Deep Bed System - Why Dig?

Why Dig?

Artificial digger

      I used to think that bastard trenching was about burying someone you didn't like. College rectified this impression by pointing out that the term refers to a system of digging whereby the soil is turned over to a depth of two spade blades. Well-rotted organic material is incorporated into the bottom layer and the overall effect is that of aerating and enriching the soil as the series of trenches march across the plot, the soil from the next one filling its predecessor.

      All this seems very logical until someone asks the seemingly daft question 'but why dig at all?' Think about it: untold billions of acres of land have never been touched by a spade but are populated by a profusely growing collection of trees, shrubs, herbaceous plants and annuals. So why do we spend so much time breaking our backs under the impression that our way produces better results than nature? The answer to this conundrum lies in the simple fact that we walk on the soil, compacting the crumb structure and excluding air. Plants respire - a process which involves roots converting sugars into growth energy and one of the raw materials necessary for this to take place is the oxygen our size nines have squeezed out.

Natural digger

      One way round this problem is to adopt the deep bed system of growing: by creating a bed about four feet wide we present ourselves with an area we can reach across to cultivate plants without walking on it. An annual top dressing of a couple of inches of well-rotted organic material will then be incorporated into the soil by worms, mining bees and various other organisms. Their digging activities allow air to the lower levels, at the same time as incorporating a natural drainage system to cope with excess water. Creating a good crumb structure is what it is all about. Healthy soil crumbs will have spaces between, allowing water to drain and giving access to air. The crumbs themselves will contain a balance of organic material which acts as a sponge to retain enough water and nutrients for plants to thrive and the hard, impervious, mineral particles also do the drainage bit.

      By using a deep bed system we are working with nature, enabling natural soil inhabitants, of which there are millions per cubic foot, to beaver away at doing what they do best - breaking down organic material. Picture the scene: a leaf falls from the tree and a nearby worm, leaning on his mini Spear & Jackson stainless steel spade, wipes the sweat off his brow, grabs the stalk and starts dragging it into the cave he's just excavated. Easy, isn't it. Out with the deckchair.

Mining bee excavation between drive bricks

Mining bee

For more about worms go to composting - worms.
   

Herbs

More to a herb than meets the eye.

Willow Catkins

We've got some friends in Knutsford and, when we go round to see them, they always seem to have a bowl of some new recipe of crisps for us to help ourselves from. On one memorable occasion, I tried a good handful and found the taste disgusting.

"I'd complain to Booths about these, if I were you", I said to our hostess as she came into the room,  "they taste like scented cardboard"

"That's probably because", she replied with admirable constraint, "you're eating my pot- pourri".

Pot-pourris

And that's the thing about herbs. They aren't just the pretty selection of plants which fit happily in the bed under the window - according to the dictionary definition, they are 'plants which can be used for scent, insecticides, medicine and culinary purposes'.

If you're going for the 'scent' bit, it's easy to make a pot-pourri using this recipe I spotted in a Dr.D.G.Hessayon book: add 1oz dried orris root, 1/2 teaspoon allspice, 1/2 teaspoon cinnamon, and a few drops of flower oil (rose or violet) to a quart of dried flower petals. Shake them together in a plastic bag and leave the mixture sealed for about three weeks before putting it in a dish or pomander. Apparently only rose, lavender and carnations retain their scent after drying, so forget some of the obvious things like cornflower and marigolds unless you want to add some different colours.

Even some trees come under that general definition: in days of yore, a person with a head-ache would chew a willow or poplar bud to ease the pain. Relatively modern science  laughed at this as an old wives tale but then looked suitably embarrassed when it was discovered that the buds and bark of these trees contains salicin which, in the human digestive system, becomes salicylic acid - a major component of aspirin.

