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      We completed the first part, had a beer in the pub and ate butties surreptitiously withdrawn from paper bags on our knees under the table (the landlord was always snotty about having to buy the food from them).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















   

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.

Leaf problems with acers

Tree Felling

Sycamore 'helicopter' seeds

      A friend, Ella, asked me if I knew anyone who could cut down a Sycamore tree. It was cutting out light and the seedlings were annoying both her and the neighbours. It turned out that another friend, Monica, had a chain saw, so there was a chance that we may be able to do it ourselves. My wife offered the opinion that the thought of any friend of mine with a chain saw was only one step less frightening  than the doomsday scenario of me with one. This was a misconception based on both my sons' enthusiastic recounting of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre and an unfortunate incident when a friend (a trained arborist) nearly removed his thumb rather than a poplar tree that was annoying us. I emphasised the 'nearly' to her but it cut no ice.

      "How big is the tree?" I asked Ella.

       "I'll send a photo", she replied.

      On the basis of the photo, which depicted a fairly small tree, we said we'd do it and, together with my son, Nick (who would agree to anything if a chainsaw was involved) we arrived at Ella's house.

      "There it is", she said in a matter-of-fact voice that implied we may miss it. The tree loomed over us, blackening the sky and bringing to mind that giant redwood in America with a tunnel in the trunk that you can drive a car through.

      "Where did you take the photo from", asked Nick.

      "From the other side of the bloody estate by the looks of it", said Monica, who isn't renowned for wrapping  things up.

      "Well. What are we going to do?" asked Ella. This led to a quick consideration of the technicalities, angle of fall, potential fence damage and safety aspects involved. The unanimous verdict was that we'd have a cup of tea.

      Following the tea break, a set of ladders were produced and extended to their full height of about ten foot. This meant that, if the tree were Jack's giant, we'd have been able to reach his ankle.

      Some years before, I had been told the story about a bloke who'd asked our arborists (I worked for the city council) if they'd do a foreigner for him and cut down a large poplar tree at the end of his garden. When they gave him a price he told them to forget it and went off and got a cowboy willing to do it at much reduced cost. It so happened that the garden was next to the arborists' headquarters and, when the man came to do the job, the whole team were on dinner break in the mess room overlooking the scene of action. Crosswords and page three were immediately forgotten as they crowded to the window to watch the show.

      Normal practise in the felling of a big tree in a confined space is to do it in stages, taking the top off first, then other sections, moving downward. In this case, the cowboy, without protective clothing but armed with a vicious looking chainsaw, thought he'd do the job in one, felling it along the garden towards the house. Remarkably, he got the tree to fall dead centre down the garden - right where he wanted it. Unfortunately, What hadn't occurred to him was that it may be an idea to assess the length of the garden compared to that of the height of the tree. The result of this omission was the demolition of the house extension  to an accompanying roar of appreciation from the audience.

      It was with this story in mind that we decided the job was too big for us. We compromised; just cutting some big branches off and removing a nearby small holly tree to allow a lot more light in. This involved Monica doing the chainsaw work, wearing a protective helmet and goggles and hanging precariously from the ladder like an arboricultural Hell's Angel. We learnt that another imperative in this sort of work is that you go bright red and swear like a trooper.

      We had to fell some of the larger branches into a thicket of nettles and brambles on the other side of the fence and then cut them up so that they couldn't be seen by the owner of the land. This really meant that Nick couldn't be expected to do much here because he'd had the creative forethought to wear shorts and, as he pointed out, bare legs and nettles are not a good combination. Instead, he spent a lot of time watching me through a cloud of  flies misplaced from the sycamore. He watched not because he was impressed by my tree skills, but because he was following the strict instructions of his mother to ring her if I was so much as to look in the direction of the chainsaw. I think he was a bit disappointed with the work because there were no shouts of 'timber' accompanying the creak of  falling mammoths. He'd been humming 'I'm a lumberjack' on the way there.

      A big part of tree felling is the disposal of the resulting fallen wood and, in this, Ella played a major role, cutting up single leaf stalks with secateurs and depositing them in the wheelybin before standing back to admire the result. The bin didn't fill very quickly but she did it with the artistic panache of a flower arranger and a quick calculation brought me to the conclusion she'd easily have it finished  by early 2018.

      All this brought to mind an incident that occurred when a large Beech tree fell down in Didsbury, demolishing a house front. When the police arrived the old Irish lady who lived there was still in bed looking in wonder at the devastation around her.

