Attack of the killer tomatoes

Okay, they’re not really killer tomatoes, but, honestly, with the exception of the crazy seven-foot tomato which grew from a seed in Walthamstow, I’ve never had cherry tomato plants grow so tall as this year’s crop.

The thin bamboo stakes, which have always done the job in the past, simply cannot bear the weight, so time must spent with scissors and string, tying the plants to the fence. (Good news, as you will see from the bottom left corner of the photo: the tomatoes are ripening.

Speaking of seven-foot plants…

I’ve never seen a thistle anywhere on the property before, then suddenly this year there were three of them growing by the back path. I have a pretty relaxed attitude towards plant/tree life outside the garden. If some plant wants to start growing, fine. (I even tolerate mushrooms.) One of the thistles is now well over seven feet tall. The good news is that bees apparently love thistle flowers. If you click on the photo to see it full size, you’ll spot the bee guzzling thistle nectar on the top flower. Moments before I took the photo, there were bees on all the flowers. So, yay thistles.

Meanwhile, back in the produce section…

My first beet has been harvested and eaten - roasted with some of Pat’s carrots. Yum! (And, yes, Jane, if you are reading this, that is indeed your old cappuccino maker, sold to me when you were moving to electricity-free Keats Island, and still going strong.)

My first two courgettes are coming along nicely.

If my eyes do not deceive me, the first flower has appeared on one of the squash plants.

I’ve just picked my first batch of peas!

The strawberries are flowering again. I’d completely forgotten they do this. Hopefully the squirrels have forgotten, too, and I will be able to pick some without a bite already taken.

The bench cushions and cover are in place.

And when I’ve finished posting this, I shall be sitting on the bench with a book and a large gin and tonic.

Cheers!

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.

Bearing fruit

The bad news is that it’s been raining quite a bit during the past week, including a mini-break taken to Tofino with Irmani. As a result, much planned hiking was put on hold and had to be replaced with cocktail consumption. Unfortunate, I know, but it had to be done. Irmani may not have discovered much in the way of regionally unique flora and fauna, but she did discover Bloody Caesars – and has taken to them like a duck to water.



Fortunately, it wasn’t pouring with rain on the afternoon we booked our bear watching trip. Hurrah!

The good news is that all that rain seems to have been quite beneficial for the garden.



Look at the lettuce! Oh, all right, all right: The lettuce seeds failed completely to transform themselves into actual lettuce, so I broke down and bought some plants. But they were tiny, pathetic looking things before we went away and now I really can look forward to producing my own salad this summer. (The rocket, I’m sorry to say, did not do as instructed and sprout in small pots for transplanting. I have, therefore, tossed all the remaining seeds into the soil and must now simply hope for the best.)



Trip to the garden store before Irmani and I left for Tofino. The cherry tomatoes (already flowering) have now been planted and – in a triumph of hope over experience – so have more red peppers. The first year of the Gabriola garden project produced one solitary (though nonetheless tasty) red pepper. The second year, all four plants I bought died before producing any fruit. But this, of course, is the year. The soil has been enriched with compost, manure and lime. Nothing can go wrong. (Oh, ha, ha – see lettuce and rocket update.)



Check out the Brassica bed! Although they still have a long way to go, the Savoy cabbages already look like Savoy cabbages. I’m definitely getting some food out of this lot.



Moving right along, it took them a while to sprout, but it now seems as if I will actually get some peas this year. Last year the garden managed to produce one (yes, one) pod in total.

And then there is the berry segment of the programme…



If the birds don’t get them first, there will be lots of blueberries.



Still can’t believe last year’s strawberry plants are fruiting so well. In Walthamstow, Ben and I had to buy new strawberry plants every year.

Not bad, not bad at all.

What the fuck?

Back on Gabriola. Go out to inspect the garden, which Pat has been watering in my absence. What the fuck?