Hop (Humulus lupulus)

Similarly, herb pillows, much recommended in the old days as remedies for all sorts of things, were suddenly discovered to often have well-founded scientific reasons for their efficacy: King George 3rd had difficulty sleeping to such a degree that he was ready to hand over the crown to the Prince Regent. Fortunately, one of his mates suggested he try a hop pillow. The pillow is simply a muslin bag containing the dried herb which is placed in your own pillow, allowing  the heat from your head to release the volatile oils. Anyway, Georgie boy suddenly found he was sleeping properly and, after a few successful nights, decided to continue with his duties as king and dispensed the poor old Prince Regent back to the world of opening supermarkets or whatever it is they do. The Latin name for hop is Humulus lupulus and lupulin is a known sedative.

Verbena

Verbena, used in a herb pillow, is popularly recognised as an aphrodisiac. A potential problem with this is that, should any hardened stalks be left in the pillow, there is a danger of one penetrating the eardrum at a moment of erotic bliss. This, I feel, is the source of the belief that too much of certain things make you go deaf.
      For more on the unusual uses of herbs go to this.

Spring Interest

Mud, Glorious Mud.

Early flowering, sweetly scented evergreen, Daphne odora

      It's probable that, if you look around, the British are no dafter than other nations and my youngest son watches some stuff on TV which makes the Japanese fairly strong contenders for masochistic world champs. We, however, are less elaborate in our tortures and don't need the sophisticated endurance courses they dream up. Take the Maldon Mud Race, for example. All that needs is a river and a crowd of nutters: the Mud Race started way back in 1973 and initially was a race across the river at low tide to reach a barrel of beer, consume a pint, then return. I suppose there was some logic in the free pint bit, but eventually there were so many people doing it that a barrel was not enough and the impracticality of building a brewery on the site ruled out that aspect. Now they just run through mud.

      The runners wait for low tide when the remaining depth of water is only two or three feet, then they swarm down the muddy banks, a bewildering cross-section of people ranging from the competitive types in running gear to the usual self-acknowledged no-hopers dressed as nuns, convicts, Superman, Father Christmas, the hero of the 'Where's Wally?' books, and all the other outfits usually reserved for marathons. If you Google it, you'll even see one bloke doing it completely naked, his dignity preserved by a thick layer of mud. Actually the layer may not be that thick - the cold water having frozen his assets.

      And 'running' isn't really the right term for what goes on here. Although the first few yards may qualify, the high stepping ballet which develops is more reminiscent of someone going barefoot through upturned drawing pins. Then there's the wildebeest stage, where they bounce their way through the water like a David Attenburough herd trying to avoid crocodiles, followed by the snake slither up the other side where their colouring uniformly becomes that of Al Jolson in 'The Jazz Singer'. I often wonder what happens to the wildlife in the river as the herd comes trampling through. Presumably a lot of cod become flounders or other species of flatfish.

      Showers are rigged up for when the survivors emerge and the next stage is to make their way to the pub, where the lack of a pint on the other bank is made up for with interest. All that then remains is to head for the Glastonbury Music Festival to do the training for the next run.

      See what I mean about the British and nutters?

Euphorbia characias wulfenii

      And as the mud of our glorious winter recedes, the denizens of the garden begin to reassert themselves: the frogs are croaking their sexy chorus, Delphiniums are pushing their heads out, ready to renew battle with slugs (protect them with slug barriers at this stage and subsequent older growth seems to be off the menu - leave them to their own devices though and all that will be left is smiling, fat, slugs ); rhubarb is shining bright green and red, unfazed but maybe indignant after having had the fence fallen on it in the hurricane; nasturtiums clamber happily up the south-facing wall trellis, having deferred to the mild winter by simply going a darker green and slowing down a bit, when normally they disappear altogether; hardy fuchsias, which usually stay in bed a lot later, are donning foliage, promising a longer season than usual and the ubiquitous wood spurge (Euphorbia amygdaloides robbiae) is rather frighteningly appearing everywhere, subtending Daphne odora blooms, numerous daffodils and other early flowering bulbs.