      "Are you alright love?", asked the constable.

      She looked at him blankly, then "ah", she said philosophically, "two's company, 'tree's a crowd".

Acer palmatum 'Dissectum Atropurpureum' in early summer

The same tree in autumn

      Sycamore, perhaps surprisingly, is one of the Acers. Its Latin name is Acer pseudoplatanus which, as often is the case, is quite descriptive: pseudo meaning 'false' and platanus which is 'plane' - it looks a bit like a plane tree. For a long time naturalists panned it because, based on fossil pollen records, it is an alien and doesn't support much wildlife. However, it's certainly been around since the sixteenth century, so this brings to mind those comments you hear about someone being an 'incomer' to our village' who has 'only lived here fifty  years'. When does an alien stop being an alien? More recently it has become recognised as being an important host for a number of lichens and a provider of pollen for the many insects which frequent it, so attitudes have softened. It is certainly a useful tree in coastal areas, where its resistance to salt spray enables it to grow vigorously.

      However, sycamore isn't usually looked on as a good garden tree because of the density of its foliage - making it difficult for plants to survive under it - and the prolific germination from its helicopter seeds. At this point Japanese cousins step in to steal the limelight. These are have great ornamental value both in shape , size and especially in  autumn colour. This is not to say they are without their problems: in a list of most commonly asked gardening questions, they come somewhere near the top (although slugs always take the number one spot). Sycamore leaf spot can occasionally be a problem on other acers as well. Although unsightly, it doesn't harm the tree and there is little you can do about it other than clearing and burning the fallen leaves.

Sycamore leaf blotch (or tar spot), caused by the fungus Rhytisma acerinum 

      Acer palmatum and Acer japonicum (the Japanese maples) are susceptible to leaf shrivelling due to late frosts  and/or cold winds, so ideally they should be placed in a sheltered position. They don't like extreme cold either, so will benefit from a protective mulch or, if grown in a container, having  bubble-wrap or hessian protection around the pot. Sunburn is another cause and the plant should be placed in a position where the hours of direct sunlight are limited. Dead leaves should be snipped off just to the base of the leaf, leaving the stem (petiole) intact. As long as this is carried out before the end of June, new leaves will appear from the bud at the base within about three weeks. If in a container, always remember that this is an artificial environment and the plant is unable to send roots to explore for water deeper in the soil, so drought can also cause leaf loss and browning problems. With this in mind, keep an eye on the watering.

      If all this fails, grow a sycamore.

Aesculus problems and Arbutus unedo

Plastic Bags

Fruit of the strawberry tree (Arbutus unedo) - inspiration for the Christmas bauble?

      The daftest, wide-spread public habit of the moment can be seen on almost any pleasant leafy walk: some 'responsible' dog owners have gone to the trouble of taking plastic bags on their daily stroll, collecting the dog's excreta in them, then flinging them into the hedgerow or nearby trees. For a moment you think Christmas has come early and the decorations are already up, until a closer look discloses the unbelievable truth.

      I can see how it happens that lazy people, or those who shudder at the thought of physical contact with dog poo, even through the medium of plastic, will be irresponsible and leave it where it lands. At least it eventually breaks down and goes back into the soil or gets spread out via the crevices of my shoe. However, to go to the trouble of doing the lifting, then preserving it for highly visible posterity, seems a symptom of insanity. My advice to these misguided individuals is to do something creative, like throwing it at a banker.

      The thought of this leads me to the first Christmas of my married life: my mother was coming for  dinner and my wife was desperate to make the right impression by cooking a meal to be remembered. All was going well. The house was in pristine condition, having been Hoovered and dusted, there was a pervasive aroma of roasting turkey, the Christmas tree twinkled with a tasteful set of lights and the home-made decorations put the finishing touches to the aura of festive cheer. We were sitting in the living-room enjoying a pre-dinner sherry (sherry was a lot more fashionable then - it was even an essential aperitif to a restaurant meal, where they would serve schooners of it) - and we were chatting amicably when there was a loud explosion from the direction of the kitchen and the fairy fell off the Christmas tree.

      Resisting the temptation to get under the table, which was the government's advice for surviving a nuclear attack in those days (they had overlooked the fact that our table came from M.F.I.), I crept into the kitchen, to find the oven tilted to one side and the door open. The inside was liberally coated with a white, flaking material which turned out, on closer inspection, to be bits of a turkey which had had its revenge.

