the Katsura tree - Cercidiphyllum japonicum. Ultimately reaching about 45ft in Britain (147ft in its native habitat), the foliage changes from bronze when young to orange, yellow and red in autumn. When crushed, the leaves smell of toffee apples or candy floss, depending on your sense of smell. Although it is related to the tulip tree and Magnolia, the flowers are nothing to write home about, being red but minute.

Cercis siliquastrum (Judas tree)

      I used to have difficulty telling the Katsura from the Judas tree, Cercis siliquastrum, which has similar foliage also turning yellow in autumn. Then I noticed that the leaves are usually borne opposite on the main stems, whereas those of the Cercis are alternate. In flower, there is no confusion, because the Cercis has showy pink (occasionally white) flowers arising from the bare stems before the leaves. It was said to be the tree Judas hanged himself on - hence the common name.

Callicarpa bodinieri giraldii 'Profusion'

      Autumn colour can come from sources other than leaves and this is epitomised by the beauty berry, Callicarpa bodinieri 'Profusion', a shrub which can reach 10ft in height, with a spread of 8ft. This has small pink flowers but it is the berries which are its main attraction: a dark violet, they are borne as the leaves begin to fall and, especially on a sunny day, stand out in glorious celebration of autumn. Apparently they are very bitter, so the birds leave them alone unless absolutely desperate and they last well into winter. Cotoneaster, and Pyracantha, on the other hand, are bird magnets which, in my book, is a different kind of advantage. Horses for courses.

      For more on autumn colour and how it works, visit this link















   

Clianthus puniceus (parrot's claw)

Animal Crackers

Parrot's Claw

      A Norwegian Blue parrot shot to fame for being  debatably dead in the Monty Python sketch. The bird I had dealings with wasn't blue, Norwegian, or dead.

      Nick and I were having a walk and had stopped to have a quiet pint in a pub on the promenade at Neston, a village on the Wirral in Cheshire. It is a strange place, being situated on the estuary of  the River Dee: at one time it was a port, a fact illustrated by the bollards for tying boats to which still decorate the prom. The only thing that stops it still being a port is a distinct lack of water. The river has silted up to such a degree that the view is of a wilderness of grass, sedges and rivulets which stretch into the dim distance of the Welsh shore, along which dredging has ensured a still healthy flow of water. The marshes which have been created are a haven for a wide spectrum of birds and other wildlife and this is graphically depicted at high tides:  the rising water causes  refugees who's nests and burrows are being flooded to escape across the promenade. Usually this takes place in front of a large audience. People come from miles around for the spectacle and birds of prey also arrive in force to take advantage of the situation.

      Anyway, there we were having our pints. The room was shared with the biggest parrot I've ever seen, presumably an attempt by the owners to bring back a more nautical ethos. He was doing a little dance, chained to a perch by the window. We'd gone through the compulsory routine of trying to teach it to swear but had achieved only a baleful look which implied he could teach us if the mood took him. His little dance involved slowly lifting one claw then the next, as if the perch were hot, while his head stayed in the same position, glaring unnervingly at us.

      We were admiring this choreography when a large bundle of hair appeared in the doorway. It was a Dulux dog (old English sheepdog to the uninitiated) and he seemed to be looking for someone. The parrot stopped his dance, remaining on one leg and watching the dog with an evil glint in his eye. Then he slowly turned his head and looked at us. He winked. I swear the bugger winked, before turning slowly back to watch the dog. Fido was obviously unaware of the parrot, too intent on his search for his owner. Anyway he then came padding through the room, unconsciously on a course very close to the base of the parrot's perch. As he drew level, the bird suddenly lowered his head and uttered a deafening SQUAAAAWK!!!! This had a remarkable effect on the dog, who shot off the ground and described a 380 degree turn in mid air, legs going like the roadrunner when he's gone over the edge of a cliff. I don't recall having seen a Dulux dog's eyes before - the hair covers them - but, as he came down, I did then: they were crazed with terror. When his paws finally met the ground they scrabbled frantically for a couple of second - legs a blur - before gaining traction, then he was gone. The parrot resumed his dance and, if a parrot can look smug, this one did.

