It's show time!

Note to self: As important as it is to properly clean and sterilise the hummingbird feeder between loads of nectar, do not pour boiling water into the plastic bottle.

It will melt and warp. Then it will not screw into the bottom tray properly and all the nectar will dribble out. And the hummingbirds will be pissed off.  Doh. Off to the garden shop to buy another. Fortunately they still have one of the good ones left. Service resumed.

A bit of better (and less stupid) news from the garden. The last few times I watered the garden, the California lilac was covered in busily buzzing bees. Perhaps it’s a time of day thing (it was late afternoon when I noticed the distinct lack of buzzing) or perhaps it genuinely was the case that the word hadn’t spread to the larger bee population. Normal service definitely resumed.

I’m afraid this needs must be a very short entry. After several weeks of laughter-filled, delightful rehearsals with the charming, cheery Charlie Cheffins, tonight he and I must perform A Visit From Miss Prothero in front of an actual audience – first of four shows. Blimey.

Cherry (tomato) picking

It’s the Victoria Day long weekend and everyone on Gabriola knows what that means.

But before we get to that, shall we take a minute to ask why Canada, in the 21^st century, has a public holiday honouring a 19^th century prudish, colonialist British monarch? No idea? No, neither do I.

A couple of years ago a group of Canadian notables petitioned the Harper government to change the name of the holiday to “Victoria and First Peoples Day”. I hated the name, although I applauded the sentiment. On reflection, I do like the name, marrying as it does the name of the woman in whose name treaties were made and broken with the people whose land was stolen and culture almost obliterated. Of course, this suggestion was never going to fly with bizarrely anglophile Harper. Perhaps it’s time to propose the idea of a name change to the new Prime Minister. (And if he disagrees, suggest taking it outside.) Failing that, how about making National Aboriginal Day – which is also happily the first day of summer – a national holiday and day of atonement?

Anyway, what the Victoria Day weekend means on Gabriola is the official opening of the farmers market at the Agi Hall. And this means the lovely lady whose name I can never remember (but I think might be Linda) will be there selling her wonderful tomato plants. Which means it’s time to get going on the cherry tomatoes!

The market is heaving when I arrive. I clock that the lovely lady is there, then have a quick wander around. The market operators have stated that this year there will be a lot more actual food, compared to the tables selling crystals, tie-dyed apparel and other hippie dippie extravagances. Hmm. There is definitely more produce than there has been in past years, but I think the volume of New Age product is still considerably higher. Unless the tie-dyed apparel is actually being grown in fields, it’s still not clear to me why this is called a farmers market.

Never mind. The artisans need somewhere to flog their wares. Makes no odds to me. The stall I want is there. I head back to it. When I arrive I overhear some terrible news: The lovely lady is moving to Nanaimo. This is going to be her first and last appearance of the year at the market. Thank goodness I came today.

I ask about cherry tomatoes and she points me towards the large selection of pots behind the stall. I go to investigate. My goodness. They’re huge! I’m almost certain her tomato plants aren’t usually this tall this early in the year.

Two years ago, after fucking Bambo got into the garden and ate the tops of all the profusely flowering red cherry tomato plants, I bought a couple of yellow cherry tomato plants (all she had left by then) from her. The plants turned out to be prolific and the tomatoes turned out to be delicious.

So delicious that last year I bought another yellow cherry tomato plant from her. Not quite as much success.

Whatever variety these fairly large tomatoes were, they were not yellow cherries. Still, not a complete loss. Not being a big fan of large tomatoes for eating, I did end up making my first ever batch of tomato sauce, which was very tasty.

Despite last year’s not yellow cherry tomato mix up, I decide to take a chance again and purchase one purportedly yellow tomato plant and two reds. Time will tell what I actually have in these pots. 

The other thing the Victoria Day weekend always brings is my holiday-home neighbours. Their “house” is actually a glorified shed, fractionally less than the ten foot square maximum after which new homes must pass a building inspection. Not a lot of space in which to spend a lot of time, ergo the picnic bench and outdoor furniture which would be very pleasant if it didn’t bucket down every time they come. Typically, their arrival on Thursday brought rain.