In the spot where the broccoli went to meet their maker there are plants. I blink, look again. Is it possible? Were the broccoli just resting before putting on a big growth spurt? Well, yes, I suppose it is possible, but if this is the case, why the hell do they look so much like tomato plants?


Go inside and do a Google image search for young broccoli plants. Who am I trying to kid? This bears no resemblance whatsoever to the plants outside. And then I remember that part of the area I’ve rototilled did have some compost – clearly including rotting tomatoes – spread on it. So, it turns out I have actually managed – albeit by accident – to grow something in this soil from seed. Well, big pat on the back for me.

A sudden reminder of the mutant tomato plant which grew from the seed of a fallen ancestor in our Walthamstow garden.

This was, I thought, a minor miracle, given that the reason we grew everything in containers was because the ‘soil’ consisted of an inch of mulch on top of an inch of sand on top of concrete. When I emailed this photo of the plant and six foot two Ben to my cousin Peter, he explained that tomatoes planted in shallow soil will simply grow up (and up and up).

Oh, well. Not sure these newcomers will actually have time to flower and bear fruit. And it’s not as if I need more tomatoes.

There are indeed hundreds of tomatoes coming out on the two well advanced Sweet 100s I planted when everything else in the so-called vegetable patch was withering and dying.


And, while Pat ended up reaping a lot of the benefit of the Tumbler tomatoes in the two weeks I was away, there are still quite a few coming out on these.


Elsewhere in the garden, the hanging-in-there rocket has not only had a bit of a growth spurt (are these leaves actually big enough to be worth harvesting for salad?), but are actually flowering. And, much to my astonishment, some of the carrots seem to be staging a comeback. I could actually get a few carrots out of my garden. Well, well. (The lettuce, on the other hand, has completely disappeared, as has the last trace of the beets. Oh, well.)

And the blackberries are ready to pick!

Not quite enough yet to make the blackberry crumble I’ve been wanting for months, but more than enough berries to have with some vanilla gelato for dessert tonight.

And there are other garden crops – even if they’re not mine. When I go over to thank Pat for watering the garden, he pulls out a large zucchini (courgette) and an acorn squash for me. (My own pumpkin and spaghetti squash plants are struggling to produce any produce, but I haven’t completely given up on them yet.) Mike turns his nose up at the squash – like I don’t remember he doesn’t like squash – until I remind him that I have a delicious squash soup recipe.

Meanwhile, indoors, the mouse war has gone ultrasonic. The absence for a fortnight of any dry cat food or a water bowl for Tri may have already discouraged them (no sign of new droppings on my return) and I’m keeping it that way.

Discovered at the Home Hardware on Commercial Drive (where they not only cut an eight foot curtain rod down to the seven foot I needed, but also fixed a lampshade the shippers had buggered up – I love those guys) that plug-in ultrasonic rodent repellers exist. This shop, as former Drive residents will attest, has everything. Where was the ultrasonic option at Canadian Tire or Home Depot? Nowhere, that’s where. So, fuck off, Mickey Mouse, and thank you, Home Hardware.

Progress!

It actually stopped raining last night and when I wake up this morning the sun is out. Lights, camera, action!

I get out to the garden as quickly as I can, put Jamie’s weed whacker to use. As I’m finishing the job I started two weeks ago, Sally walks past, stops for a chat. I tell her my vision for raised beds for veg at one end, and a sitting area with flowers at the other. With the sun shining I can almost imagine it happening. She asks if I think I’ll be able to get vegetables in this summer. Let’s be practical, I think, how long is my vision going to take to become a reality? Well, I say, I think I may have to resort to grow bags for this summer if I’m going to have any hope of tomatoes or any other summer fruit or veg.

I know grow bags will work, because, when my friend Ben and I moved into our house in Walthamstow we were compelled to use them after discovering that what we thought were flower borders around the paved garden actually consisted of an inch of mulch on top of an inch of sand on top of concrete.


It’s amazing what we were able to grow in pots and grow bags in Walthamstow.