      This is something I've noticed. Animals in captivity exact revenge for their loss of freedom in various ways. I've already mentioned the technique of the rabbit I looked after ( here). The dog was an unfortunate innocent victim of the parrot's vengeance, but the incident was an example of the same embittering process. Another that springs to mind occurred at Chester Zoo:

      A crowd of people were watching orangutans in an open area separated from visitors by a deep pool. The bloke standing next to me had one of those donkey-type braying laughs and he was practising it with annoying vigour at the animals' antics. Apart from annoying me, this eventually got through to the monkeys, because one of them turned and looked at him speculatively. The serious look on the animal's face provoked even more laughter from donkey, safe on his side of the moat, and the monkey turned away in disdain. Then he raised his left arm, as if to conform to the stereotypical armpit scratch. Before anyone realised what was happening, he'd bent slightly then, without turning round, threw something with amazing velocity backwards under his raised arm in the direction of the crowd. There was a resounding bonk! as eight inches of dried orangutan turd bounced off donkey's forehead, then the monkey slowly turned and eyed him thoughtfully. His look conveyed the message: 'on yer 'ead, mate'.

Parrot's claw

      Clianthus puniceus is an obvious follow-up to this story because its common name is 'parrot's bill'. It is also sometimes referred to as 'lobster claw'. The R.H.S. list it as having doubtful hardiness but I decided to chance a specimen someone had given me in a sheltered spot. It was on an east facing wall, protected from the north by the front of the house. The books recommend south facing but, short of turning the house round, I couldn't provide this luxury - sometimes it pays to suck it and see. I had created a narrow bed by digging out some of the concrete drive and, while this didn't exactly emulate its native North Island in New Zealand, it was the best I could do in Manchester.

      For a few years, it thrived. As it isn't a natural climber, more a scrambler, it was necessary to train it against a wire support , tying it in as it grew. The fact that it is evergreen meant that there was some interest even during winter when the pea-like foliage (it is a member of the pea family) made an interesting contrast with the brick. I was able to control its growth by occasionally clipping it back with shears after its late spring flowering and, in this position next to the front door, it provided an interesting conversation piece.

Nasturtiums giving later interest

      Because a plant is sometimes of doubtful hardiness, it pays to give some protection in winter - a deep mulch around the roots or a protective covering of fleece, and at first I did this. However, I got blase after a couple of years and didn't bother. That was when we had a bad winter and the plant decided to demonstrate its expertise at snuffing it. The books say that this often happens and that it will sprout again the following spring. Unfortunately, this one hadn't read the book.

      I had successfully taken a number of cuttings in case the plant should die but as it continued to thrive, I gave them away, so my parrot's claw is now just a fond memory.

      It's worth mentioning that if a plant is early flowering, as this one is, it may pay to prolong the period of interest by partnering it with something else which performs at a different time. I'd like to say I'd had this forethought but I hadn't. However, nature came to my rescue when nasturtiums (Tropaeolum major) suddenly appeared, having spread from a nearby container. They gave a welcome splash of colour until late summer, when the cabbage white caterpillars regularly made a bit of a mess of them. It is nice to add a few nasturtium leaves  to a salad, where their peppery flavour lends a refreshing piquancy and their position right next to the door meant they were comfortably available. The caterpillars aren't to my taste but apparently are rich in protein.

R.I.P.

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)

   

Dischidia pectinoides (kangaroo pocket, ant plant)

Dancing Daffodils

Dischidia pectinoides with front cut off 'urn' to show roots growing from wall

      A few blogs ago, I was looking at amateur dramatics and some of the pitfalls. This reminded me of a production I was personally involved in. I'm in a choir and we were asked whether anyone was interested in singing in a presentation of Desperate to be Doris which was to be played at the Lowry Theatre in Salford. It was a musical and (luckily) a comedy. I had seen it a year or so previously and loved it, so put my name forward.

      An early musical scene in the play had the choir standing in tiers up to the back of the stage singing Que Sera, Sera. In theory, fluffy clouds billowed gently above and a rainbow moved serenely across the sky as the choir, swaying in unison, dreamily intoned a vision of the future, In reality, this ideal was somewhat challenged by the mind-blowing technology involved: it consisted of clouds on sticks being waved around by choir members in a way which brought to mind the hurricane season in Miami. The piece de resistance though, was a banner depicting a rainbow which slowly and dramatically unfurled as the sticks holding it were passed from singer to singer on the back row. Unfortunately the sticks seemed to be released in a haphazard way so that people became momentarily eclipsed by the rainbow and comments like ‘gerroff me foot, Kev’ and ‘hey, that was my head’ became audible above the lilting harmonies. The unison swaying was disrupted and, quite artistically really, suggested a tsunami subtending the hurricane.

