Time to compare and contrast again

I figure every now and then I should probably – for the sake of my sanity – measure and celebrate progress. For example…

the bee-friendly Ceanothus planted in 2010…

is now five feet tall.

Although it did not bloom again this year

as it did last year,

this is the tiny shrub I discovered choked in a bed of weeds in 2010. It is also nearly five foot tall now. (Fortunately, Pat is being very generous with his lilacs.)

And then there’s the fig tree I purchased during Irmani’s visit in 2011.

It may not seem like much, but this plant has never produced more than one (admittedly large) leaf per branch.

And it may not be easy to see, but this year it has four leafs per branch. (Admittedly, as I said to Krys, it’s still going to be quite a while before I see an actual fig.)

No further progress with the giant hole, as I’ve been working on my column. In case you’re interested, it does feature the hole.

Back to digging tomorrow.

Oh, my aching arse

Two days of crouching and stretching and bending have left my under-used glutes screaming in protest. However…

the boulders are no longer in the hole and…

the hole is getting bigger and bigger.

I was going to try mixing some compost into the sand (which is basically what the soil back here is), but I’ve decided, to hell with it, I’m going to invest in some landscaping fabric, fill the hole with top soil and have another bed which is actually capable of supporting life. (Note to self: Ask Krys where she got the landscape fabric.)

Elsewhere (get your magnifying glass out again)…

Whether you can see them or not, beet leafs begin to appear.

And carrot leafs.

And peas!

And what’s this we see?

When she was here, Krys told me about her mum’s system for starting new bushes from old. Cut off the end of a branch, stick it in the ground and put a mason jar on top of it. Mini-greenhouse effect, as it were. So, given how much the bees love the ceanothus when it flowers, I’m thinking it would be good to plant more.

After all this digging – and to compensate for all this butt ache – I think it’s time for a large gin and tonic.

Bollocks. Lots of gin, but no limes and no tonic. Very bad planning indeed. A spritzer will have to do.

Rock garden

I’d forgotten (having for some reason given up on it in 2010) quite how much fun one can have digging up rocks for three hours.

Especially when one’s excavation involves rocks this size. (Shades of Catherine’s comments about the Canadian Shield.) For some mad reason I am determined not to be defeated by boulders, so I’m going to be back at it tomorrow.

Get your magnifying glass out for the next two photos.

The lettuce and rocket are sprouting!

And the first rose bud has appeared.

It’s all go now.

On closer inspection

Now that there are some seeds in the ground, it’s time to have a closer look elsewhere. There’s some good news and some bad news.

A long, hard (by Gabriola standards) winter, has taken its toll on the lilac tree. It’s only just finished growing its leaves and it seems almost certain there will be no repeat this year of last year’s excitement of the tree actually blossoming for the first time.

The clematis I thought had died seems to be coming back nicely.

The clematis I thought would survive appears to have died.

There’s no room for sentimentality in this game (well, not much), so I pull the seemingly dead clematis out of its pot and transplant it to the back of the rose bed. It will have to take its chances there.

The root-bound fig tree needs repotting.

On the good news front, the apple tree seems to be doing well.

And, yes, Krys, it is blossoming beautifully. (Although, as we discovered last year, lots of blossom does not necessarily equal lots of apples.)

There are tons of flowers on the black currant bush.

Although it may not be apparent from this photo, some of the raspberry bushes are starting to flower.

As are some of the strawberries. This would be marginally more exciting if every single ripe strawberry of last year’s crop hadn’t had a bite taken out of it. At the time I assumed it was squirrels and decided my only choice, if I wanted any strawberries was to cut off the bitten bit and share with the squirrels. Krys, when she was here, suggested it might have been slugs, said their feeding on strawberries could look like a bite mark. Have I ever actually seen a squirrel on Gabriola? I can’t remember. Ugh. I may have to revise my opinion on sharing. (Short break while I do an internet search. There are squirrels on Gabriola. Hurrah.)

And just look at how beautiful the fuchsia is looking!

Oh, ha, ha. This, of course, is not last year’s fuchsia. It’s one I bought when Krys and I went back to the garden store to get spinach seeds and basil.

This is last year’s fuchsia, transplanted from its root-bound pot to a larger pot, in the hope that, like the fuchsia first I and then Irmani had in London, this one will come back to flower year after year. I’ll keep you posted on its progress.