Resilient nasturtiums (Tropaeolum)

      A larger, more imposing Euphorbia is growing by the front gate and has been in full flower for a few weeks now: E. characias 'Wulfenii' displays some of the spreading habits of E.robbiae but seems to do it more by effective seed dispersal than runners. It has appeared next to the wall in the street and although rather pleasingly breaking up the hard outline of the wall has more literally started doing the same thing to the pavement and it has had to go. Originating in Portugal and western Mediterranean area, it is a statuesque evergreen shrub intensely disliked by some (wife) and loved by others (me) and the foliage offers pleasing interest even when the flowers give up the ghost. Rather surprisingly closely related to poinsettia (Euphorbia pulcherrima), it bleeds the white sap (called 'latex') common to the spurges and, as well as being poisonous, this can cause inflammation and blisters, so is best treated with respect. I once accidentally tested the poisonous aspect, to a limited degree, by getting some sun spurge (Euphorbia helioscopia) mixed up with chickweed (Stellaria media) which I was using in a salad. It was extremely uncomfortable, causing my tongue to swell up. On the positive side, my wife said, at least it shut me up.

Rhubarb which first appeared in mid February

Winter Wildlife Protection

Adventures With 007

Wildlife Hotel

      I still have an inflatable boat stored in the roof of the garage. It is a four manner (or womanner or man an womanner - best to be politically correct). It's got an engine and has seen a few interesting adventures:

      My wife and I ran a youth club in our younger days and on one occasion took a group of them to Norfolk for a boating holiday on a houseboat. I wanted to take the inflatable as it was useful for exploring some of the smaller streams and I'd fixed it to a roof-rack borrowed from a mate at work. Anyway, we were heading along Chester Road towards the M6 when there was a funny sort of rending noise and we became aware that something was going on in the road behind.

      "Good God - what's that?" my wife shouted as someone behind beeped urgently on their horn and I slowed down, allowing an extremely low vehicle to pass us in a shower of sparks. There was something about it that looked familiar and it only took a moment to realise it was my boat. This must have been the first time in history that an inflatable boat sledged along the A556 at 60mph on a roof rack. By the time it stopped, the roof rack no longer justified that description but, amazingly, the boat was still intact, so I stuffed it in the back seat on top of three teenagers. The roof rack was consigned to the hedgerow and we continued to Norfolk. I think the teenagers complained, but they were very muffled.

      On another occasion we'd taken it to the Scottish Isle of Arran and I was going out fishing on Lamlash Bay. My wife and I had had a row about something, I can't remember what, and I was furious. She'd dropped me and the boat on the shore and had driven the van off in a huff. I inflated it, fixed the engine and pushed it out into the sea before jumping on with the intention of roaring impressively out into the bay.

      I was in my James Bond era. James had done something to do with boats in one of his early films. I can't remember which one it was but know it was one of the first two hundred because James was still Sean Connery. Anyway, I stood at the stern with John Barry's theme tune occupying my mind,and gave the starter cord a vicious tug. Nothing happened. I tried again and still nothing. Not the slightest splutter. I looked around and realised I was drifting fairly quickly away from my sandy launch site towards some fairly vicious looking rocks and didn't fancy the chances of the boats rubberised hull should it make contact. The theme tune had died away. I tried again with that hint of desperation which doesn't usually disturb James's calm surface. By this time a knot of small boys had assembled to watch and were standing impassively, no doubt hoping for a sinking. Resisting the temptation to tell them to sod off, I tried again. I was sweating profusely and suspect the mist over the sea emanated directly from me.

      One of the boys shouted something and I was about to let them have a mouthful when something about his attitude made me stop.

"What?", I called.

"Turn the fuel on", came sage advice of a ten year old, and that was how I came to be roaring off into the waters of the bay, trying unsuccessfuly to remember a time when that had happened to James.