      Something the organisers had overlooked was the fact that the bloke passing the sticks at the beginning of the row was about six foot eight, while the pot of gold receiving it at the other end was pushing five foot four. The result was a rainbow which sloped horizontally across the back of the stage and probably gave the audience the impression of watching the performance from a boat caught up in the hurricane I mentioned. A long discussion took place about how to solve this problem, during which various ways of marking the sticks were suggested, so that each person's height was taken into consideration and some sort of equilibrium attained. These ideas were eventually discarded when someone noticed that they were already marked anyway.

      In another scene, the hero was singing about having a secret love and how he told the daffodils about it. This was visually illustrated by choir members dressed as daffodils mincing in line onto the stage and prancing around him. The audience probably didn't realise it, but the good looking one who trailed along at the back was the only bloke. I got the part on the basis that my career in horticulture was an unassailable qualification. My botanical knowledge led me to be sceptical about the whole dancing daffodil thing though, thinking that plants with more obvious movement, like Venus fly traps, would be more appropriate.  

      And so we turn to Jeff, the choral director, alias the skateboarding nun. His task was to skateboard across the stage dressed as a nun, not because this was part of the story but because, er. well, just because. When he first demonstrated his expertise to the assembled cast, he appeared at speed from the wings, crossed half the stage, then pitched headlong, landing in a position reminiscent to that of the Altrincham goalkeeper when the ball is nestling in the net. I personally saw the fact that Altrincham were relegated that season as an ominous portent. From a horizontal position he leered at the cast with that ‘heh, heh -meant to do that’ expression’ of his which, translated, means: ‘Shit! What happened?’

      ‘I thought you said you could skate’, said an indignant  stage manager.

     He didn’t reply but the ‘heh, heh expression which now occupied his face could this time be translated as ‘I thought a skate was a fish’ or, more likely, ‘I lied through me teeth’.

      By the time of the first show, Jeff had partially mastered the technique by practising in the corridor outside the changing rooms. Unfortunately it seemed the skateboard was the brains of the outfit and Jeff had to go along with what it decided. On the night, he shot across the stage at a speed which meant that he remained unseen by anyone who happened to be blinking or sneezing at the time. This performance brought comparisons with Superman, who can move so fast as to be invisible. In fact, audience comments picked up on the dressing room relay included ‘thought I saw a blur, but may have imagined it’. A more mundane observation, made by someone with quick eyesight was a disparaging: ‘not a patch on Julie Andrews’.

      And so the show rolled on towards an inevitable sad conclusion on the Saturday night, when what was a disparate group of people become a crowd of friends, parted company: the magical world of theatre people faded into the past. We reverted from being daffodils,cowboys, indians and aeronautical nuns back to the workplace or, in my case, to my garden, where I  potter and plant more daffodils.

      So now you're sitting there, both of you, waiting for me to go on about daffodils. Sorry - it's the wrong time of year. Instead, I'm going to look at ants and an unusual plant called Dischidia pectinoides. Calm down. Try to contain the excitement.

      Dischidia pectinoides is a myrmecophilous plant which hitches its way to the light by growing on the branches of other species. 'Myrmecophilous' refers to plants which live with ants to mutual advantage. In this case, the plant produces leaves swollen into urns which the ants choose to live in and have their young. The ants breathe out carbon dioxide, which all plants need in order to produce energy-giving sugar, and the Dischidia makes full use of this. 

      When an urn ages, the ants move their families to a newer one, using the old one as a midden for excreta, bits of soil and the corpses of their dead. The plant then produces roots from the inside of this old pod and they grow into this mixture which has become a compost. Obviously roots need watering, so the plant achieves this by having pores which, in most plants, breathe water outwards into the atmosphere, instead releasing it inwards into the pod. 

      If you were lucky enough to get hold of a Dischidia (and they're pretty thin on the ground), it can be grown in a hanging basket in good light or, as shown in the top picture, up a trellis. An average living room temperature is usually sufficient for good results, with the plant in an epiphytic orchid mix. When we grew one in the glasshouses at work, it seemed to manage reasonably well without the ants but it'd be interesting to compare growth between two plants, one with and one without.

      We probably think of ourselves as being the first species to grow plants in pots. After all, there are five thousand year old Egyptian wall paintings of  pot plants to illustrate this but, in Dischidia, nature got there first, making us look not quite so clever.