Sally wishes me luck and heads up her drive. I get back to whacking weeds. When I make as far as the area I’d once carved out for flowering shrubs I make an astonishing discovery: hidden in the knee high weeds is what I’m 99% certain is my lilac tree and it’s still alive! It was four foot high when I left and is now barely one foot tall, but surely it’s my lilac tree. I call across the road to Pat, who’s also taking advantage of this probably brief period of sunshine to do some work on his garden, ask him to come over and give me his opinion on something. Yes, he says, it’s a lilac, although the deer have been at it, nibbling it down from the top. Never mind. It’s alive and that’s what counts. It makes me ridiculously happy that something – anything – from my earlier gardening efforts has survived.

Tangled up in honeysuckle and undergrowth on the other side of the fence is what’s left of the roll of fence wire I bought years ago. Some of this can be used to to surround and protect the lilac. Also unearthed in the weed whacking of this area is one of several rose bushes I’d planted, struggling to survive. It’s pretty sad looking, but undeniably has leaves on it and, again, I’m disproportionately cheered by its existence.

Elsewhere, the weed whacking confirms my suspicion that the rhododendron planted to mark the grave of my crazy, much loved cat Clancy is as dead as he has been for many years. I honestly cannot face the prospect of digging there to plant another shrub, lest I accidentally dig down as far as his remains. I decide a small rock garden (heaven knows there are enough rocks in the garden for the job) will replace the rhododendron.

I finish the weed whacking, borrow Pat’s rake (mine, having disappeared along with all my other garden tools) and make some more progress. Then I go into the house to try to find the wire cutters. Unlike the gardening tools, the wire cutters are where I left them in the bottom drawer in the kitchen.


I make a protective cage for the lilac, deciding not to bother with the rose bush you can almost (if you try very hard) see beside struggling for survival on the right.

Then I dig out my gardening gloves and apply the not terribly useful for the job wire cutters (my secateurs having also disappeared) to pruning back the blackberry shrub.

When Pat and I originally put the fence posts and wire fencing in, we used the end of the roll to close off the opening to the garden. That was fairly soon afterwards replaced by a proper (of sorts) gate – the one Tom, our handyman and mate, had taken down from his own property to replace with something higher and more deer-proof. Tom’s old gate, left open at some point and warped beyond repair by the elements, is, as previously stated, no longer functional on any level.


However, I do still have enough fencing on the roll to revert to the original deer barrier, so I set to it with the wire cutters, unrolling enough to close off the garden. Hurrah, hurrah, hurbloodyrah! Who cares if I have bleeding cuts on my fingers? (Was it the blackberry thorns or the wire, I vaguely wonder?)I have accomplished more in the past two hours than in the past two weeks. The job is so far from done that it really doesn’t bear thinking about, but – and this is an enormous but – what I now have is something which might actually be mistaken for a garden, rather than a semi-fenced in jungle on the corner of my property.

Next job is clearing enough of the undergrowth near the “gate” to relocate the compost box. It needs to be moved anyway to make room for the raised beds (whenever that happens), but it will also be a pain (possibly literally) having to undo and reattach the wire every time I want to throw peelings in.

After that, I need to dig up all the remaining weeds around the lilac “tree” and rose “bush”, to return it to looking like an actual bed. God, I can’t wait.

Still, I haven’t had breakfast yet and I’ve been at work in the garden for two hours. Time to go inside and have something to eat.

What’s this? Oh, no, it’s clouding over! Before I can finish my coffee and muffin it’s bloody raining again. Damn, damn, damn.

In two days Mike and I are going to Vancouver for 10 days (doctor’s appointments, his granddaughter’s fourth birthday party and for me a piss up in the wonderful WISE Club (where you can still have a pint and a fag indoors) with my old mate Jane who’s visiting from Montreal. Lovely chubbly, but if it doesn’t stop bloody raining in the next couple of days it will be a fortnight before I can get anything else done.

Bollocks.