      This unimpressive start set the scene for the rest of my fishing trip: I don't know whether the boat had made contact with the rocks without me realising but, whatever the cause, it was leaking. I was determined to get my money's worth of fishing and ended up holding the rod with one hand while bailing out with the other. I actually caught a couple of mackerel and whiting but there was so much water in the bottom of the boat that I had to catch them again when I got back to shore; I'd bought an expensive anchor which I couldn't really afford and it got stuck on the bottom. I suppose that's the function of an anchor, but not to the point where, when you decide to pull it in, the boat goes down rather than the anchor comes up. The problem was such that I had to eventually cut the rope and consign the anchor permanently to the deep; when I finally got the boat folded up and ready for the return to our hired cottage, there was no sign of my wife. When she finally got there to pick me up, it was in a van which was changed in appearance - she'd driven it into a ditch and had been towed out by a friendly farmer.This, you might think, put the cap on an unsuccessful day. You'd be wrong. I was so mad about the damage to the van that I loaded the boat and forgot the engine. I only realised it wasn't with us a couple of days later and, of course, when I went to look for it, it wasn't leaning on the harbour wall where I'd left it.

      Arran is (or was - we haven't been there for some time) a pretty quiet place and there was only one policeman and about five police stations. We had to go right round the island until we found the one where he was at (back at the first place we'd tried by the time we caught up), to report the loss of the engine. He then directed us to the marine supplier on the sea front.

      "It'll have been given in to George", he said, and that was the one positive aspect to this episode because, on seeing us, George said "ah, ye'll have come for the engine", disappointingly omitting a "hoots, mon".

Wildlife winter shelter

      And, echoing this disastrous trip, my garden presents a disaster in its own right. This time though, it is intentional. I'm not one of these gardeners obsessed with neatness, and I allow dead growth of the previous summer to last into the following spring before the secateurs are put to work. The thinking behind this lies in the shelter that rotting foliage offers to numerous forms of wildlife. Not only do insects find some cover but there is a knock-on effect when there is a daily forage by the flock of tits and other small birds which see my herbaceous border as their larder, gluttoning on seeds and overwintering insects when many people's gardens are barren wastelands. This, to me, is what the garden is really about - not just a place for my choice of plants and my need for control, but a way to bring a suggestion of our dwindling countryside closer to home.

      Encouraging wildlife isn't just about buying a hedgehog home from the garden centre which comes close to needing a mortgage and lacks only a television aerial, it is about recreating countryside. Very few of these man-made hostelries actually attract the intended targets, it is the pile of bricks or old logs which usually induces residents to move in.

Hydrangea enriched with frost

      The recommended pruning technique for Hydrangea macrophylla is to leave the dead flowers on over winter and remove them to the nearest healthy buds in spring. It's claimed the dead growth protects the buds from severe frosts but whether or not this is true there is certainly protection for insects like ladybirds, so it fits in well with the philosophy of the wild winter border. Having said that, the slowly dying flowers metamorphose from colourful to brown in a pleasing way which prolongs its period of attraction and further justifies being an untidy gardener.

Barriers in the garden

Reaping the Whirlwind

Parthenocissus enriching wall in Dunham Park, Cheshire

      And so ends a period of non-stop rain and hurricanes. I now know what 'defenceless' means. It means I no longer have de fence. This is thanks to what the far right bury-your-head-in-the-sand philosophers describe as 'perfectly normal cyclical weather patterns, so you can carry on raping the planet, as long as you're making money and buying more material things'. To my mind, the fact that every new weather event seems to be 'the most extreme since records began' curtails this line of thinking with a question mark. But hey, who am I to question these clever people? It's just that a bit of my fence is now in the pond and the rest of it has become excellent firewood.

      It's quite interesting to think about how the fish see this event. Think about it - one minute you're looking up at an admittedly dull sky, the next - it's as black as hell and you're bumping into each other, wondering how you're going to find the next worm. This must be similar to the situation faced by cavemen when an eclipse occurred, although they'd have the additional hazard of being trampled by disorientated dinosaurs trying to find their way home. Anyway, in the case of the fish, God (me) turned up and took the fence away to join the rest of the firewood. In the same way He (not me that time) moved the moon from in front of the sun so that the cavemen could look up wondrously before going away and inventing religion.

