“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.
We have one of those grafted apple trees. It's been, like, eight years? Nine? and it's produced in all a handful of one kind of apple. Almost all of which have been eaten by squirrels JUST before we were ready to pick them. So... good luck...
ReplyDeleteOkay, consider hopes not up.
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