      And this brings me back to the subject of plastic bags - this time containing the turkey's giblets. In subsequent years I was delegated to remove this bag, partly because of its explosive potential but also on the basis that my wife has a prurient streak which questions the propriety of putting ones hand up a turkey's bottom. My feeling on the subject is that, if the turkey has reached the stage of having its guts in a plastic bag, it's gone past worrying about any other alien invasion.

      Anyway, we put the fairy back and went on to enjoy a Christmas dinner of sprouts, stuffing, apple sauce, carrots, roast potatoes and corned beef. My wife had fulfilled her ambition to cook a meal to be remembered.

Conker tree flower looking like candles from a distance

      Talking about Christmas trees brings to mind the way we used to have candles on ours when I was a child, stuck in little holders that clamped onto the branches. Not that they were often lit, my mum was too aware of them causing events which made exploding turkeys pale into insignificance. However the conker tree could well have been the inspiration for this tradition, as its flowers, from a distance, are candle-like in appearance. Equally, the strawberry tree or even plane trees, with their globular fruits, could have suggested the idea of hanging decorative balls in the foliage.

      The scientific name for the conker tree is Aesculus hippocastanum. 'Hippo' is Latin for 'horse' and is used because the Turks used to use the seeds as medicine for horses. A beautiful tree, it is currently plagued by a number of problems, not least of which is the horse chestnut leaf mining moth (Cameraria ohridella). The caterpillar does what it says on the label: it mines between the upper and lower surfaces of the leaf, causing disfiguring brown spots. Similar symptoms are caused by Guignardia leaf blotch, a fungal disease. It's possible to tell the difference between the two by holding the leaf up to the light, when the moth caterpillar can be seen inside as circular brown patches. Unfortunately there isn't an easy cure for either problem, though the removal and burning of the fallen leaves gives a good chance of the Guignardia not overwintering and returning the following year.

Horse chestnut leaf miner

      As if these problems aren't enough, horse chestnut bleeding canker has become prevalent over recent years. Although the leaf miner and leaf blotch are not killers, extreme cases of the canker can lead to death. It shows itself as the bleeding of a brown substance on the trunk, which dries to a black deposit. The disease is not always fatal by any means, so if you have an infected tree simply leave it to its own devices and it may well return to normality.

      So, what with Dutch Elm Disease, oak dieback disease, ash dieback and various other pathogens, the future of our woodlands seems pretty shaky.

      If you're looking for someone to cheer you up, I'm your man.

      On the lighter side, the strawberry tree (Arbutus unedo) is an evergreen which can ultimately reach about twenty five feet high. The fruits look a bit like strawberries and are edible only to anyone with masochistic tendencies, because they taste horrible. The species name unedo actually means 'I eat one - only', which should tell you something. The young tree tends to be densely clothed with leaves and flowers are produced late in the summer. We had one visible from my office in Wythenshawe Park and I was shocked late one September when I looked out to see that all the tiny, bell like flowers were strangely disfigured. On looking at it closely it became obvious that wasn't actually a problem, they were simply covered with more red admiral butterflies than I've seen in the rest of my life. I came to realise that this is a fairly common phenomena: in late summer few plants are flowering and the ones that do are a magnet to all the insects still on the wing. Look at ivy flowers, for example, another late flowerer, they become audible before you see them, usually alive with the buzzing of bees and other insects.

Red admiral butterflies on Buddleia

      As the strawberry tree ages, the foliage becomes thinner. This could be a disadvantage except for the fact that the bark which is slowly uncovered has a decorative value in its own right. For anyone with a largish garden, Arbutus, with its slowly evolving attraction, would be a good choice.

Strawberry tree bark at Bodnant Gardens

   

Davidia involucrata - the ghost tree

Spooky Goings On

 Where the hell did it go?
Picture shot on Farne Islands during holiday

The lack of a blog last week is down to the fact that we went on holiday to enjoy a bit of luxury. The sleepy little seaside village of Alnmouth in Northumberland was the ideal setting for this and we knew we'd made the right choice. Until we experienced the 'bargain price' hotel room, that was. I suppose the large spider in the en suite bath was the first inkling of all not being well. Spiders are sometimes seen as being lucky, but not when they're the size of a tarantula, and this one looked as if it hadn't eaten. We hurriedly left the spider to its deliberations and decided to wind down by watching something on telly.