Seeds of hope

Day 2: I’m in the garden and Krys is on a conference call in the house. I begin with this statement because I fear there may be some amongst you who suspect that the only reason any work is getting done in the garden is because Krys is doing it. She is not.

As far as the visuals go, this entry is going to be pretty bloody dull. But, as I’ve mentioned before, you asked for it.

The first hour or so is spent digging in new topsoil and compost in the existing raised beds. After this is completed, it’s time for a cup of tea. Then it’s time to plant some seeds.

Last year’s experiment, using bamboo sticks for the peas, began well,

but did not end well, when the peas outgrew the sticks.

So this year I have a better plan: nice tall wire circles for the peas to climb up.

The bamboo sticks work much better to mark the rows where the first rows of carrots and beets have been planted.

When I posted this as my new Facebook cover photo, Morag shared a hope I might update it when there are actually plants to be seen, and indeed I will. For now you will have to use your imagination.

Far left, back there will be some lettuce, front there will be some rocket (middle sections reserved for future plantings of same). Right section, new bed, spinach. Back section, left, old bed, baby scaloppini squash, right, acorn squash. Front section, left, nasturtiums for colour and edibility, right some herbs from last year (chives, mint and thyme).

An interesting discovery on a packet of cosmos seeds bought in the hope of having some extra colour in the summer: they like crap soil! So I scattered the whole packet in the rose bed. Fingers crossed.

Watch this space.

Day One: Dirty work

Okay, I’ll admit it.

After the triumph of my directorial debut with Inherit the Wind , I did waste some valuable gardening time sitting around resting on my arse (sorry, I meant laurels), but I knew I would be galvanised by the arrival of my friend Krys. And I was.

The day after she got here we hit the garden shops. There are two on Gabriola and I won’t name names. Suffice to say that two out of three of the last blueberry bushes I’ve bought at one have died. So, I figured I should go to the other to buy another one to cross pollinate with the survivor. But I couldn’t remember whether the other one sold seeds, so we went to the doomed plant shop first to stock up on seeds: beets, carrots, peas, scaloppini and acorn squash (hoping that these varieties, being smaller than butternut, might actually produce before the first frost killed them), lettuce and arugula (rocket). I haven’t attempted to grow rocket since the first summer’s disaster, but raised beds have raised expectations.

Then it’s off to the other garden shop to get a replacement blueberry bush, some topsoil and some compost. It is, for want of a better word, an entertaining experience. It’s a busy Saturday afternoon and a photo of the only woman working could be used as a perfect illustration of the word harried. Technology is conspiring against her. Every time she tries to take a debit or credit card payment, the machine is knocked out of action by an incoming phone call or fax (all running on the same phone line). When the payment machine is actually working, the customers whose orders are half rung in suddenly decides there is something else they must pick up, but apparently cancelling a transaction is too great a technological challenge, so we all wait patiently as petunias or pansies are fetched. I can’t help imagining the reaction of customers at a garden shop in the city. On Gabriola we just smile and shrug. We’re on island time.

When we eventually get back to the house, I suddenly realise that the badly-home-built bookcase, inherited with the purchase of the house, now surplus to requirements and leaning against the woodshed, could, in fact, serve as another raised bed. I am so inspired I immediately go out to the garden with a shovel and start digging a hole. I stop digging when it starts to rain, but not before discovering that the small piece of landscaping fabric left over from the large raised bed fits perfectly!

Back out to the garden the next morning to finish digging the hole for the new raised bed.

When it turns out the largest opening from the old bookcase requires an entire bag of top soil to fill it, I realise that I didn’t buy enough. Bugger.

So, back to the garden shop we go to buy more topsoil and some flowers for the window box.

The new raised bed is filled with soil and compost. (Oh, and aren't the stargazer lilies coming back nicely?)

Not one, but two new blueberry bushes are planted. Although it is impossible to see in this photo, there are lots of flowers with the potential to produce lots of blueberries (assuming the bloody birds don’t get them first).

Potted pink gooseberry transplanted in with some raspberries.

And now I do believe it’s time for a glass of prosecco with Krys.

You asked for it

Okay, I’ve already had Irmani and Krys bugging me to get the blog going again.

And, now that Krys has departed

in her private floatplane

from Gabriola International Airport,

I guess have no excuse.

This entry is by way of a filler until I have a chance to download and resize other photos. So, let’s start with a recap of last year’s Gabriola garden adventures.