      The Dischidia we've been talking about originates in The Phillipines but ants share some interesting relationships much closer to home:

      A greenfly feeds by bunging a proboscis, which is like a starched elephant's trunk, into plant cells. It forces mucus down one nostril which creates a pressure in the cell, pushing plant sugars up the other. I suppose you could say it's blowing its nose and having a good nosh at the same time. However there isn't much protein in plant sugar and, like us, greenfly need it. This means that  they have to take in a great bulk of sugar before the required protein is obtained, and their bodies aren't big enough to retain the excess, which they excrete onto the leaf. This deposit is called honeydew and is what you can experience if you park your car under a tree and return to find it covered with stickiness. Often, a strange blackness appears on leaves and this is usually the result of sooty mould, a fungus which feeds on honeydew.  

Aphids feeding

      Ants come back into the story when you get a couple of them patrolling round a plant, fighting off the greenfly predators, so that they can occasionally nip up the stem and have a few honeydew butties. The ants  farm greenfly, milking them in exactly the same way that we treat cows. Another one where nature got there first.

Ants 'farming' greenfly

Cottage Garden Plants

Cottages and Kids

Painted lady showing her liking for Verbena bonariensis

'Fun sized Mars Bars'. Their introduction caused me to look up the definition of 'fun' and it certainly didn't seem to fit the reduction of eight mouthfuls of chocolate to two. Just how daft do sales people think we are? Estate agents are masters of it: there's the 'compact third bedroom' which turns out to be perfect for someone who sleeps standing up and the 'manageable garden' which is great for the connoisseur of coloured paving. All of which reminds me of the cottage we rented in Dumfries and Galloway.

I've already mentioned the 'hot running shower' in the blog entitled 'Lichen, Moss and Liverwort http://gardeningwithjohnsteedman.blogspot.co.uk/2012/12/lichen-moss-and-liverwort.html'. A further creative aspect of the advertising blurb was the 'steep stairs', which turned out to be a ladder giving access to a converted loft. The 'running water' only 'ran' when you pumped it with a hand pump on the outside wall. After a lot of sweat it finally arrived in a tank in the roof, accompanied by an interesting collection of water life and bits of peat. It was drawn from a bog in the field at the bottom of the garden (romantically described by the owner as 'our private spring') and the journey through the pipe was probably a bit like some bizarre Alton Towers ride to the insects lucky enough to make the journey. Once there was some water in the roof tank, the sink taps worked in the normal way, as did the toilet. Theoretically.

The toilet cistern bore a hand-written label saying 'one quick pull for a short flush. A longer pull will give a more thorough flush. Use as necessary to save water'. The reality of the instruction varied somewhat with the theory, because we found no difference between a long pull and a short one: nothing happened with either. They were right about conserving water though, we could have hung a brick on the lavatory chain and wasted not a drop. This was later explained in an apologetic way by the owner as probably being due to peat in the water blocking the inlet to the cistern. For the rest of the week we ended up flushing by pouring a bucket of water down the toilet (and in Nick's case, down himself).

The idea of the holiday had arisen over a couple of glasses of wine and a good meal. Get the kids in an environment where there was no television (computers were not really a factor then in the early eighties) and the family would have to entertain themselves with games, walks in the country and books, reacting in a more creative, communal way. This was an ideal my wife was enthusiastic about until the effects of the wine had evaporated and the description of the cottage had sunk in. At which point she mysteriously discovered that she couldn't get the time off work and I'd have to take them myself - we'd have a full family holiday in a hotel later in the summer.

Chris, aged thirteen was the oldest, while  Laura was eleven and Nick eight. We spent the days damming streams, fishing, hiking, and competing at throwing arrows in a field at the back of the cottage. The arrows were made from canes fitted with paper flights, like the ones on darts, and they were thrown by loosely wrapping a piece of string round the end and using it to give greater propulsion. They would go for a surprising distance and gave us hours of entertainment. I'd got the idea from their description in an old Eagle annual where they were advocated for killing wild boar. The absence of boar didn't detract from the fun of just seeing who could get them the furthest. In the evening, ghost stories were the favourite pastime and this led to an interesting incident:

      Everyone had gone to bed. Chris in the attic room, me in the master bedroom downstairs and Laura and Nick in the living room/bedroom, also downstairs.

      We waited a few minutes to let things calm down, then Chris and I sneaked out through the back door and into the yard. We could hear Nick droning away, probably outlining his plans for making a bomb out of the Calor gas cylinder, or maybe contemplating the likely and (to him) interesting scenario of the lavatory bowl becoming filled to capacity.  The fishing rod was where we had left it, leaning against the wall, so we carried it to the rear of the house, taking care to walk on the grass rather than give ourselves away by crunching along the gravel path. The thing then was to avoid showing ourselves at their bedroom window, while gently tapping it with the outstretched fishing rod tip. The only time Nick ever shut up was when he was asleep, but on this occasion he made an exception, and a deathly silence ensued. Encouraged by having achieved what no one else had all week, Chris gave the window another tap, a bit louder this time.

