Late flowering Dahlia

Sat.Navs and Dahlias

Dahlia 'Bishop of Llandaff' in November

"Daaaad", my stomach sank as the voice emerged beseechingly from the phone. My daughter Laura: "I'm stuck in mud in a field miles from anywhere and the car is broken"

At least she wasn't dead ( this thought missed the point that ringing me probably wouldn't be an option if she was).

"Where are you and what do you mean, 'the car is broken'?"

"I told you - miles from anywhere. I was going to a course and the stupid sat. nav. sent me down this narrow road which became a farm track full of ruts and now the car won't move. There's a smell of burning rubber and a crashing noise when I try to drive out. The R.A.C. say they won't come out because I'm not on a recognised road. I want you to Google for the number of a local garage, then I'll ring them to come and get me out."

I sighed, aware that if the sat. nav. instructed Laura to drive off Beachy Head she would comply and probably ring me during her descent.

"Okay, where's the nearest town?"

"Ramsbottom". The same thought always comes to me when I hear that name: who originally came up with it? No doubt someone who didn't live there. A name like Giggleswick is acceptable because it has some humour about it but who wants to live in a place likened to a sheep's arse?

I hung up and quickly did some research into local garages then rang her back with the information, wondering how they'd find her. She's very philosophical about these sorts of situation because her next comment was: "you'd like it here",

"What!"

"I can see a kestrel hovering just in front of me and a long, brown, furry animal just ran across the track. A stoat, I think." This reminded me of a conversation we'd had some years earlier when she'd rung to say she'd been in a road accident but she was okay. She'd chatted peaceably for a while about the lovely area she was in  before suddenly terminating with "sorry dad- got to go. The fireman's here to cut me out." I had hair before then.

"That smell of rubber'll be due to the tyre burning because it's not gripping and the crunching is probably stones being thrown up at the bottom of the car," I observed. "Anyway, I'll leave you to ring the garage. You know it'll cost a bomb don't you?"

"What! How much do you think?" The 'isn't nature wonderful' dreaminess had left her voice.

"Well, in the hundreds I should say".

We hung up and then five minutes later she rang back.

"I've managed to back out", she said, "I must have been pressing the accelerator too hard and when I did it gently the car started to move. Anyway, I've got to get to this course now". There was no mention of kestrels or stoats before she hung up.

Large white caterpillar wreaking havoc

Just as Laura had no idea where she was, so I haven't the foggiest where Llandaff is, although the double 'l' probably indicates Wales. What I do know is that they must have a pretty impressive bishop. My Dahlia 'Bishop of Llandaff'' has been flowering for months and now. Into November (and with the benefit of frequent dead-heading), it continues to soldier on. Before embarking on dead-heading, bear in mind that the new flower buds are round, whereas the finished ones are elongated. The corms only need lifting and taken into shelter when the top growth blackens with the first frost and the news that British strawberry growers are hoping to continue cropping until December (admittedly under cover) leads me to think that may be some way off.

The garden usually sinks into a sort of peaceful torpor at this time of year, the various warring factions scurrying for cover from extreme conditions. This time however not only plants seem to be benefitting from warmer conditions, the accompanying pests also continue to do their worst: close scrutiny of the Bishop discloses leaves and flowers damaged by small arms fire by snails; my nasturtiums (Tropaeolum majus) are blitzed by cabbage white caterpillars and a patio rose is being vigorously attacked by some sort of sawfly larvae I've not been able to identify. I'm especially annoyed about the nasturtiums, because they had been devastated earlier in the summer by a slug and snail onslaught which had led to me cutting them back to ground level. I then watched a pristine swathe of new growth emerge from the devastation with the promise of more flowers, until the caterpillars put the kibosh on that.

My solution to these attacks is to pick off the enemy like an efficient sniper, and squash them. The cabbage whites then ooze green blood which I suspect consists mainly of chlorophyll from my nasturtiums.

Just thought you'd like to know that.

On a more cheerful note, my Fatsia japonica is alive with bees - you hear it before you see it. This isn't unusual and the few regularly late flowering subjects, like the closely related ivy (Hedera), always attract these hangers-on.

That said, I'm now off to spill some more green blood.

Fatsia japonica - bee magnet

Fletcher Moss Gardens

A Word About Parks

Fletcher Moss at its best

      Fletcher Moss Gardens is a Manchester city park situated in the leafy suburb of Didsbury. It once purported to be 'botanic', displaying an impressive labelled collection of trees, shrubs and alpine plants and exchanging seeds with similar gardens throughout the world . However it has suffered the cuts (sorry - 'savings') commonly experienced by parks and is now a shadow of its former self: the seed exchange system is long gone; vandals have consistently ridden mountain bikes down the unique rockery, destroying bulbs and the artificial stream beds in the process; weeds have begun a reversion to wilderness, and untended trees and shrubs have added to this endeavour.

Worth saving?