The television was tiny and  mounted on the wall, near the ceiling. When I tried to turn it on nothing happened, so my wife went down and complained to the girl on reception. As a result, the 'handyman' turned up carrying a large plasma TV. This was more like. However, when I explained how the one in situ didn't work, he immediately pointed out that it was because I hadn't switched the box on. This took some time, because he spoke in a Geordie accent which was completely unintelligible to me. There are only so many times you can say "pardon?" without eventually giving in with a hopeful "yes". However, in this case the word 'box' is difficult to mangle and that was the one I clung to.

"What box?", I asked.

He looked at me as if I was daft.

"This one", he said, moving a sign about breakfast times on the dressing table below the telly, to reveal a plastic box adorned with a red light. He then launched into another unintelligible and obviously patronising Geordie explanation of 'boxes'. I swear that if I'd made out the word 'pet', I'd have got really mad and set my wife on him. Anyway he  then flicked the remote a few times before the light eventually turned green. At the same time Andy Murray appeared on the set, knocking hell out of a tennis ball. The handyman gave me a sympathetic smile, hoisted the plasma TV back under his arm and left me to watch the tennis. By this time my wife was downstairs in the bar enjoying a free glass of wine (for the trouble she'd been put to)  and watching Andy on a screen covering half a wall.

This was the smallest screen I've ever seen and the only way of viewing (there were no chairs in the room) was to lie on the bed, propped up by pillows. This was nice and comfortable, but had the disadvantage of being at such a distance from the screen that it was hard to make out faces. I overcame this difficulty by using my binoculars but, by this time, Andy had won. Later in the evening we started  to watch a film but gave up because it was awkward with only one pair of binoculars.

Everything in the place worked, but only when you got the knack: the lavatory flush handle did a complete circle and threatened to come out unless you pressed it in while jerking it quickly and the sash window opened but refused to close unless you threw all your weight on it, then it came down with a crash that caused other residents to fall out of bed. The shower was a contraption I remember using back in the '50's - a rubber tube with a nozzle on one end and dividing into two at the other, each ending in sockets you attached to the bath taps. This worked alright for a while but, because the tube wasn't quite long enough, you would inevitably pull it slightly, causing one of the sockets to come off and scalding water to hit your feet while the spray went freezing cold. As an interesting diversion from this, it would occasionally do it the other way round.

"Hey - love the lipstick"
Puffins on The Farne Islands

When we went down for breakfast the following day, it was to be served by a female version of Basil Faulty. When everyone complained that the milk was sour, her reaction was to wordlessly retire to the kitchen then return with the news that the sell-by date on the carton was in a week's time. There was no apology, simply the implicit threat that the milkman would die and some Manuel - type waiter would get his head slapped. We never saw her smile but, working in that place, maybe she could be excused.

On the positive side, after putting my glasses on, I determined that the 'tarantula' was actually a large crack in the bath enamel, probably caused by someones head as they slipped while trying to use the shower.

The hotel is a seventeenth century grade 2 listed building and apparently has been labelled as 'the most haunted hotel in Great Britain' by the Poltergeist Society. We never experienced anything spooky apart from a neon light which flickered each time we went past (and each time we didn't). However, the spooky claim was enough to justify my gardening topic, which is the ghost tree.

Ghost tree at Harewood House, Yorkshire

The Latin name for the ghost tree is Davidia involucrata. It was given the genus name because the French missionary and naturalist Armand David sent reports of it growing in Sichuan, China in 1869; involucrata refers to the white involucre of bracts which surround the flower. The common names ghost tree, dove tree and handkerchief tree all refer to the appearance of the bracts.

The plant hunter Ernest Wilson was commissioned by Veitch, a British nursery man, to find seeds and send them back. Because the original tree had gone, this led to a nightmare eight month journey via Hanoi, Shanghai and the Yangtse gorges before he reached the village where a specimen had last been sighted. Unfortunately, it was to find a newly cut stump next to the house where the timber had just been used for roof beams. In view of the facts that his boat had been wrecked in rapids, his Chinese guide was a heroin addict and the Boxer rebellion was going on all around, he could have been forgiven for giving up and taking to stamp collecting. However, apart from reportedly vowing to never buy another Chinese take-away, Wilson continued his search and, in 1900, found a grove of the trees.

He triumphantly sent 37 seeds back and one of these, thought to be the first one in Europe, germinated. However, in true British Captain Scott style, it was then determined that a French nursery had grown one five years earlier. Wilson's mission had became yet another heroic failure.

It may seem a good idea to plant a Davidia in the garden but you must bear in mind the fact that it can take up to 20 years to come into flowering. This makes it a poor bet if you're getting on a bit and not starting any serials.