      The response was immediate:

       ‘Daaaad!’

      We were already halfway to the back door when Nick and Laura orchestrated this better-than-hoped for response. Keeping quiet was no longer an issue, considering the mayhem caused by Laura hyperventilating and Nick exploring the capacity of his lungs, so I managed to sneak undetected into my bedroom while Chris disappeared up the ladder to the attic. We then immediately reversed the procedure and rushed into their bedroom, ostensibly to see what the fuss was about.

      Laura sat white faced on the bed with her back to the wall and bedclothes pulled up to her chin. Nick, with only the top half of his face visible above the duvet, suddenly became emboldened by our presence and rushed to the window.

      ‘It’s a big man all dressed in black. I saw him go over the wall, dad,’ he shouted, with a ‘he’s lucky I wasn’t a bit quicker or I’d have had him’ air of bravado.

      He was right though. He’d have talked the bugger to death.

      The garden of this cottage was devoid of plants other than grass and I suppose this was understandable when the owners weren't there for a large part of the year. However the cottage garden is a subject in its own right, the point never being better made than by the one time presenter of 'Gardeners World', Jeff Hamilton: he always stressed the fact that the traditional mix of subjects  in this type of planting has benefits beyond the simply aesthetic: the pests hosted by one plant are to some extent balanced by their predators living on another and the gardener's task of protective warrior lessened. The more we can do without chemical insecticides, the better. A good gardener works with nature, rather than against it.

      Really there are few rules about what constitutes a cottage garden plant, although I suppose we can exclude giant redwoods and their ilk. One of my favourites is Verbena bonariensis. Apart from sounding like something the dog dug up, it actually has a lot going for it: the butterflies and bees love it and it produces its flowers on tall unimposing stems which don't impede the view of other plants. This means that it needn't be confined to the back of the border with the other lofties - it fits most positions. A native of South America, it has a possible height of about six feet, but it usually only reaches four or five in my garden. As a perennial, it more or less disappears in winter and is always in danger of being accidentally weeded out. However it seeds itself so prolifically that, once you've got it, you're never without.

Geranium species

      Another favourite, although sometimes referred to as a bit of a thug, is the large-leaved group of geraniums. Unfortunately, and largely due to incorrect promoting by nurserymen, most people will think of geraniums as those half hardy bedding subjects which originate in South Africa and are correctly known as Pelargoniums. The true Geraniums are mostly hardy and have the added advantage of generally being tolerant of shade, although the smaller species do need full sun. Another plus is the fact that you can get second display if the old leaves and blooms are cut hard back immediately after flowering. The common name 'cranesbill' is derived from the shape of the seed capsule when the flower has gone.

Achillea millefolium (Yarrow)

Achillea 'Cloth of Gold' behind Helenium 'Sahin's Early Flowerer'

      The Achilleas popular in cottage gardens are closely related to the British native Achillea millefolium. The plant was named after Achilles, who used it medicinally for a number of purposes but found, to his cost, that it didn't work on heels. The 'millefolium' part of its name refers to 'thousand leaves', referring to the appearance of the leaflets. Although the native wildflower is usually yellow, pink varieties can often be found beside them. Steep the leaves in hot water for a couple of minutes to make a pleasant tea.

      The original cottage gardens mixed flowering plants with vegetables in a rule-defying hotch- potch, whereas the modern concept (except on organic allotments) usually only encompasses flowers. I suppose it's hard to give a spud the ooh! factor.

   

      

Arisaema tortuosum (whipcord lily) and Arum maculatum (cuckoo pint)

Strange Plants

Arisaema tortuosum (whipcord lily)

In an effort to try something different with my blog, and acting on the suggestion of my eldest son, Chris, I've preceded the gardening stuff with one of my short stories:     

What Goes Round Comes Round

      Adam looked at the derelict landscape with mixed feelings:

      There is something exciting about ground being reclaimed by nature: huge concrete plinths – once the floors of factories and warehouses of the old dockland– stand in silent testimony to the ephemeral existence of man’s endeavours; skeins of rose bay willow herb and Oxford ragwort follow spreading cracks and joints which young willows, birches and the ubiquitous Buddleia force further apart. The rattle and hum of machinery has given way to birdsong and the thrumming of insects servicing the advancing green army. The stress of deadlines and the need to produce, produce, produce, has succumbed to a gentler rhythm. No doubt the pace of life in the microcosm is as hectic in its own way – a struggle for existence - but it does not disturb the mechanism of the planet. It defies modern man’s system of existing in spite of nature by existing with nature.

