La dame aux camelias

Another afternoon in the garden. I’m dive-bombed by the first hummingbird I’ve seen this year and also spot my first butterflies. Spring is indeed sprung.

So, the vegetables are sorted (ha, ha), but what about flowers?

At the garden shop I take a gamble. This flowerbed has never been wildly successful before, but with some lime and some manure, can it support a camellia? Will it at least live long enough for the other eight buds already visible to open up? I can but cross my fingers and hope.

Wouldn’t it be lovely, I also think, to get some wisteria growing along the fence? Yes, I decide, yes it would.

So, in addition to the Stargazer lily bulbs I buy and plant in pots, I also plant a young wisteria (behind). Pat has these lilies growing in pots on his deck. Not only are they as lovely as the illustration suggests, but they have the most heavenly aroma. And now I shall have my own.

Suspect it will be a while (decades?) before my wisteria coverage will be in competition with Becky’s dream home.

I don’t really mind, because it’s still only April and look!

How beautiful is this looking? Seriously. I am gobsmacked. (As will Pat be when he gets back this week from his snowbird holiday with his Alberta lady friend.)

Oh, and PS: This one specifically for Irmani.

Lots of new growth on the fuchsia. Hope it’s flowering when you get here next month. Can’t wait!

Ton of bricks

The dastardly fucking deer have now gone for the mint. Really? Bastards.

So, a trip to the garden shop to buy a replacement mint, which I plant down in the garden – definitely not as convenient as just outside the kitchen door.

Dedicated followers of this hapless horticulturist blog may remember when I first started the herb garden by the kitchen.

The project involved the dismantling of a brick “feature” created by one of the many idiotic workmen Mike once employed.

Two years later I’ve finally figured out some use for all the bloody bricks (other than the ones Darryl and I used to weigh down the tarp on top of the leaking woodshed).

Look, an actual vegetable plot.

The stick marks where I’ve planted the first of the lettuce seeds. Wild rocket (arugula here – why?) seeds are germinating. The last time I tried to grow rocket from seed it committed suicide. But not this time, oh, no. This time I haven’t just hoped I had soil in my garden capable of nurturing life. This time I’ve dug in manure and lime. This time the rocket (and lettuce) will thrive. Not only that, but the wild rocket is a perennial. I will have rocket for salads every year for the rest of my life. (Short break while I cross my fingers.)

And look, another bed!

Oh, my god, how good is this well manured and limed soil? It’s a miracle.

Oh, okay, I bought and transplanted broccoli, cauliflower and cabbages. Yes, I cheated, but after the disappointments of 2010, I need some guaranteed results.

The purists can scoff. Someday I may, too – but that will be after I figure out how I can afford and where the hell I can put a greenhouse.

Vodka and tonic, I think

Another day begins with noticing the absence of something. Bastard Bambis have chomped the tops off all my tulips and two of my hyacinths. Again I ask: What the fuck? I’ve grown bulbs in pots by the back door before and never had a problem. Bastards. (I think I may have said this already.)


Fortunately, the other pot – the one in the fenced-in garden has survived.


Well, now that I’m down here – and seeing as it’s stopped raining and is actually a lovely day – I might as well do something.


Yeah, okay, doesn’t look like much, but the first batch of peas have now been planted – both shelling peas and mangetout (which, I learn after baffling the man in the garden shop, are, for reasons I cannot fathom, called snow peas here). Fingers crossed.

Oh, look. The fig tree does appear to be staging a comeback.


Decide it will probably do better if I transplant it into a pot which isn’t as thin and cheap as the one I originally used. (According to the instructions which came with it when Irmani and I bought it last year, fig trees are more successfully grown in pots. We shall see. I’m thinking figs this year are unlikely.

Take a break for a cup of tea and a biscuit. Is that enough for today? Oh, sod it. Go to the shed and get the shovel.


Some hours (and much dirt in my fingernails and on the knees of my jeans) later, I’ve weeded and dug over the second bed.

I need more manure and (oops, nearly forgot) some lime. If the forecast is correct (oh, ha, ha), it’s going to be a warm sunny weekend. Just the right weather for preparing the soil.

Back in the house, two questions remain to be answered.

Is my ass going to be as sore tomorrow as it was last time? God, I hope not.

Shall I have another cup of tea? Nah. Vodka and tonic, I think.

Are you deaf?