      Religion was wonderful, because it provided the answer to everything: if there was a tragedy, for example, God was angry about the way we'd been going about something or other, and was therefore making us pay (for more information, apply to Ukip). And this leads you to think about what southerners had done that was wrong enough to bring the floods down on them. Apart from supporting Chelsea and seeing the north (anywhere beyond Watford Gap) as a wasteland occupied by savages, that is. Maybe there are a lot of bankers living down there?

      Hearing about the floods in the south of England, where the rivers burst their banks and caused toilets to back up reminds me of childhood trips to Blackpool with my mum on a coach ('sharrers' we called them, which was short for 'charabanc'- something I didn't know at the time because we weren't posh).  Swimming in the sea not far from a damn big sewage pipe inevitably led to the odd occasion when you'd reach out to cling on a floating log before realising it wasn't a log. It was then that you concluded there must be some very big people in Blackpool. This was before the days of the M6 motorway and the journey there would take getting on for half a day. Harold McMillan (remember Harry?) opened it in 1958, to huge excitement as the curtains drew back to reveal the brave new era of sweating it out in 10 mile jams while the kids murdered each other in the back seat. We all thought this was great but, as usual, the Southerners had to go one better by creating the biggest carpark in the world and calling it The M25. Maybe that's why they've got floods. It reminds me of the time Crocodile Dundee flourishes a massive hunting knife under a mugger's nose and says 'now this is a knife, son'. That's what southerners say about traffic jams on the M25.

      Coming back to fences, it's worth looking at how wind works: a solid barrier offers a lot more resistance than does one which allows it to filter through (the Beagle would never have reached the Galapagos and we may still have been waiting for the theory of evolution if the sails had been full of holes). This is why professional nurseries use fencing materials which effectively diffuse the wind. If a solid barrier strong enough to withstand powerful gusts is used, the wind simply whips over the top and creates damaging turbulence on the other side. Brick walls have this disadvantage but balance it by absorbing heat from the sun and creating a warm microclimate by then releasing it slowly. Some of the old walled gardens had fireplaces built into thewalls and added to the natural heat of the sun by using a system of warming chimneys meandering through the structure. An example of this can be seen at Tatton Park, in Cheshire.

      A hedge is often resorted to, as it has the advantage of allowing wind to permeate through, while still offering protection to plants on the other side. Even hedges have their down side though, because their roots can often out-compete plants growing at their base. This can be dealt with by regularly adding well rotted compost to the area at the same time as liberally sprinkling blood, fish and bone. However it is an ongoing task and you have to remain aware of the problem. For a more in-depth look at hedges, go to this link.

Boring fence showing hard outlines

      A fence isn't usually a strongly aesthetic feature in the garden but it is often necessary and its harsh outlines can be disguised in various ways. The typical waney lap has a relatively short lifespan (manufacturers suggest ten years if dipped in preservative and fifteen if pressure treated), so to have valuable plants firmly established on the wood is to lose or at least damage them when this support falls apart.

Fence with outlines softened by training Clematis tangutica on plastic netting

      By hanging netting or trellis and training climbers onto this, the plant can be carefully lowered while fence panels are being replaced. In any case, plants which climb by twining stems, tendrils or modified leaf stems (honeysuckle (Lonicera), Wisteria, Clematis, nasturtium (Tropaeolum), passion flower (Passiflora) and various others) would be unable to find purchase on the flat surface of a fence. Other climbers, like ivy (Hedera spp)or Virginia creeper (Parthenocissus quinquefolia), are able to cling onto hard surfaces and would be difficult to disengage from a fence which needs replacing. A close inspection of Virginia creeper discloses little suckers on the ends of tendrils, which enable it to stick. Maybe that's where Spiderman got the idea.