      He gave his imagination full rein:

      Close by, the canal echoes the change: gone is the floating skin of litter and dead fish – testimony to man’s scorn for the planet which nurtured him – to be replaced by water lilies. Occasional flag iris displaying large chestnut brown seed, promise further colonisation. Maybe these plants will work the same changes as those on the concrete plinths: forcing stonework apart; allowing water to first seep, then cascade out, leaving a dry lane and a scattering of fish skeletons and empty freshwater mussels between the ancient walls.

      Within a century, harshness will be replaced by lush greenery. Tall buildings will become pergolas, gradually eroding back into the land. Emulating the Inca temples, they have the same crumbling destiny. Future visitors to the planet will find an uneven verdant carpet suggesting an interesting geological past. Maybe they’ll bring archaeologists who’ll dig and discover the remains of a great civilisation, beginning the theorising on how it was wiped out. Their version of the dinosaurs.

     He smiled inwardly and tomorrow reverted to today. The concrete plinths were still there, supporting their influx of wildlife, but the nearby canal had regained its flotsam. A fisherman had more chance of catching a shopping trolley than a carp in there. The ground occupied by the plinths was to become the new tram terminal. Already they’d started erecting palisade fencing. Nature’s recovery would be stopped. But only put on hold. Eventually man would overpopulate himself into extinction and the green tide would flood back in. Cycles. Everything runs in cycles.

     Lost in thought, he hadn’t noticed the darkening sky. Now he looked up at a rolling black cloud. It was edged a strange fiery orange, as the sun fought a retreating battle. Better be getting back. As he stood to go, the first large drops spattered around him, quickly mottling the dry concrete. The background hum of insects had died away and he absently wondered where they went during rain. One large raindrop hitting a hover fly would be the equivalent of at least one bucketful hitting a person. Coming from a height, you could probably include the bucket in the resulting impact.

      There was a rumble of thunder in the distance. A vivid flash of lightning caused him to break into a run – he stood out on this flat terrain as a homing beacon for the next one - one, two, three, four, five, then a louder rumble. Divided by five meant it was a mile away, if the theory worked.

      The weather had been becoming more and more extreme. “Global warming” was the now concerted cry from the scientists, but their predictions didn’t ring true: the long, hot summers of drought had become long, cold summers of increasing rainfall and strange electrical disturbances.

      He looked for shelter. There was nothing immediate, only the plinths stretching away to the canal in one direction and the main road in the other. On either side were stretches of newly erected palisade fence.

      A movement caught his eye.  Red.  A fleeting glimpse of someone wearing a red coat, disappearing behind foliage denser than the willows and birches. Japanese knot weed, he thought absently, as his eyes strained to detect further movement. There was none, but he unthinkingly broke into a run across the eroding surface towards where the figure had disappeared. Not that he particularly wanted to see anyone but simply because he remembered the bus shelter on the main road, somewhere beyond where he’d seen the person.

     The rain was becoming a deluge and he was already soaked, jeans and t-shirt providing little protection. Running past the dense clump of Japanese knot weed he saw what had previously been shielded: a large cellar-type door propped open with a wooden beam. It was the entrance to what had probably been some sort of storage facility when walls and a roof had surrounded the plinth, and stone steps led down into darkness. In spite of the rain, he was intrigued, and ran closer, stopping to peer down into the darkness. Another flash of lightning was followed immediately by a crash of thunder which shook the ground.

     He didn’t like the idea of going down the steps, but the lightning had been close, and he liked the idea of being fried even less. Only a few steps down and he’d be sheltered from the downpour and lightning.

      The steps were steep and he grasped a rusting handrail to steady his descent.  Eight steps down, and he stopped, eyes straining into the gloom. A concrete-walled passage led from the bottom of the stairs that on the right were lined with conduit piping. It was bathed in a strange orange glow which echoed that of the edge of the thunder cloud. The glow seemed to ripple, moving like something alive, and he shrank from the phenomena, turning to escape the place; best take his chances with the lightning. Before he could go back however, a deafening crash of thunder pealed directly overhead. This time the earth shook with an answering rumble, mother whale calling its stranded infant, and the outside light was cut off as the supporting beam dislodged, causing the door to crash down.

      The rumbling continued and his ears rang with the cacophony.  He sat down on the step, shocked by the surrounding primal violence. Closing his eyes, he told himself to relax. There was no problem. At least he was dry down here and there was no danger from the lightning.

