Blueberry thrill

The raised bed seems to be doing its job, inspiring me to reengage with the garden.

Even though last winter was not particularly harsh, one of the blueberry bushes Becky very kindly bought me in 2011 didn’t make it.



So, off to the garden shop I go. Following a somewhat ribald and amusing chat with the staff about the need of blueberry plants for a cross-pollination buddy, I purchase a replacement.



The construction of the raised bed has left me with a surplus of bricks (used last year to mark off the area of crap soil where vegetables would go to die), so why not put some of them to use?

At the garden shop, I also purchase a bag of gladioli, planning to use these to replace the apparently not perennial purple African daisies installed in the turquoise planters last year. (Yes, I did indeed manage to find planters which match the bench. Not bad, eh?)



There are 50 bulbs in the bag – far, far more than I could possibly squeeze into the pots. Stick some into another dead plant (last year’s basil) pot, then think to read the instructions. (Great for cut flowers, stagger planting every two weeks to ensure ongoing supply.) Ah. Decide not to plant them all and make mental note for staggered planting.

Check the seed pots started by Krys. Yes, it really does appear there may be some beets coming along. (Wonder in passing how long it’s been since I made borscht. I do believe it might be 20 years.)



Sadly, nothing else appears to be popping up. A greenhouse would be a lovely thing for starting this process, but there is absolutely nowhere to put one – not that I could afford one. A cold frame, on the other hand, seems feasible. How difficult could it be? Have a look on-line.



Yikes. This looks a bit complicated – unnecessarily complicate, I suspect. As Krys has pointed out, there are windows to be had for next to nothing at the recycling centre. Surely I could clobber something together? Perhaps not this year.

Do some weeding, water apple tree (for the second time that day) and the roses. Gaze once again in wonder at the purple buds which will be the first lilacs ever on my lilac tree.

It is, I do believe, time for a cocktail on the deck.

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.

Once upon a time

A couple of months ago I finally felt up to the task of going through the boxes of photos and memorabilia I’d left in the closet after Mike’s sudden death. In amongst the holiday snaps and opera programmes and baseball tickets I found one envelope which contained some photos of the house on the day we first came to see it and in the early months of our occupancy.

I thought those who’ve only been here in recent years (and those who’ve never been), might be interested in seeing the transformation since 1996. And now, thanks to Darryl very kindly scanning the photos for me, you can.

November 1995: We arrive with our estate agent (and friend) Patrick and his partner Jill to have our first look at 460 Spruce Avenue.

We enter through what will eventually become the kitchen, but on first sight is a utility room, with lovely fake wood panelling. (This photo was taken after we moved in, got rid of the ramshackle shelving and put in a table and chairs.)

More lovely fake wood panelling in what should obviously be the livingroom (it’s where the woodstove is, isn’t it?), but is being used as the diningroom. (The “kitchen”, such as it is, is in an alcove off this room.)

The big front room, with wonderful picture windows on three sides is being used as the livingroom. This room and the semi-finished basement underneath it (see below) have been added on to the small cottage at some point.

What we fail to notice on our first or second visit is the lack of a single electrical outlet in either of the extension rooms.

And this tiny room, purporting to be the bedroom, seems as it if might be the deal breaker. By the time you put a double bed in here, there wouldn’t be room to swing a cat – and we have two. (Not that either of them particularly enjoys being swung around rooms.)

But then I say to myself (and Mike): “Wait a minute, this house is backwards. The big front room, with all the windows, is where the bedroom should be, so you can wake up in the morning and see all the trees.” (At this point I actually lay down on the carpet in the front room to illustrate my point.) The livingroom should indeed be where the woodstove is, the kitchen should be where the utility room is and the diningroom should be where the so-called bedroom is.

And, as for the basement, it should one day be the study and spare room, complete with its own bathroom.

Speaking of bathrooms…

Just kidding. Although I don’t have a picture of it, there was actually a bathroom (same dark fake wood panelling as the middle room – and lovely orange carpeting), but the outhouse – until it was felled by a tree knocked over by a wind storm – did come in handy during winter power failures when the pump wasn’t working and the indoor toilet couldn’t be flushed.

After longer than expected negotiations with the owners, we finally moved in with same spare furniture in February 1996.

That was the weekend we first discovered the lack of plugs in the front room, making it necessary to make the acquaintance of an electrician as soon as possible. It was also the weekend when we finally registered that the middle room didn’t actually have a window in it.

Several weekends later it did (see new window on left), thanks to Tom, the wonderful handyman we discovered, who played a pivotal role in all future fixes.

Another thing we didn’t have was a woodshed.

So, in the summer, Tom and I built one. (Yes, that really is me on the roof.)

And then we were ready for the following winter.

The kitchen gets moved. Skylights are installed in most rooms. Painting over the fake wood panelling helps, but several years go by before we can renegotiate a bit extra on the mortgage to start the dream renovations.

