Send horticultural guru cousin Peter the link to last entry, hoping he will tell me the appearance of three tomato plants bursting forth unexpectedly suggests the soil might not be as bad as I think. The tomatoes cut no ice with him. Apparently they will grow in anything.
It is another detail which catches his eagle eye: “Sorry to tell you that your soil is as poor as you feared. The rocket is flowering because it fears for its life and is trying frantically to reproduce before it turns up its toes.” Oh, dear.
Topsoil is expensive, he points out, suggesting I investigate artificial fertilisers. Obviously I will have to do just that. (Although the idea of building a raised bed and filling it full of lovely topsoil – no matter how expensive – is attractive.) I shall have to consider my options.
Meanwhile, I am looking forward to the cultural event of the year on the island: The Gabriola Theatre Festival is this weekend. Hurrah.
And tonight I’m going to the pub for a few pints and another pool tournament with Pat. Hopefully this time Mustang Sally will survive unscathed.
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