Blackberries!

Whatever trials and tribulations, successes and failures there may have been over the past six summers, one thing remains gloriously constant: the bounty from the wild blackberry that was in situ long before we bought the house, long before Pat and I spent a weekend in the 1990s fencing in the sunny corner of the plot.

It gets trimmed back every autumn. That’s it for plant care. It’s never been given a drop of water. But every summer it produces more blackberries than I could possibly eat. I always give Pat some. I always end up with bags of blackberries in the freezer to keep me going over the winter. I always have lots of blackberries to eat for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Yes, it sometimes scratches me, but that’s a small price to pay. (Oh, and the bees love the berry blossom.)

This bowl is the first of what will be many pickings over the next few weeks.

I filled half the bowl from inside the garden. For the other half I had to go round to the road to pick the ones hanging over the fence.

Over the past few summers a number of little pine trees have sprouted on the other side of the garden fence. I didn’t try to stop them. They provide a bit more privacy and they deter bloody Bambo. So, no problem.

Well, that’s not quite true. 

When I carried the blackberry bowl around to the road, I discovered the little pine trees had grown to the point that I couldn’t actually get to the fence (and the blackberries). Thus the inclusion of the secateurs in the photo. A great deal of pruning was required before I could start filling the bowl again.

Job done. Access created. Blackberries picked. And now I’m going to have some for breakfast. Yum!

Humming along

In April I took this dispiriting photo.

The purple tulips which had come back nicely the last two (or possibly three) years, this spring managed to produce nothing but limp leaves. (And, oh, dear, that window really needs washing.)

Time, methought, to change things up a bit.

I dug out all the tulip bulbs (to be dried out and transferred in the autumn to the garden) and replaced them in this and the kitchen window boxes with bee-friendly lavender, which will not need to be replaced every year. The hanging baskets would get flowers at some point.

When Catherine was here earlier this week, I spotted a hummingbird when we were sitting outside with our morning coffees and fags. Oh, right, I thought. I was going to get a hummingbird feeder. No time like the present.

On our way down to Drumbeg, I stop at Wheelbarrow. Turns out they don’t sell hummingbird feeders, but that’s okay. Good chance to pick up a couple of Osteospermum (“Tradewinds Deep Purple”) and some lobelia (white and blue) for the hanging baskets.

After a lovely walk (and selfie) at Drumbeg, we drive back via Wild Rose, the other nursery. I know they have hummingbird feeders, because I’ve seen them there.

I am of course immediately drawn to the blue glass feeder. Why wouldn’t I be? It’s cobalt blue glass. (Hello? Have you met me?) Catherine immediately dismisses it, pointing out there is a reason most feeders are red: hummingbirds are attracted to the colour red.

And, yes, I know this is true.

A few years ago a hummingbird got in the house. First I heard its wings humming, then I heard it whacking itself against the skylight in an attempt to escape. The back door, through which it had flown, was wide open, but the bird didn’t seem to be aware of this. I opened all the windows wide to increase the number of potential exits, but the bird still mistakenly thought the skylights were the best escape route. Eventually I had to go to the village to do some shopping, so took a chance and left the back door wide open when I did. Looked around when I returned and thought the bird had figured out how to leave, but I was wrong. Humming wings started up again, along with skylight whacking. Gah! How was I ever going to get the poor thing out of the house? Rang Pat on the off chance that he would have a helpful suggestion. He didn’t, but his visiting friend Margaret did: hang an article of red clothing by the open door. Fantastic suggestion, except I don’t own an article of red clothing. Would anything red do? Yes, said Margaret. Right, I thought, what do I own that’s red? The washing bucket! Of course! Dug it out from under the sink and placed it by the open door. Five minutes later the hummingbird flew out of the house.

So, okay, yeah, I get it. As much as I may want a cobalt blue hummingbird feeder, it ain’t gonna draw a crowd.

There is also a red glass version of the same feeder, but it turns out the bottom does not unscrew, so the feeder cannot be properly cleaned. “It must,” claims the shop manager. He tries. It doesn’t. Nor do the bottoms of my third and fourth choice. (Is the manager, I wonder, going to point these design faults out to future buyers?) So we try a fifth. Eureka! It unscrews for proper cleaning.

As we pay for the feeder (and some basil it will soon be safe to plant outside), Catherine tells me to use cane sugar for the nectar, never beet. The shop manager says he thinks either is fine. Not so, says Catherine, and of course she is right.

Back at the house, I can’t wait to get going. Made-in-China feeder is given a proper wash and rinse. The packet of made-in-China "instant nectar" is put to one side. (The mind boggles.) Catherine tells me I should boil a cup of cane sugar in four cups of water. I look at the feeder. There’s no way it will hold four cups of nectar. Catherine looks at me and says nothing. I boil half a cup of sugar in two cups of water. When it’s taking too long to cool, I stick it in the fridge. We have lunch. I check the nectar. Perfect temperature. Pour it into the holder. It fills less than half of it. I look at Catherine. She smiles. Of course she is right. Lesson learnt.

A cup hook, length of string and a couple of S hooks are assembled and the feeder is attached.