Sunday morning, still riding high from three sold out performances of The Death of Me.

Take my cappuccino outside to have a fag and check on the progress of the fuchsia Irmani bought for me last year. Yes, lots of new shoots coming along, so, unlike the one I bought for the garden, this one is going to come back beautifully.

As I turn back towards the door something (or rather the lack of something) catches my eye.


Difficult to tell from the picture, I know, but the two pots of chives, which were coming back nicely, have been nibbled down to the soil, as has the returning parsley. What the fuck? I’ve had herbs growing in pots by the back door for two years and the deer – who are not supposed to like herbs – have never touched them. Bambi bastards.

So, a trip to the garden shop to buy replacement chives and parsley. Clearly these can no longer be safely planted so close to the house.

Down to the garden, where I weed and add manure to one of the raised bed sections. (Yes, cherry tomatoes have successfully grown in this soil for the past two summers, but, as previously noted, they will grow anywhere. Nothing else I’ve ever planted in these beds has survived, so let’s hope the manure does the job.)

As I am completing this task, two women, out for a walk, stop to say hello, as you do on Gabriola. After commenting on the beautiful colour of the blue hyacinths, one of the women points at me and asks, “Are you deaf?”

Not at all sure what I’ve said which could have prompted this, I say (rather appropriately) “Pardon?”

She nudges her friend, looks at me, says, “You are, aren’t you? From the play?”

Ah, I’ve misheard her. Death, not deaf. Yes, I admit, I am the Angel of Death.


They tell me they loved the play, thought I was fabulous.

My soil may be crap, the deer may be chomping my chives, but apparently I’m a star. Not a bad day.

This will be the year

Yeah, yeah, you’ve all heard it before, but seriously, this will be the year.

When I came back in 2010, it was the end of June before it stopped raining and I could get started. Far too late. (Nor did I appreciate how totally crap the soil in the vegetable plot was until my garden guru cousin Peter wrote to inform me that the rocket was flowering before the leaves were large enough to eat because it was starved of nutrients and was desperately trying to reproduce before it perished.)

And last year, after Mike died, well, my heart just wasn’t in it. No surprise there.

Thanks to Krys and Becky, the vegetable plot did get dug over (compost added), but, to be honest, without Mike around, I was hard pressed to think of any vegetable I liked enough to make it worth growing.

Berries, I thought. I like berries. So, blueberry and raspberry bushes (and a black currant) were purchased and planted in the plot. Truth be told, I didn’t get all that many blueberries.

The raspberries were also very disappointing – until I discovered that four out of five of the bushes I’d bought were actually the late fruiting variety. Lots of raspberries in October. How odd.

I did get lots of cherry tomatoes in and they were yummy, but no great horticultural breakthrough, given that they will grow absolutely anywhere.

And so to 2012

Easter Monday. It’s a lovely day and I’m thinking of going for a walk. But, no, I decide. Let’s get into the garden.


The hyacinths I planted last autumn are looking pretty, but I’m not sure the fuchsia is going to stage a comeback.

First things first. I spend some time raking up twigs and thousands of pine cones.

Now I want to move the fruit bushes to side beds. This requires digging and weeding said beds. My neighbours Sally and Jamie, out for a walk, stop to chat, comment on what good quality the side bed soil appears to be. I cannot help but agree with them. Is this where the decent soil in my garden has been hiding? How annoying would that be?


I transfer the blueberry bushes. Difficult to tell from the photo, I know, but there is already a great deal of growth on them. Lots of blueberries this year? One can but hope.


I transfer the raspberries, including a few, small new ones. The roots of these appear to be connected to the larger plants, so not something appearing from the seeds of fallen fruit. Who knew raspberries did this? (Lots of people I’m sure, but until this moment, not me.)


Last year’s strawberries seem to be coming back nicely. Not sure how well the fig tree in the back pot is doing.

Go inside, make myself a cup of tea, come back to sit and admire my morning’s work. I really should stop now, but…


Maybe just dig over part of the vegetable plot? Yes, why not? I’ve actually bought some manure and a bit of topsoil, which I add. This really is going to be the year.

Next day

Oh, my god, how much do I ache? And why the hell is my ass so sore? Surely it’s all fat? Where are the muscles hiding?


Take my cappuccino down to the garden. Okay, the sore ass is worth it. Look at the garden! What a great start.