      But the orange glow - what the hell was that? It wasn’t coming from any form of bulb but seemed to simply emanate from the walls, causing a shimmering effect which gave the feeling of being under coloured water. It seemed to be getting brighter (although maybe his eyes were adjusting to the gloom), outlining the retreat of the passage into the distance to where it disappeared round a bend.  He didn’t know how long the factory had been derelict, but the advancement of plant growth on the plinth indicated a couple of years. In that case, it seemed unlikely that any form of lighting be left on in this basement. He wondered what had gone on in the building when it was in use, and hoped to God it was nothing to do with radioactivity.

      Nervous now, he backed up the steps, stooping towards the top then pushing upwards against the door with his shoulders. Nothing. It was jammed shut. Sweating and cursing, he tried again, but the wood seemed immovable. Probably the earth movement caused by the thunder had twisted the frame. He sat down, hunched under the door, and looked back along the passage, beginning to feel real fear. His position wasn’t good. Stuck in a cellar in a place rarely visited and his cell phone was on charge at home. The people in his house- share were both out at work and, in any case, didn’t have any idea where he was. They’d simply think he was out botanising again. Well, he was, but not in one of his usual venues. He’d come to this area because the tram route went past, skirting the main road, and the resurgence of growth, seen from the window, had looked interesting. It seemed a perfect illustration of what he’d learnt in college about the way plant communities evolve, perhaps having potential to enhance his thesis.

      Think logically.

      Maybe there was more than one entrance. Given the size of the place, that seemed likely. Another plus was that the strange glow replaced the pitch blackness you would normally expect, making it possible to see, albeit to a limited extent.  He clambered down the rest of the steps into the passage and was pleased to stand upright again. The air had a slight sharp smell which he couldn’t put his finger on.

     The red coat. He remembered the figure which had disappeared somewhere in this vicinity. Maybe he wasn’t the only one stuck in this place, unless that person had also been heading towards the bus shelter. However, it seemed here was only one way to find out, so he set out along the tunnel, moving forward tentatively in the limited light. He gradually became aware of a humming sound emanating from somewhere ahead. It rhythmically rose and fell  and he noticed that the waves of orange light undulated in sympathy.

      Considering the length of time it had been out of use, the passage was remarkably clean. The only signs of neglect were the spider webs adorning the concrete ceiling corners and draped over the piping on the walls. He grinned momentarily at the thought of his sister with her pathological fear of anything with eight legs – something much exploited by himself and his younger brother. Kids could be cruel.

      He walked about twenty yards then stopped. A door, invisible from the steps, was let into the wall on the left hand side. It was heavy, made of iron, and a turn of the handle proved it to be locked. He put his ear to it but heard nothing. There was no way he could force it without some sort of tools, so he carried on, hoping to find another. He reached the point of the tunnel where it right-angled to the left, exposing an equally long section.  A few yards along, another door became visible. This time it was slightly open, and light flooded through the gap.  Moving quietly, he pushed it and peered in. The room, neon lit,  appeared to be some sort of control centre.

      “Excuse me, but what the hell are you doing down here?” asked the blond girl. Wearing a red anorak, she was looking upwards at him from the front of sloping banks of seating fronted by individual computer screens -  an area reminiscent of a space launch control centre. At the far side of the room and facing the seats, a bank of controls filled the whole wall. Green and red coloured lights were flashing and source of the low-level hum seemed to be coming from somewhere behind.

      Relieved to find someone in that place, he explained, in an apologetic way, before asking her the same thing.

      “Environment agency”, she replied, hand reaching automatically to touch the identity card hanging from her neck, “checking complaints that this place is polluting the canal. Didn’t you notice the fish?”.

      She walked across and stood next to him in the doorway, looking down the passage towards the corner. She was a few inches shorter than his six foot and the open anorak displayed the fact that she was wearing jeans and an Environment Agency green top.

      A thought struck him.

      “How come the lights are working?” he asked, looking at the fluorescent ceiling bulbs in the lab, “and this control panel. What’s it all about?”

      “Haven’t the foggiest”, she said, vaguely. “The place used to be an M.O.D. lab – they researched stuff during the cold war. Rumour has it that they were playing with the concept of controlling time. Very H.G. Wells. I’m not sure what use that’d be in a battle situation – unless you could keep going back to the beginning and changing your approach until you won. Anyway, obviously it didn’t work, or we’d have heard about it.” She pursed her lips, looking thoughtful. “Everything here seems to be circuitry and electronics, so I can’t think any pollution is coming from it. I’ll check from the office to see what this stuff is that’s still running”.