Transpiration and water conservation by plants

Dying to go

A large oak tree can breathe out 150 gallons of water in a day

      Maybe it's only me, but I find it easy to build a seemingly minor situation into a major catastrophe in my own mind:

      We went to a play called 'Pride' the other night. Usually our theatre trips are confined to the cheaper seats entailing the use of binoculars and, on occasion, vertigo tablets. There are numerous actors whose faces are unknown to me. Show me the top of their heads though, and I know them like a family member. In the Royal Shakespeare Theatre, Stratford, I needed Superman x-ray vision to see round a roof support. However, for 'Pride', my wife had got us possibly the best seats in the house - second row from the front and slap bang in the middle.

      The play was a well-acted study of the unbearable stress a judgemental society places on someone who happens to be gay - people marrying members of the opposite sex to prove to themselves and others that they are 'normal' and in the process messing up both their own and their partner's lives. An insecure, angst- ridden gay relationship inevitably ensues and the play is making a powerful point.

      Unfortunately, within ten minutes of the start, I needed to go for a pee. The fact that I was in the middle of the row however meant that whichever way I went I'd be disturbing about twelve people in full view of the rest of the audience. So I gritted my teeth and determined to stick it out until the interval, using the usual stratagems of shaking my legs and breathing deeply. When I say 'usual stratagems', they may not be yours but are most certainly mine, although I don't know whether a scientific basis has been established. Certainly it is widely recognised that not thinking about liquid helps, and the fact that virtually every scene involved someone pouring drinks was tantamount to tap-dancing on my bladder.

      Anyway, the gay relationship on stage was going through the doldrums and one bloke was threatening to leave. I was pinning my hopes on the likelihood that him leaving the stage would coincide with the interval and I would be able to find relief. A couple of times he walked to the door and was about to go, then he'd come back to continue arguing and I got to the stage where my mind was screaming for the bugger to sod off. Then a horrible thought struck me: very occasionally there isn't a break - the play runs straight through to the end. Christ! my bladder would burst. By weighing up the alternatives of the audience being slightly disturbed against that of them getting their feet wet, I came to a momentous decision, got up and excused myself  to each and every person as I tripped over their hand bags and trod on their feet.

      Eventually I reached the end of the row, aware that a highly dramatic point had been reached on stage, with long silences only broken by this manic prancing figure bobbing along in front, crashing through people's personal accoutrements. Half expecting some comment from the stage along the lines of  'was it something I said?' I reached the exit door. Well- lit by the overhead sign, it was covered with a curtain which I wrestled with, trying to pull it in the wrong direction while, ridiculously, feeling that that everyone in the place was watching me: I'd got myself my own little stage and should give a bow before finally exiting. Old time comics; Charlie Chaplin or Laurel and Hardy, would get a half-hour sketch out of this performance.Then I conquered the curtain and was free, rushing up the stairs to the gents and knowing that I hadn't got the nerve to do this process in reverse - I'd wait until the break before I went back in and, if there wasn't one, I'd just lurk somewhere. It crossed my mind that, in case (God forbid!) this scenario was to repeat itself some time in the future, I'd carry a false moustache, and maybe a wig, in order to escape recognition on leaving the gents.

      I was standing at the urinal, enjoying well earned moments of bliss, when the door burst open and a number of blokes rushed in. At first I thought they'd come to get me but quickly realised that it was the break. I'd left about thirty seconds too soon. That man had left the stage at last.

      And, while plants don't actually cross their legs at the theatre, they still lose a hell of a lot of water (around 90% of intake) through their leaves in a process called transpiration. A large oak can transpire 150 gallons of water a day, which is why pools in woodland area are there all winter but, as soon as the trees sprout leaves, many completely dry up. This is the reason  that we put a plastic bag over cuttings: creating a densely humid atmosphere around the leaf slows down transpiration because water molecules find it difficult to bludgeon their way out. In this way water stays in the cutting until such time as it grows roots capable of replacing water loss.

