Blooming marvellous

While I was in the UK, Krys decided it would be a good idea to put up a hanging bracket for another flowering basket. And I have to say I think this is a good idea – not least because flowers hanging in baskets are less likely to get eaten by the bloody deer. Such a good idea, in fact, that I decide to add another and shift the one she’s put up so they can actually be seen from inside the house.



As Irmani’s fuchsia isn’t looking likely to flower any time soon (although it does seem to have survived its fall), decide the new basket should be more dark eyes fuchsias.



Krys also suggested a window box under the diningroom window. Again, excellent idea – although one can but hope the bloody deer will leave it alone.

Meanwhile, back in the garden…



I know I’ve already mentioned the apple blossom coming along, but today I do a count. There are at least 35 flowers, which one presumes means at least 35 apples. How on earth can this poor little tree, with its thin little branches support 35 apples?



Again, yes, already mentioned, but look at the lilac blossom! When Krys emailed me in the UK to say she thought the lilac was actually going to flower this year, I couldn’t believe it – but it’s true! (Claps hands together, bounces up and down. It's been a long time coming.}



And the first rosebud. Hurrah!

Playing gooseberry

After three days of sitting, hunched over the computer, creating and loading content to my very own website, how lovely to spend a lovely day yesterday in the garden.

I don’t think I’ve actually acknowledged this, so time to do so now: How very, very lovely that, thanks to my wonderful friend Krys, getting stuck into the garden this year did not involve two days of weeding (and all the attendant sore muscles). Thank you so much, sweetie.

So, what did the day in the garden involve?

During my last visit to the garden shop, I mentioned that my black currant produces very little fruit. Turns out that, like blueberries, black currants need a buddy. More slightly ribald comments about cross pollination ensue and a second black currant bush is purchased.



Too late this year, I fear, for the original to produce more than its usual handful of black currants, but hopefully this will change next year. And who knows? Perhaps the new bush will produce enough fruit for me to finally be able to make the wonderful pork with black currant sauce recipe, which was the main reason I bought a bush in the first place. (Although red currants do occasionally turn up for sale in the produce section of the local supermarket, black currants never do.)

While there, I also decided to play gooseberry for the first time, after spotting a pink gooseberry bush for sale. (Pink gooseberries, as I learnt from my cousin Peter, being sweeter than their green cousins.) What I don’t think to do, until I’m back home with both and look on the internet, is check to see what sort of conditions gooseberries like. As much sun as possible. Uh, oh. The spot I had in mind at the end of the raspberry row by the fence will not do the trick. Ring the garden shop. Can gooseberries be grown in containers, I ask? They hem and haw a bit, say, yes, well, probably for a year or two, but this is definitely not ideal. Look around garden for somewhere sunny. Well, I suppose I could use part of the original “raised bed” (ha, ha), usually devoted to cherry tomatoes. Worth a try.



Empty out one section completely and refill it with a mixture of topsoil and compost. Plant gooseberry and cross fingers. While I’m there I also weed the remaining three sections and mix some compost in, ready now for the tomato plants at the end of May.

Come inside for some lunch. Talk to Ginny on the phone about the Gabriola Youth Group session I’ve agreed to help out with this weekend. Mention I’m off to Wheelbarrow. She says she’s just been to pick up her tomato plants. Too soon! I cry. Tomatoes cannot be planted until the end of May. Of course she knows this. Hers have been placed in the cold frame. I need one of those, I tell her. Easy, peasy, says Ginny (a bit of a dab hand at carpentry). She can, she says, show me how to make one for next to nothing. Hurrah! Again, too late for this year, but next year…!



The Stargazer lilies I planted last year turned out to be every bit as beautiful and fraigrant as I’d hoped. (The wisteria behind – which I had visions of growing and blossoming all along the fence – not so much. Dead as a doornail.) Definitely need some more.

Bollocks. There are none to be had. What, oh what to buy instead? The other lilies just don’t cut it. Oh, but wait – what’s this I see? Freesias? I love freesias. Okay, they’ll do.

Woo, hoo!

Woo, hoo!

Go out to water apple tree (yes, Krys, I have been watering every day) and what do I see?



Check out the red blossoms getting ready to open! Is it possible I could actually get some apples this year off this glorified stick? Who’d have thought it?

And look!



Strawberries coming along. Hurrah.

And look!



Okay, not so much with this photo. You can’t really see, but five of the raspberry bushes are already starting to flower.

Sadly, temperature has plummeted rather since last week, so some concern about the seeds Krys planted – and the row of peas I put in over the weekend and the butternut squash seeds I put (in one last leap of faith) in sprouting pots.

Once again, fingers crossed.

Meanwhile, out back...

It’s not all going on in the garden. Oh, no.

Thanks to the excellent scavenging skills of Krys, I have lots of planters (spotted free for anyone who might want outside Arbutus one day).



As a result, my herbs really are now just outside the kitchen door. The oregano and the mint should be safe, but last year the deer munched the chives down to nothing. They seem to be staging a comeback, but only time will tell. (Assuming the bloody deer don’t go after them again.)

And, speaking of the bloody deer, at the garden shop I spot a bag of bulbs/tubers which (a) are supposed to be happy with a combination of sun and shade and, most importantly, (b) are “deer resistant”. Can this be true? It would be nice to have some sort of flowers out the back.



Will I, I ask at the nursery, get my money back if the bloody deer do eat the plants? They smile, because, of course, the only guarantee that the deer won’t eat something is a 10-foot, electrified fence. (Perhaps 15-foot.) This I do not have.

Decide to take a chance and buy a bag. And, thanks to the aforementioned planter scavenging, I have a pot which is exactly the right size.



Fingers crossed.

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. .