      “And this orange glow?”, he said, knowing she had no answer.

      “I think we’d better use it to find our way back to the door. I’ve had enough of this place. Someone else can check it out”.

      “Eve”, he said, smiling and reading her identity tag, “I like your way of thinking”, and they walked along the passage in the direction of the door. The glow seemed to be undergoing some sort of change. At one point, it suddenly lessened to such a degree that they had to feel their way along. To avoid bumping into each other, she slipped her hand in his and they shuffled along in the dark until they bumped into the base of the steps.

      “Now what?” she asked.

      The answer came from above. A deafening peal of what they supposed to be thunder. The surroundings shook and the hum from the control centre, which until now had been an almost subconscious presence, rose to a high pitched wine. The ceiling shimmered, steadied, then evaporated, allowing bright sunlight to stream in. They  involuntarily crouched as a roof cave-in seemed imminent, tensed for the first impact of falling concrete. Somehow they were still holding hands and now, as the sounds died away, she squeezed his.

      “Look”, she said, breathlessly.

      Adam looked.

      The passage was gone and his first impression was that the roof had simply blown off. However, there was no debris, no plinths, no canal and they were surrounded by greenery. Tall trees edged the clearing they were standing in and grass reached their knees. Butterflies and myriad other insects flitted busily, the hum of wings replacing that of traffic. The sky was clear and blue, devoid of  aeroplane traceries  and the air smelled different – somehow cleaner.  As  they looked, the branch of a nearby tree seemed to move, coming to life with a ripple of energy which transformed itself into a giant snake. It stopped, melding back into the greenery and their attention shifted to the end of the branch where an enticing red fruit hung.

     Eve eyed it thoughtfully.

***************************

And while I'm being different seems a good time to look at one of my garden plants which fits the same category. It's called Arisaema tortuosum (whipcord cobra lily) and I can't remember where I got it from. I suppose it won't fit most people's idea of 'aesthetically pleasing' (in fact my wife sees it as a blot on the landscape) but, for me, it makes up for this by being interesting. It seems it can reach six feet high but, in my garden, only achieves about four foot. It dies back completely a few weeks after flowering only to reappear the following June, forcing its way through a tight groundcover of Adjuga.

Originating in the Himalayas, the plant is closely related to our own lords and ladies (Arum maculatum), being in the Araceae family. It needs insects for  pollination and, again like lords and ladies, attracts them with a dreadful pong - another trait which my wife finds endearing.

Arum maculatum (lords and ladies, cuckoo pint)

Apparently the moth fly is the main pollinator of lords and ladies (also called cuckoo pint). The male and female flowers are held separately on the stem below the white, sail- like, spathe and protected in a compartment by a thin wall and a ring of downward facing hairs. The poker-like projection in the spathe is called a spadix and this heats up to release a scent of urine. This attracts the moth fly, a delightful little chap who lives on dung and finds urine our equivalent of champagne. Unfortunately for him, the spadix is coated with an oily substance which causes his feet to slip and he falls down past the hairs into the hidden compartment. Because of the way the hairs are positioned, he can't get out and the technical term for this situation is 'knackered'.

 At this point the female part of the flower, situated in the lower part of the compartment, are ripe for pollination and pollen adhering to the body of the fly is transferred in his desperate attempts to escape. Eventually enough pollen is received from the many moth flies which have become trapped, and the female flower shuts up shop. When this happens, the male flower, which has been closed and inactive, opens and releases clouds of pollen so that the poor old moth flies, having just got rid of all the dusty pollen on their bodies, suddenly resemble workers in a McDougal factory. The downward facing hairs then quickly wither and the flies escape into the great blue beyond.

Cut version showing the downward facing hairs, male and female flowers

Qualification for being a moth fly is a need to be as daft as a brush because, having escaped, he flies along and is suddenly attracted by a rapturous smell of urine. Wow! Down he zooms, only to get caught in another lords and ladies flower, where the same process is repeated.

And this is how this particular plant has evolved in order to be pollinated by another. Genetic diversity is recognised as being important by humans, and we create laws against marrying too closely into the family. however, plants can't create laws, so they evolve in many different ways to ensure cross breeding and maintain hybrid vigour.

The mouse plant (Arisarum proboscideum), native to Spain and Italy, is another close relative of the above. This hides in a moist, shady spot in my garden and the flowers can be of interest to children because the flowers have drawn out ends which  look like mouse tails.

Arisarum proboscideum ( mouse plant)

The flower and 'tail'