The wall between the kitchen and spare bedroom comes down.

Work begins in earnest on the basement conversion (although Tom and I have long since built and insulated a downstairs bathroom/laundry room in one corner).

And, as for how it looks today (and with thanks again to Irmani for her help with the down with brown project), click here. .

Live and let die

I’m sure everyone’s been waiting breathlessly for my garden guru cousin’s verdict on my broccoli disaster. Well, here it is.

“I could do my doctorate on brassica problems.

“First thing, the plants look like calabrese, wrongly called broccoli throughout the restaurant and supermarket trades but not (yet) in the UK misnamed on the seed packets. Calabrese is an annual summer-maturing crop usually a foot or so tall with a single head like a small cauliflower and, when well-grown in the garden, one of the most delicious vegetables.

“Broccoli (sprouting broccoli) is a biannual, sown in spring, growing maybe a yard tall and producing many purple or white shoots or spears the following late winter or spring, depending on variety. It needs much more space, a couple of feet or more.

“Calabrese needs rich soil, full sun, plenty of moisture (which yours apparently had), no cold snaps (not even an unseasonably chilly hour overnight) and no competition from nearby plants – it looks from your pic as if large plants nearby could have spread their roots into the calabrese bed. The lack of any one of those could cause premature flowering called bolting. The reason is that the plant feels threatened so it immediately tries to reproduce itself by flowering in order to set seed. Other causes can be damage to the roots from a disease such as club root (the roots swell and start to crumble) or pests such as cabbage root fly, which lays its eggs at the roots - small white grubs hatch and eat the root. It's a wonder any brassicas ever get grown.

“All is not lost. You could still stir-fry the calabrese stems.”

I have now thanked him for these helpful hints (meanwhile giving up on ever trying to grow broccoli or calabrese again). In return, I shared with him this no doubt apocryphal tale.

In the late 19th century two Italian brothers emigrated from Calabria to New York. All they knew from their homeland was farming and that was the occupation they took up on Long Island. Amongst the vegetables they grew, sold in (and in this case introduced to) NYC was calabrese. Somehow this vegetable became known not by its Italian name, but by the name of the brothers who introduced it: Broccoli.

I can only assume the influence of Italian immigrant farmers spread throughout the US and Canada. Thus we have zucchini instead of courgettes (except, possibly in Quebec), cilantro instead of coriander and arugula instead of rocket - to name but a few.

PS: The grandson of one of those immigrant farmers, Albert (Cubby) Broccoli, turned out to also be quite a propagator. The James Bond franchise which he germinated 50 years ago is still going strong.

Raspberries for me, peas for Antler Boy

Well, there’s good news and bad news. Might as well get the bad news out of the way first.

Thanks to the 40 days and 40 nights of rain we had from May to the end of June (and where, one wonders, was Noah?), my brassicas took a beating.

My suspicion (awaiting confirmation from my garden guru cousin Peter) is that the cauliflower got so badly waterlogged that I will be hard pressed to get one cauliflower cheese out of the two of them put together.

The green cabbage still has a chance, I think, but the red cabbage is showing no inclination to do anything except sprout large outer (and no inner) leaves. I ha’e me doots about the Savoy cabbage, but I’m keeping my fingers crossed.

And then there’s the mystery of the broccoli. Before the sun finally came out, the heads (or whatever they’re called) weren’t worth harvesting. Then, what seemed like a day and a half later they’d gone completely to flower. What the fuck? (Another question sent off to Peter: Despite the addition of manure and lime, is it still my soil?)

So, now some good news.

The cherry tomatoes and red peppers, which I thought were going to rot in the rain, have stage a comeback. Amazing what sunlight can do.

Definitely tomatoes coming along.

And definitely some red peppers. (We have, however, been here before with the red peppers, so least said, soonest forgotten.)

Look closely and you will see (I swear) peas coming along nicely. Podding peas. Yum. (One for the pot, two for me was the ratio when I was a kid and I see no reason to change it.)

And look!

Yes, lettuce growing in the sun. Have had my very first salad with my very own lettuce. (Yeah, yeah, okay, so I didn’t grow them from seed. I tried, didn’t I?)

On the fruit front… (Yes, yes, I know tomatoes and peppers are fruit, but you also know what I mean, so shut up.)

There will soon be lots of luscious blueberries. Unlike last year, when the birds got most of them, I actually got around to putting some netting up. Live and learn.

And check out these raspberries!

As I’m picking today’s raspberries, I happen to glance across the road.

Uh, oh. Pat left his gate open when he went out and Antler Boy is having some peas for lunch. I walk across the road and yell at him.

Ever seen an animal whose expression more clearly says, “Who me?” I’m half way up the driveway before he finally bounces away.

Raspberries with lunch. Yum! And, no, you’re not mistaken. That is indeed a solitary strawberry in with the raspberries. Turns out the birds also like strawberries. Shame I didn’t put any netting up around them. Oh, well. Next year.