Cactus spines do more than just deter predators

      At one time, houseplants were much happier in the environment of the living room. That was because we all had coal fires and the burning coal needed oxygen to keep it going, so it sucked fresh air in wherever it could: around window frames, under the door and so on. The thing was, that air contained moisture, something lacking in today's radiator- warmed rooms with their inherent dryness. Not many plants thrive in completely dry air, so we can rectify this by standing them on saucers of grit which is kept damp. The grit provides a large surface area for water to evaporate from, rising to provide a moist microclimate around the leaves and slowing transpiration. Take care not to have the plants standing in water though, as this can lead to lack of oxygen in the compost.

      Plants in very dry situations adapt to slow down water loss in a number of different ways:

Heather moors - Ericas  have evolved their own 'plastic bag' for retaining water

      Heath (Erica) has leaves which curl in on themselves so that they look like a horse-shoe in cross-section. The pores (stomata) are on the underside of the leaf, inside the horse-shoe and are surrounded by hairs. The effect of this is to create a moist microclimate which works in the same way as the plastic bag over our cuttings, slowing water loss; some plants, like Brachyglottis greyii, cover the surface of the leaf with silver hairs which not only slow drying wind movement but reflect the sunlight and reduce water loss  due to overheating. A surprising number of common plants use this technique but it often needs close examination for the hairs to become apparent; cacti, renowned for coping with very dry conditions, have spines performing the treble tasks of deterring browsers, trapping moist air near the surface and acting as a point for mist to condense and run down to the roots. Many cacti are ribbed and the ribs disappear when the plant expands with stored water, only to reappear as it is used up; silvery leaved plants, like lavender, reflect the sun's rays in the same way as those with hairs and this characteristic is something to look out for when choosing plants for a dry spot.

      So it can be seen, just from the few examples I've shown, that plants are far better than me at retaining water.

Acer pseudoplatanus (sycamore) & tar spot

Fear of Flying

Bert's Quadrocopter

There's still a child in all of us, regardless of age but some of us have the fact more prominently displayed than others. Take blokes with model trains. Poor kid gets one for Christmas then can never play with it because dad got there first. My mate Ged got a bit more sophisticated and built a model helicopter. I think the kit cost him about £150 a few years ago and that was quite expensive then.

"Radio controlled", he told me "come round when I've done it and you can see the inaugural flight".

About three months later I got a call from Ged informing me that he was ready for the first flight, so we took the impressive looking model into a large field in Derbyshire and prepared for take-off. A small audience of cows stood in a group to one side of us, edging closer in the nosey ways that cows have.

"It takes a bit of expertise", he said, "you've not got just the main rotors to control - the back one has to be going at the right speed to stop the body spinning". He was right about that, as we were to find out. It seems a shame that he couldn't get a bit of practise in before consigning his creation to aviation history.

The machine was placed on the ground and we stood back as Ged started fiddling with the controls. Nothing happened at first and he had to take the front off the control panel and 'adjust the wiring'. Then he tried again, pressing the lever which, I assume, said 'up'. He had done the adjusting with devastating success, because the rotors immediately started turning slowly, then suddenly became a blur, and the thing shot up to a height of about a hundred feet at a speed which would have turned a crew of Apollo astronauts green. The five cows stared upwards in amazement, bringing to mind that story of the penguins watching a plane take off during the Faulklands war, then falling over backwards when it got too high. It stayed there poised for a moment, then the fuselage (if that's the right word) began rotating in sympathy with the rotors. Ged juggled impressively with his control panel (which would also have dazzled the Apollo pilots) and, after some time, it stopped spinning and reverted to hanging in the air with the small end (tail?) upwards. As was his way, Ged then cracked on it was meant to do that.

"It'll do loop the loop according to the blurb", he informed me, and it proceeded to just that. That is, it got the first part of the manoeuever right, swooping downwards, but omitted the other bit where it zooms up and completes the circle upside down. In spite of Ged's frantic control - juggling, it continued heading vertically down towards us at frightening speed. Our eyes must have grown bigger in proportion to its proximity and then, at the last moment, we dived to each side in in a way reminiscent of that scenario in the opening credits of 'Father Ted'. One of the cows uttered a bellow that I took to be a bovine version of 'bloody hell!' and they stampeded into the distance. I've often wondered if the farmer ever worked out why the milk came out curdled that night.