Ghosts

Davidia seed - about size of a walnut

Cherry Tree problem

Sasha, a visitor who has a really good craft blog, has left a question: we have a cherry tree at the bottom of our patio. We didn't plant it, it grew from a seedling to a twenty foot tree in just  six years!! Anyhow, in May this year all the lower leaves shrivelled up and dropped off!! Do you think it could be diseased?

Your cherry tree could be suffering from a couple of things, Sasha: the worst is a fungal disease called wilt, and there's nothing you can do about it except wait and see if it spreads and kills the whole tree. However, wilt usually occurs later in the year and another possibility is that the roots have been damaged. Cherry roots tend to be near the surface and often get caught by mower blades, or  spades if you dig in the locality.

Another thing that struck me is that you said 'it is at the bottom of the patio' - does it have enough room for the roots to spread? If it is very confined, there is a chance that this is causing problems. If you think the roots are suffering, try a little t.l.c. : a two inch dressing of well-rotted compost in a radius of about five feet all round the tree, supplemented with a sprinkling of blood, fish and bone in spring.

Finally, very dry conditions (not likely last summer), or overly wet soil can be a problem. It's not in a boggy area is it?

I hope this helps. Please feel free to ask further about this or any other gardening questions.

Cambium - The Living Part of a Tree or Shrub

Diagnosing Death

Because a plant looks dead doesn't necessarily mean that it is. Woody plants - trees and shrubs - can often display all the symptoms but not actually be in the same realm as the Monty Python parrot: the living, growing, part of a tree trunk is immediately under the bark and is called the cambium. It is green, which is a diagnostic feature to look for if in any doubt. Late spring and early summer are the times when most healthy plants are mistakenly consigned to the compost heap. Because it is late coming into leaf it is easy to think that the winter has put paid to it and the only way is out. I don't fall for this one any more. Simply by scraping a thumbnail of bark back will show whether the cambium is still living and green, or brown and dead. If it is green, then a bit more patience is called for, giving it time to belatedly get out of bed.

I was surprised to learn that hamster death symptoms are similarly not straightforward. My son was in a house- share when one of the sharers - a girl - came banging on his door in floods of tears. It seemed her hamster had died and he, known to be compassionate where young women are concerned, was designated as undertaker. He duly wrapped the deceased carefully in kitchen foil, descended to the yard, and consigned it to the wheely-bin. While this sad ceremony was taking place, the bereaved flatmate was tearfully informing her boyfriend of the death over the phone. It turned out that the boyfriend was a bit of a wildlife expert: "it isn't necessarily dead," he informed her, "they hibernate. Warm him up a bit and he'll probably wake up." This learned information was immediately imparted to him when he returned from the interment and he was promptly dispatched back to the yard to perform an exhumation. The animal was then placed gently under the grill on a very low setting. Unfortunately, Jesus he was not, and he remained in the same state as the aforesaid parrot.

Hollow oak at Lingfield, Surrey

Anyway, cambium consists of the tree's arteries: water, nutrients and sugars are pumped up and down through them and each year they die and new ones are formed under the bark as replacements. This means that the centre of the trunk is dead material, it also explains how the rings seen in a cut trunk have been made: at the beginning of the growing season wide arteries are formed to accommodate the rush of water, then as the summer progresses, growing drier (theoretically), smaller ones replace them, creating the different textures which appear as rings. Counting them will give the age of the plant. The appearance of the rings can also give an idea of the amount of rainfall in a particular year: one tree, a bristlecone pine living in The White Mountains of California, displayed 1,100 microscopic rings in 5 inches, mirroring the dryness of the area where it lived.

Hollow, live tree in Dunham Park

Knowing about the cambium is useful not only in determining whether a plant is alive. French walnut growers would, after a bad harvest, beat the tree with willow wands. This would cause neighbours to think about calling for the men in white coats but, amazingly, the following year's crop would be abundant. The reason for this was that beating damaged parts of the cambium, limiting the flow of growth-promoting sugars to the roots. This meant that sugar, continually produced in the leaves, had now to be re-routed somewhere and the only option was  to the upper parts of the tree. Here it was used up in promoting more flowers and fruit. We now have a more sophisticated way of doing this by bark ringing. This is the removal of a strip of bark, about an inch wide, from perhaps three quarters of the trunk's diameter. Beware though, if you ever try this, completely circling the tree will lead to it being in the same state as the hamster.