This afternoon, however, was merely overcast. Fine for planting and staking the tomato plants. Oh, and what’s this? After the plants are in their pots and have been watered, the sun actually comes out.

Clearly I need to go into the house, make a cup of tea and return to the garden with the paper, in order to spend some quality time on the garden swing with Stella.

After a few minutes I realise something may not be quite right. The buzzing from the California lilac does not seem anywhere near as loud as it did this time last year. Is it my imagination (oh, lord, I hope it is) or are there substantially fewer bees buzzing around the blossom?  

I come back into the house and check the “buzzing” blog entries from previous years. Both seem to be from early June. Perhaps the word hasn’t got out to the wider bee population yet. 

Oh, lord, I hope that’s what it is.

Buzzing

A lovely, lazy afternoon spent stretched out in the garden swing with stellar Stella and a good book. (Her by Harriet Lane, ordered from the library months ago after reading a good review, only now arrived.)

This is one of the best times to be in the garden. The California lilac is in bloom and it is absolutely buzzing.

There are so many bees swarming around this plant it’s difficult to believe there are any bees anywhere else on the island. It’s also difficult to believe that fiveyears ago this was the size of the tree.

Eventually it gets too hot on the swing – first for Stella, then for me. So in I come to write a few lines about how tough life on Gabriola is.

I’m not sure how much bee-friendly bloom is likely from the California lilacs I’ve planted at the back of the house. Actually, I am sure: not much.

For one thing, the trees don’t get as much sun back here. I can live with that. For another (unfortunate) thing (goddamnit), it turns out California lilacs aren’t as deer resistant as I thought. No, deer won’t munch them down to the ground, as they do many things, but, as Donna Deacon has pointed out to me, they will nibble up all the new leafs (and therefore blooms). Gahhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

So, the California lilac I planted in March…

… now looks like this…

Let’s hope that the parrot or the chicken wire (or both) will keep this clown away. 

Time to shift myself, my book and a gin and tonic to here.

Life is tough sometimes.

You can never have too many roses

Today it is Roxie who is keen to help out in the garden.

We begin with a general inspection. What’s this I see?

Oh, my goodness. One day after transplanting the raspberries to better soil, one of them is starting to flower! (Okay, okay, yes, it might have started to flower today anyway, but a woman can dream can’t she?)

And what’s this?

A flower on the California lilac (formerly known as the Ceanothus) already? With absolutely no buds anywhere else? How can this be? Or is this one flower actually left over from last year? How can that be? Around the garden there are bees already buzzing. None are interested in this one flower. All are hopefully poking around in the tulips and hyacinths, destined to be disappointed. (Note to self: identify and plant an early flowering and bee-friendly shrub.)

This morning’s job is weeding the rose garden. Then it’s time (finally – I dug the hole last summer) to get the already budding clematis out of its pot and into the ground.

 

Then it’s time for my first al fresco lunch.

Life can be tough on Gabriola.

On my way back to the garden after lunch, I empty the compost bag into the wormery.

It’s been a while, so I decide to check the lower tray.

Hurrah! A tray full of lovely, smelly, nutrient-rich composted soil. (Note to self: remember to crush egg shells before adding and forget about avocado pits – the worms will never break them down.)

I should, of course, dig this into the vegetable patch or add to the various berry beds. Do I do this? No, I don’t.

The first few fistfuls are packed around the roots of the lilac tree in the hope that this might encourage it to blossom without Krys here. Then I spread composted soil around the roots of all the rose bushes, hoping for a bumper crop of blooms this summer.

Only after fortifying the roses do my thoughts turn to fruit. The apple and pear trees get a dose, as do the two dwarf blueberry bushes.

I mean, let’s face it, if it comes to a choice between food and flowers, it’s no contest, right? As Wallis Simpson once more or less said, “You can never be too thin or have too many roses.”