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.

Back in the back forty

Time today for a bit more housekeeping. In the house, you ask? No. Never mind the bloody house. No, back in the “back forty” (ha, ha).

I really should have taken a photo a month ago when the daffs were in full bloom all over the back. (One flowering thing bloody Bambo won’t eat.) It looked fabulous. Now it’s time to trim them all back.

One thing, now that I’m looking properly, is growing (and growing) increasingly clear: the weeds didn’t get (or perhaps did not read) the memo. This is a rock garden, featuring heather and lavender. No other vegetation need apply.

Well, except ferns. We like ferns. Wherever they wish to pop up they are very welcome.

As for the rest, they’ve got to go. So I start weeding.

What, I hear you ask, does the broom have to do with anything? It is actually playing quite an important role. It is allowing me to sweep away the bloody pine needles (which, moistened over winter and adhering together like mud, are encouraging weeds to spring up apparently out of nowhere).

Two hours later, much better. There’s still a considerable amount to do back here, but I think it’s time to kick Stella off the zero gravity chair, make a cup of tea and read the paper.

For now, job done.

The bees' needs

If I have a gardening philosophy it’s this.

In the absence of any innate ability, I find a philosophy is useful.

Of course, the keeping calm part was a challenge last year, after this bastard got into and wreaked havoc in the garden.

Bee friendly, on the other hand, has remained my buzz phrase. Furthering that goal was job one this Easter weekend.

Thanks to Cec (who is now – hurrah! – staying on the island), I have another yard of sea soil, which I can put to good use.

We begin, not in the garden, but in the back forty (as if I have forty acres – ha!).

As you may (or may not) recall, back in 2012 I had some trees felled.

The rounds were duly chopped and have by now been burned over the intervening winters. The ground remained covered in branches. After two years I accepted that these would never biodegrade during my lifetime, so I hired someone to help me clear them. Then I set about “landscaping”.

Rocks, as you can see, are a big feature. With no fence (not that that stopped frigging Bambo last year), planting options were limited. Deer do not eat daffs, so lots of those went in the ground last autumn. (Is it just me or do I definitely need more pink flamingos back here?)

As a rule (which can be broken), deer do not eat heather or lavender, so I planted both. Bees are very partial to lavender.

I was delighted to discover that another plant deer generally leave alone is my old bee-friendly favourite, the Ceanothus. (Which, as I was informed today, is also known as a California lilac, a name I’ve decided I prefer.)  

So, job one today was digging a hole in the rock-encrusted so-called soil, filling it with sea soil and adding a new California lilac.

This is the third one I’ve planted out back. Eventually, I suspect, there will be more.

Wot, no beer?

A response from Rowan re things you can do with lavender:

“You can make lavender sugar, mmmm same as vanilla sugar. You can flavour delicate fairy cakes with it.... You can put in with garlic instead of rosemary with lamb. Nice with chicken too. Better to use too little than too much in savoury cooking. Lavender jelly (as in strained jam not jello) is nice too.

”Lavender tea to help you relax and unwind, and yes, potpourri too. It also helps keep moths away so make a sachet and bung it with the woollens. Also make a sachet and tie to the bath tap so that the water runs over it when running a bath.”

So, it turns out you can drink lavender, though not as beer or wine. Lavender tea, sugar, fairy cakes and jelly are almost certainly never going to happen, but I do like the sound of using it instead of rosemary with lamb. And I’d already thought of using some for sachets in my drawers. (A sudden recollection of both my mother and grandmother doing the same, makes me wonder how this, like so much other traditional knowledge, has been wiped from memory by the Machiavellian chemical industry. Oh, lord, don’t get me started.)

After weeks of doing little more than producing one bud which I begin to think will never open, my scrappy survivor rose bush has produced one lovely bloom, so heavy on its poor, anorexic branches that it’s practically dragging on the ground. Would provide photographic evidence of this semi-miracle, but alas the batteries are dead on my camera and I don’t have any spares.

It’s not quite the mile Jane says is required, but I’ve started releasing the captured mice up the road when I check on the post. There are at least 15 houses between there and here. Am hoping they will start colonising somewhere else.

Off to Vancouver today with Mike – various appointments (including the birthday of his younger granddaughter) book marked around the delivery next Tuesday of my belongings from the UK. Am not looking forward to putting the futon base back together. Even if I can find the instructions (which I hastily packed after realising the shippers had taken it apart), they will be of limited use. It took me hours to put the bloody thing together the first time in Stoke Newington because, as I discovered after much cursing, a key instruction was actually wrong. Am hoping I will remember which bit that was.

The place will look fab when everything is unpacked and in place, but I’m dreading the process, complicated by the need to keep the halls clear for Mike to get around. Where am I going to put it all until it’s unpacked?

Pat will be watering the garden while I’m away. Hope all the tomatoes don’t ripen and get eaten by him while I’m away.