Whilst waiting for the hummingbirds to arrive, I plant the flowers in the hanging baskets.

The next morning, after Catherine leaves, I get around to washing the back windows. The nectar appears to be going down, but I’ve yet to see a hummingbird.

By the next day the word’s apparently gone round the ’hood. 

One visitor conveniently turns up as I take this photo to illustrate the improvements since that first April photo. Can’t see her?

Try this photo.

I am thrilled to report things are humming along nicely.

Rhodo Dave puts me straight

Across the road at Pat’s, in addition to his two heavily lilac-laden trees, his heavenly-scented rhododendron is in full bloom. In fact, rhododendrons are flowering all over the island – except in my back yard. I’m putting this down to the lack of sun back there. After all, the California lilacs in the back flower much later than the one in the garden, so why not?

This looks like it's going to flower, doesn’t it? (Doesn’t it? she repeats plaintively.)

I thought so, but then I realised these are simply new leaves, not flowers. Bollocks.

Nearing the end of rehearsals for Will Shakespeare The Panto, which I directed in 2014, BJ, one of the longstanding panto cast members, looked at me and asked, “What about the children?” To which I replied: “What about them? I’m letting them in, am I not? What more do they want?” BJ pointed out that there was no point in the script assigned to giving sweets to the rug rats. Apparently simply allowing them to attend wasn’t enough. They needed sweets. “Fine,” I said, “you can hand out sweets during the Act One finale*.” Sheesh. Anyone would think that pantos were children’s entertainment. (To avoid a similar debate the following year, I deliberately included handing out sweets in the script. Personally, I still think it’s bloody pandering.)

* Act One finale: A rousing version of Always Look on the Bright Side of Life.

I was reminded of this conversation yesterday when I went to the rehearsal for A Visit From Miss Prothero. 

Dave, our director, and his wife Jan have dozens (nay, scores) of beautifully flowering rhododendrons scattered around their property. I mention my two rhododendrons showing no sign of wanting to flower, proffering my theory that they’ve been slowed down by lack of sun. Dave looks at me and asks, “What are you feeding them?” I stare back at him blankly. Feeding them? What is he talking about? No one told me rhododendrons had to be provided with slap up meals. “Erm,” I mutter. “I water them.” Surely that’s enough? Au contraire. Apparently, in addition to sun and water, they need food. I see.

Fortunately for me, Rhodo Dave has lots of rhododendron food. He sends me home after rehearsal with a supply.

And he tells me I might want to give my only-ever-flowered-once lilac some of the same food – if I would like it to ever flower again. Well, erm, yes, I would rather like that. (I am, of course, immediately suspicious about the year the lilac did actually flower. Krys was here alone with it for three weeks while I was in England. Had she been cooking four-course meals for the lilac? It begins to seem highly likely. How sneaky was that? And this, of course, is much more comforting than my previous theory that the lilac liked her, but doesn’t like me.)

So, this morning both rhododendrons and both lilacs have been fed. Dave, bless him, realising how completely hapless a gardener I am, promises to remind me when the next feeding is required.  

Now that I have learnt the error of my ways, I confidently predict that this time next year my rhododendrons and lilacs will look just like Pat’s.

  

Just kidding. (I can dream, can’t I?)

Appley ever after?

The question of paint versus stain has been duly debated and the answer seems to be stain. Although some followers quite fancied the idea of brightly painted frames, WISE woman Catherine made the best point.

“I just finished staining a planter box we built. Here's why: stain will protect the wood, to a degree, from wind, sun and snow and last for several years. It won't crack, bubble or peel. So the question is: do you want bright, beautiful colour and more work sanding, stripping and repainting in a couple of years? Or natural looking wood, less work and more time for the swing, the book, the cats and wine?”

Obviously more time for the swing wins. Stella, when asked, totally agrees.

Quite a bit of staining in my future, although possibly not in the next couple of days. (After a week of summer-in-April, when I go outside to take this photo of Mr Fixit’s latest delivery, there is a clap of thunder. As I write, rain has started falling.)

Elsewhere in the garden, the most exciting news so far is…

Regular readers will, I’m sure, recall that three years ago Krys and I planted a dwarf apple tree in the garden. It produced lots of blossom and one apple the first year, lots of blossom and eight apples the second year (and there would have been many more apples if frigging Antler Boy hadn't got to it) and precisely zero blossom last year. So, yes, the fact that there is once again lots of blossom on the apple tree is pretty bloomin’ exciting. Will any of this blossom turn into actual apples? Time will tell.

There is also lots of blossom on the pear tree, added to the garden two years ago. This is not quite as exciting as pear blossom has appeared in abundance every spring. What has so far failed to appear on the tree is an actual pear. Fingers crossed this might be the year.

Speaking of things blooming (or not, as the case may be), across the road at Pat’s place – and all around the island – lilac trees are already flowering. Alas, not so in my garden – neither the long-established, flowered-once-only-for-Krys-three-years-ago tree nor the second tree I planted two years ago which I was promised would flower the following year and didn’t. Considering how much I love lilacs I consider this to be most unfair. Fortunately, Pat remains very generous with his overabundance.