      On the face of it, everything isn't quite as bad as I've painted, because a grant has been obtained in an attempt to reestablish former glory: low railings are being installed to impede the mountain bikes; the stream beds restructured; paths widened and relaid to enable better wheelchair access and  plants ordered to replace those which have fallen foul of the joint onslaught by vandals and neglect.    

      Unfortunately, although all this is very desirable, it overlooks the point that, where at one time a team of eight gardeners ensured standards were kept up, this task is currently undertaken by the selfless dedication of one warden (Colin, with responsibility for a range of parks) and a band of heroic volunteers working one day a week. The addition of visits once every six weeks by contractors only marginally improves this state of affairs. With this in mind, Fletcher Moss could look like Kew gardens for a fortnight after the current work and be back to rain forest in a very short time unless ongoing funding for gardeners should emerge (what chance when politicians cheerfully flourish the promise of tax cuts: "how will you pay for them?"  "oh, you know,er, - savings"). 

'The Croft' in Fletcher Moss - birthplace of the R.S.P.B.

      The Friends of Fletcher Moss is an active group with an important input towards preserving a place of beauty. They are always happy to welcome new members. To find out more about them tap on  http://www.fletchermossgardens.org.uk//. Although this is specific to a small area, there are Friends groups around the country and if you have an interest in preserving a local park or garden they will usually be found on the Internet.

The Garden as a Teaching Tool

How Important?

      'Kindergarten' comes from the German meaning 'garden of children' and, of course, refers to the first organised schooling our kids are exposed to. That 'garden' should have been used by the educator Friedrich Frobel, the bloke who came up with the name, is most fitting, This is  because a garden can be the most useful learning tool we have. Fred was using it in the context of treating children like plants, giving them the right growing conditions to develop into healthy fruiting specimens. However we can also look at it in an equally creative sense: the garden has the potential to yield some of the most important guides to understanding our world.

      Ask anyone what the most important equation in science is and you'll get Einstein's theory of relativity, Newton's Laws of motion and various others pulled out of the bag. Personally, I'd go for photosynthesis: 'where does the wood for the table start out, kiddies?' That's right - a tree. And how does the tree grow there? By the process of photosynthesis. That plastic chair. The plastic comes as a by-product of coal tar and where does coal come from? whoops, we're back to trees. And lunch - obvious where the vegetables came from isn't it? but what about the meat? No, the cow didn't photosythesise, but guess what it ate to become big.

      Take a deep breath. Now think about where the oxygen we need to stay alive comes from. Yep, right again, it's the waste product of the plant factory where photosynthesis takes place. And hey, look at that cloud in the sky. The plants needed water to carry out photosynthesis but they took in too much and pumped it out as vapour (a big oak can move 150gallons a day) which became  clouds that will eventually give us rain.

      Now look at that insect. It's a greenfly and a clever man called Stephan Buczacki worked out that, because they breed so fast, one landing on your roses in early June could give rise to two thousand billion by the end of August. This means that we could be over our heads in greenfly (imagine drowning in them), but it never happens. The reason it doesn't is that bluetits, wasps, hoverflies and many other species save us by having greenfly for dinner. And this leads us to discover that all of nature is a web of life - even despised animals like slugs are beavering away eating dead plants and returning the bits back into the ground so that other things can grow.The important lesson in this is that, the more you look at each living thing, you see that it plays a part in making planet Earth work, we are a small part of this and should do our best to fit in: break too many strands of the web and it falls apart.

      Ok. So, back into the stuffy schoolroom, kids. But don't forget what's outside the window.

Honey bee playing its part

   

Water problems and sexton beetles

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

Hakonechloa before watering

A few hours after watering

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

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

Hydrangea macrophylla - a water junkie

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

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

Sexton beetles

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

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

     

   

Veg. in the herbaceous border

There ain't no rules

Corny idea?

      Gardeners should be willing to try something new, something outside the prescribed layout which gives an added interest even if it's a querky one. I went into a toilet in a theatre the other day and was captivated by the plumbing: when I went to turn the tap on to wash my hands it didn't work; it had a sort of lever on it and when I pushed it to the right - nothing, then left - nothing. The only thing remaining was to move it vertically but this also brought nothing - not a drip.

      "No mate, you do it like this", said a bloke who had been smirking at my performance, and he moved his hand across the sensor (which was cunningly disguised as an overflow), causing the water to make its appearance.

      'What next', I thought, envisaging brain implants which would enable  us to think the tap on. The point is, I've forgotten  many hundreds of toilets, but I remember that one. Same with the garden, try something new and it may well give you something to remember:

      My eldest son and his girlfriend  have taken to sowing seeds of just about everything in pots on their flat window-ledge. This worked out fine with subjects like lettuce but it quickly became apparent that sweeetcorn, which can reach a height of eight foot, was not really ideal for a window ledge unless you had a wartime fetish for blackouts. So, in spite of my protestations that I hadn't got room, they brought a couple along to me and, not wanting to waste them, I bunged them in the herbaceous border.

