Woo, hoo!

Woo, hoo!

Go out to water apple tree (yes, Krys, I have been watering every day) and what do I see?



Check out the red blossoms getting ready to open! Is it possible I could actually get some apples this year off this glorified stick? Who’d have thought it?

And look!



Strawberries coming along. Hurrah.

And look!



Okay, not so much with this photo. You can’t really see, but five of the raspberry bushes are already starting to flower.

Sadly, temperature has plummeted rather since last week, so some concern about the seeds Krys planted – and the row of peas I put in over the weekend and the butternut squash seeds I put (in one last leap of faith) in sprouting pots.

Once again, fingers crossed.

Meanwhile, out back...

It’s not all going on in the garden. Oh, no.

Thanks to the excellent scavenging skills of Krys, I have lots of planters (spotted free for anyone who might want outside Arbutus one day).



As a result, my herbs really are now just outside the kitchen door. The oregano and the mint should be safe, but last year the deer munched the chives down to nothing. They seem to be staging a comeback, but only time will tell. (Assuming the bloody deer don’t go after them again.)

And, speaking of the bloody deer, at the garden shop I spot a bag of bulbs/tubers which (a) are supposed to be happy with a combination of sun and shade and, most importantly, (b) are “deer resistant”. Can this be true? It would be nice to have some sort of flowers out the back.



Will I, I ask at the nursery, get my money back if the bloody deer do eat the plants? They smile, because, of course, the only guarantee that the deer won’t eat something is a 10-foot, electrified fence. (Perhaps 15-foot.) This I do not have.

Decide to take a chance and buy a bag. And, thanks to the aforementioned planter scavenging, I have a pot which is exactly the right size.



Fingers crossed.

Blueberry thrill

The raised bed seems to be doing its job, inspiring me to reengage with the garden.

Even though last winter was not particularly harsh, one of the blueberry bushes Becky very kindly bought me in 2011 didn’t make it.



So, off to the garden shop I go. Following a somewhat ribald and amusing chat with the staff about the need of blueberry plants for a cross-pollination buddy, I purchase a replacement.



The construction of the raised bed has left me with a surplus of bricks (used last year to mark off the area of crap soil where vegetables would go to die), so why not put some of them to use?

At the garden shop, I also purchase a bag of gladioli, planning to use these to replace the apparently not perennial purple African daisies installed in the turquoise planters last year. (Yes, I did indeed manage to find planters which match the bench. Not bad, eh?)



There are 50 bulbs in the bag – far, far more than I could possibly squeeze into the pots. Stick some into another dead plant (last year’s basil) pot, then think to read the instructions. (Great for cut flowers, stagger planting every two weeks to ensure ongoing supply.) Ah. Decide not to plant them all and make mental note for staggered planting.

Check the seed pots started by Krys. Yes, it really does appear there may be some beets coming along. (Wonder in passing how long it’s been since I made borscht. I do believe it might be 20 years.)



Sadly, nothing else appears to be popping up. A greenhouse would be a lovely thing for starting this process, but there is absolutely nowhere to put one – not that I could afford one. A cold frame, on the other hand, seems feasible. How difficult could it be? Have a look on-line.



Yikes. This looks a bit complicated – unnecessarily complicate, I suspect. As Krys has pointed out, there are windows to be had for next to nothing at the recycling centre. Surely I could clobber something together? Perhaps not this year.

Do some weeding, water apple tree (for the second time that day) and the roses. Gaze once again in wonder at the purple buds which will be the first lilacs ever on my lilac tree.

It is, I do believe, time for a cocktail on the deck.

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more

When my lovely friend Krys came out at the end of March to stay on Gabriola and take care of Angie the ancient cat while I was away in the UK, she asked what needed doing in the garden.

“Nothing,” I said. “I have officially given up. My soil is crap. I can’t take another summer of watching plants flower and die before bearing crops. I simply do not have the stomach for it. Until such time as I can sort out a raised bed loaded with quality top soil, I am growing nothing except tomatoes and berries.”

She looked quite disappointed, but what could I do?

“If you really want to do some gardening,” I told her, “some weeding in the side beds would be much appreciated.”