I came back from three weeks in London and Amsterdam to discover that, in my absence, cat-sitting Krys and her clever hubby Glenn had built me a raised bed.

And filled it with quality top soil.

Lesson Number One from last year: As I suspected, you can actually grow food crops if your soil isn’t completely crap. I had beets and peas and so many courgettes I had to give half of them away.

Lesson Number Two: Just because a grafted apple tree can, in theory, produce eight varieties of apples and just because it produces a huge amount of blossom, doesn’t mean it will actually produce more than one apple.

Lesson Number Three: Even with quality soil, the growing season is simply too short for butternut squash – especially if, as is often the case, we go from a lovely May to a frigid Juneuary.

Clearly the solution is a greenhouse. Unfortunately, I have nowhere to put one and no money to buy one. So, I’m going to have to give up on large squash.

This year is, of course, going to be better than ever. The hapless gardener has made a great start – as will soon be revealed. So, watch this space. And remember where we started.

Questions, questions

It’s a beautiful day in the neighbourhood, but, let’s face it, we’re in September now. Our beautiful days are numbered. Which raises a few garden-related questions.

Will there be enough sunshine and decent weather to…

… ripen these tomatoes?

… get a second crop of peas in?

… turn these tiny squash into soup?

Why, when they’re from the same plant, do these look like completely different types of squash?

When should I pick the one apple my new tree produced?

Is it possible my 92-year-old neighbour Pat is sun bathing au naturel on his front porch?

(I did not call across the road to get his attention and find out.)

Who is this?

The answer to the final question is Stella, a lovely seven-year-old cat who was being fostered by Cats Alive after her person died a few months ago. It may seem to be rather soon after I said goodbye to Angie, but I realised one dark, rainy morning (shades of the months to come) that there was no way I could survive the winter alone in the house. And, as I’ve said to a number of people recently, Angie, more so than any other cat I’ve ever known, understood how much people need cats .

Answers to or thoughts on all other questions welcome.

There’s a new rose bush in the garden

Twenty years ago, although we already had my two cats (Crazy Clancy and Lady Jenny), Mike and I decided that it would probably be good for Heather, his cat-loving daughter (at the time living with us), to have a kitten of her own.

A friend of a friend had taken in a stray who turned out to be pregnant. Mama Cat somehow managed to produce eight kittens: five females and three males, all with remarkably similar colouring and markings. I figured a female kitten would be less likely to make Crazy Clancy any crazier. By the time I rang the woman in question, four of the females had already been adopted. There was one female – claimed by me – and the three males left.

As explained in a previous posting, Heather and I set off to collect one kitten and came back with two.

Angie, the female, quickly worked out that she was getting the fuzzy end of the lollipop as far as Heather’s affections were concerned and decided she was going to adopt Mike as her person. No argument from him.

If not at first sight, it was definitely love.

When I returned to Gabriola after Mike’s sudden death in Vancouver, Angie had no interest in me or in Catherine, who so kindly came back with me. Angie trotted out to the car to see where Mike was and when it was clear to her that he was not with me she was inconsolable.

But we muddled along. As well as having Tri on my lap while I was reading or watching telly in the evening, I now also had Angie curled up by my shoulder.

Blind as a bat, Tri kept on grooming Angie.

About this time last year the vet told me Angie’s kidney functions had all but packed in. There were, he said, medication which might work, but no guarantee. I started trying to prepare myself for the worst. Happily, the medication did seem to do the job. Angie perked up, back in my arms again.

Then Tri, my big galoot, got sick and was gone so quickly I couldn’t believe it.

Jenny died in 2002, aged 16. She was buried in what was then barely a garden. Clancy made it to age 18. Typically, although he’s been in the garden for several years, he can still scratch.

The same weekend I buried Tri under a rose bush last October, I dug another hole nearby, convinced his sister would soon be following him. I started trying to make bargains (with whom I’m not quite sure): Please don’t let Angie die before my birthday, before Christmas. Like the Energiser bunny, she just kept going, bless her. In the spring I filled the hole back in.

Well, we were together for nearly a year longer than I thought we would be. But when she stopped curling up with me in the evenings and then stopped eating anything except cooked chicken, I knew it was time to let her go.

I’m not much on the afterlife, but as I buried her beside her brother yesterday I was hoping that Angie and Mike have been reunited.

For the first time since we bought this house in 1996 there is no cat in it. But there are four in the garden.