I don't know how many pieces there were in the kit that Ged made the helicopter out of, but I can guarantee there were far more when it concluded its maiden flight. When, from a prone position in a cow pat, he blinked thoughtfully and uttered a philosophical "oh well, back to the drawing board", I vowed that I wasn't watching the next solo flight without the comforting surroundings of an air raid shelter.

And, as if Ged and his helicopter wasn't enough, another mate, Bert, made a quadrocopter (my name for it). This is a circular central piece, like a CD container (in fact I think it was a CD container), with four arms emanating at right angles to each other and supporting rotors at the outermost end. The birth of this was more prolonged than that of the helicopter, taking almost a year to get to the flying stage, during which time one of the rotors amputated the top of one of Bert's index fingers. He had a few successful tests in the garden before lugging it down to a large, cowless, field somewhere on The Wirral. I was fortunate enough not to have been present at this christening. According to his report, it performed beautifully for about ten minutes, hovering perfectly steadily, and dutifully moving above the field under his guidance. Then, at roof height, it began slipping sideways, travelling across the field unresponsive to the controls before disappearing over the fence of a nearby house.

Test flight

He waited for a crash indicating a broken window, in which case his sixty five year old legs would have propelled him in the opposite direction at a speed you'd hardly expect. However, there was a prolonged silence, so he crept up to the fence and peeped over. The quadrocopter was still in the air, dangling on a washing line. One rotor was entwined in a bra:

"a 38 incher", he informed me (where the hell did he get that expertise) "you could have made a lovely double hanging basket with it".

Making sure there was no one looking, he sneaked over the fence, untangled the machine then legged it, having no wish to meet the owner of the bra. Not under those circumstances anyway.

That's what I mean about the child in all of us, though I suspect women would say it only applies to blokes.

Sycamore 'helicopters' made of willow stems

The tree gardeners love to hate is the sycamore, whose seeds look like helicopters as they make their way to a potential spot for germinating. On a windy day they can fly as far as 350ft from the parent, making this a brilliant seed dispersal method - a point well appreciated when they start popping up in your garden and you haven't got a tree. Their strap - like leaves quickly become strongly rooted saplings and early removal is essential if you want to avoid a hernia. They can, of course, go much further if ingested by an animal, then excreted.

The real thing

Funnily enough, it's a close cousin of the decorative Acer which is at the other end of the appreciation scale. It's Latin name Acer pseudoplatanus  (pseudo -false and platanus -plane) indicates a close resemblance of the leaves and bark to the plane tree. Introduced in the middle ages, it has, until recently, been seen as a second-rate immigrant which supports little wildlife. However, it's now recognised that the fallen leaves have the effect of causing the increase of earthworm populations and wildflowers, like woodruff and wood anemone, thrive in the loam created. The fact that the tree is a magnet to aphids is now seen as a positive in so far as it is important for providing the food for insect - eating birds like house martins.

Tar spot on sycamore leaf

In late summer the leaves often become dotted with black patches. These are caused by a fungus (Rhytisma acerinum), which, though unsightly, doesn't seem to harm the tree. Nail galls, those tiny growths which erupt from the surface of the leaf like miniature fingers, are caused by eriophyd mites feeding. They can attack a single plant cell and this causes the surrounding cells to enlarge and multiply, ultimately forming the gall. In spite of these apparently disfiguring features of the foliage, the wood is much valued for its properties of hardness and attractive whiteness. It's a favourite for use as tables, being so close-grained and easy to clean.

Although we think of sycamore as a dark tree, in spring the dangling yellow flowers can compete with many ornamental trees. Its seed aerobatics are an attraction to children and, who knows, may have initiated the idea for the helicopters which led ultimately to the debacle with Ged's model. So maybe the tree isn't quite the villain we thought it was.