Off I went to the UK.

Sun shining and temperatures well into the teens when I left Vancouver. Overcast and freezing in London. Never mind. Becky had tickets for The Book of Mormon on the day I arrived. Quite possibly the funniest thing I’ve ever seen. Well worth a bit of shivering. (The following week we finally made it to see War Horse. Well worth the wait.)

Three days later it actually snowed. I had to break down and buy a pair of winter boots, as my canvas sneakers just didn’t cut it.


Hail falling on London.

The sun did actually come out on Friday when Becky and I spent a cultural day, starting with a visit to Tate Modern for the Lichtenstein exhibition. During a stroll along the South Bank to the original Tate for the vastly superior (and hopelessly promoted) Schwitters show, we came across the floating man.

I kid you not, he was floating on air. When I asked how he did it, he simply smiled and said, “Magic!” Close enough for cynical Becky and me. We both coughed up a pound.


Pausing for a fag (me) on Harry and Ruth’s bench, we made the acquaintance of some black-headed gulls. Apparently quite common, but I’d never seen one before.


Happily, the sun kept shining the next day for Irmani and Jonno’s wedding.


The bride, relieved that it’s not snowing. (Note open-toe sandals in previous pic.)


First fag as Mrs Smallwood.


The wedding really was beautiful, the reception a huge amount of fun.

Off to Stokey the next day to catch up with Tony, Rhidian and Ben. Decided to walk from the Defoe to the flat through Abney Park cemetery.


What’s this we spot surrounding multiple graves?


Turns out the jobsworths in Hackney council’s health and safety department had outdone themselves.


And here’s another interesting sign, spotted while I was on my way to meet my cousin Michael for dinner. Fucks Coffee? Yucks Coffee? Hard to say.

Lots of lovely visits with friends and family, tinged with great sadness at the death of my wonderfully formidable 101-year-old Aunt Jess. (Centre stage, below, with the five generations of her family at her 100th birthday celebrations.) I am so pleased the timing of my visit allowed me the opportunity to say goodbye to her.



And then it was time to introduce Becky to Amsterdam, where there was a crooked house.


And another one.

And many, many more.

A visit to the Rijksmuseum (newly reopened after a 10-year renovation) introduced us both to the Amsterdam Impressionists.


My favourite was Isaac Israels.


Becky went for Willem Witsen.

A sunny day stroll around Amsterdam the next day. Becky takes lots of no doubt very artistic photos. I snap yet another sign.


Although I need no reminder, the sign suggests it’s time to head back to BC.

WHAT ABOUT THE BLOODY GARDEN?

Yes, yes, I’m getting to that.

While I was away, gallivanting around galleries and going to the theatre, Krys and her husband Glenn, visiting for a week, built me a raised bed.


Oh, my god. This extraordinary act of kindness fills me with gratitude and dread. (The dread caused by the realisation that failure to actually produce crops now cannot be blamed on the soil and will rest squarely with me being a completely crap gardener.)

She’s even started some seedlings.

Beets, courgettes, peas and… And what? Damn, I’ve already forgotten. Hopefully it will become obvious.

Inspired by this, we go off to the nursery to buy more top soil and look for a fruit tree to plant behind the bench. A cherry tree would be nice, but, let’s face it, the birds will steal all the fruit. Moira at The Wheelbarrow explains why pears (my second choice) are a challenge. (Like the mystery seedlings, I’ve already forgotten what she said.) We look at apple trees. Holy moly! Who knew you could graft bits of apple tree together to create one tree producing five different variety of apples? And all the varieties (except the golden delicious) are actually delicious.

Now the only question is whether it is possible to dig a big enough hole in my rock-riddled garden. We come back to the house and dig a hole. Success! Back we go to The Wheelbarrow to buy the tree.


Assuming it lives (and I really will do my best, I promise, Krys), I will eventually have wonderful apples.


Yes, yes, I’ve said it before, but I know this really is going to be the year.

And the reason I know is that, 15 years after it was originally planted and three years since I rescued it from the deer, my lilac tree is actually producing blooms for the very first time.


It’s a miracle!
,
Well, I hope it’s at least a sign.

Wish me luck.