Colourful Chard

      In retrospect, this doesn't seem such a bad idea: the young foliage forms an architectural contrast with the more floriferous subjects and the thought of possibly getting a bit of a crop is attractive. They are normally planted in blocks to enable good pollination, the reason being that a wind can blow the pollen away before it can drop from the tassels at the top of the plant and onto the female stigmas below. However, if I can catch the them on a still day, a quick shake will do the job equally well. Whether the things will look daft when they tower above everything else remains to be seen. I'll report on this in a later blog.

      This isn't a new idea of course - combining the aesthetic with the functional is carried out in many gardens and allotments. Seemingly mundane subjects like carrots have pleasing ferny foliage which contrasts well with purplish beetroot leaves. Equally, chards, with their varying attractive stem colours, are worthy of more than just a place on the dinner plate. Asparagus, apart from providing the spears (expensive in the shops) go on to produce attractive foliage which will be at home in any self respecting flower arrangement. Thoughtful planting of a wide range of vegetables can create an attractive feature in a garden but I draw the line at the ornamental cabbages: I think them garish and, in my experience, they taste horrible. Still, whatever turns you on.

Matter of taste?

      Coming back to my lavatorial experience: having washed my hands I went to dry them and, instead of being confronted by one of those things that blow heat out at a rate which dries in about three days, I found one of the newer type. For anyone unlucky enough not to have encountered one of these, they look a bit like a trouser press. You move your hands up and down in them for a few seconds and they blow so hard that you can see the skin wrinkling like waves up a beach. I've fallen in love with them and want one for Christmas. It'll be great for drying socks in.

For more thoughts on being adventurous go to link
   

Galega officinalis (Goat's rue)

Goat's rue

Goat's Rue

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

Flowers close-up

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

Root nodules clearly visible on seedlings

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

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

For more information about herbs and their uses go to

Poisonous Plants

Poison in the Garden

Ragwort (Senecio jacobea)

      It seems to me that you can overdo it when it comes to safety and poisonous plants. I've heard of people removing a Laburnum tree from the garden because their child may eat the seeds. This ties in with the wrapping- in- cotton- wool philosophy which ignores the learning potential in their own garden. What happens when the child plays in the park or friend's garden where the tree hasn't been taken down? The warnings and explanations which could have been gained at home have been lost. Many of the common garden plants are poisonous, including Rhododendron, Pieris, Hypericum, Euphorbia - the list is endless. And, because a plant is classed as poisonous, doesn't mean you are going to drop dead after a mouthful: apparently yew (Taxus baccata) which is widely known to be toxic, only carries out this promise after you've eaten enough leaves to stuff an average sized sofa. Maybe it should still be seen as dangerous but it isn't in the same class as telling the truth when a woman asks 'does my bum looks big in this?'

      I once suffered from mild poisoning when I'd taken the advice of a 'free wild food' book and tried chickweed, which is recommended as being fine in salads. I'd picked it in the garden and inadvertently included some sun spurge (Euphorbia helioscopia), which looks vaguely similar when you haven't got your glasses on. The Euphorbia had the effect of numbing my mouth and tongue so that I could hardly talk. At this point my wife, always sympathetic, said it was a good thing because it shut me up. There's a similar effect accompanying the consumption of the houseplant known as dumb cane (Dieffenbachia spp), the sap swells the tongue and justifies the common name. This is well known, but I pride myself in having personally carried out the ground-breaking research on sun spurge.

Choosey diner

      On the whole, animals seem to have an instinct which prevents them eating plants which may be harmful (although goats seem to be an exception to this). It's widely known that horses are poisoned by eating ragwort (Senecio jacobea) but they rarely eat the growing plant - only that which has been cut and lies unrecognised when mixed with  hay.

      Cows seem to be victims of other aspects of danger in plants: I was fishing on the River Dane opposite a fifteen foot high clay bank, when a cow appeared at the top of it and peered longingly at a patch of grass and wildflowers growing on a narrow ledge some distance below the lip. It disappeared and I thought it had decided to make do with the thirty acres of grass in its field, but a couple of minutes later it came back and repeated its thoughtful perusal. Then, overcome with longing, it stepped gingerly onto a bulge of eroding bank with the obvious intention of working its way along the face to where dinner beckoned. It got further than I'd have thought possible before the clay suddenly crumbled.

      I've always thought cows' faces were pretty mild and expressionless, but this one proved the exception as widening  eyes and gaping mouth conveyed a definite impression of surprise and horror. The accompanying bellow completed the bovine version of OH SHIT! before cow and large section of banking obeyed gravity and plunged into the river.

      I don't know how much a cow weighs, but it certainly displaces enough water to give Archimedes a 'eureka' moment. The resulting tsuname headed my way as I sat peacefully fishing and I sprang into action too late to stop my ham butties and half my tackle  disappearing into the torrent.

      I didn't catch anything after that.