An update on this topsy-turvy springtime.

This photo of The Long House was taken on May 4th and shows the rosa banksiae Lutea fully out and looking quite spectacular (and I have to admit much admired by walkers coming along the South Downs Way). But it’s premature! When we first saw the house, on June 4th 2010, it looked identically splendid but that was then and then is now…30 days ahead of schedule. What is particularly frustrating is that we were banking on it being at its peak on May 28th when we’ve a large party of Austrians coming here on a garden visit (complete with camera crew and led by Austria’s answer to Alan Titchmarsh). Irises are also flowering now and they’ll be over too by then.

That’s not all: Rosie’s doing her Chelsea Chop now, three weeks ahead of the show actually taking place, yet, on the other hand the broad beans have stagnated since those damn frosts and the cotinus Grace in the shrubbery is suffering from frigidity (poor dear). So there’s no pleasing anyone this year. Least of all the poor wine growers of England: Nyetimber, Denbies, Ridgeview and Rathfinny have all reported ‘catastrophic’ damage to their vines because of those two nights of recent air frosts. So who am I to complain when we just garden for fun.

Still on the subject of frost damage it was (marginally) interesting to see the effect of shelter on blossom: below are three pictures of one of our step-over pear trees: the left hand one shows the whole tree partly submerged between a cerinthe seedling, the middle picture shows the effect of the protection it gave from the frost and the right hand picture shows the total lack of fruit where it was unprotected. With luck the poor tree will divert all its energies into the remaining pears so that they become whoppers. And then the damn fox will come along and snaffle them, just like it did last year. You can’t win.

You may be equally uninterested by the origins of ‘topsy-turvy’: topsy is obviously an allusion to ‘top’ but turvy is less clear. ‘Tirve’ is a medieval word meaning ‘to turn or topple over’ but ‘turvy’ could also refer to ‘turf’, so that topsy-turvy could mean ‘with one’s head on the turf’. An early literary reference is from Richard Eden’s 1555 volume The Decades of the New Worlde: ‘They say that they see the houses turne topsy turuye, and men to walke with theyr heeles vpwarde’.

So that proves almost nothing. Just like the weather.

Ups and downs (and the meaning of life).

It doesn’t take long on this mortal coil to work out that success and a feeling of elation is destined to be followed almost immediately by the very opposite. It’s God’s way of keeping us grounded I suppose. And in a way He’s right…imagine how dull life would be if Arsene Wenger kept winning the premiership. Or Joe Root always got a ton. Or Mourinho accepted the ref’s decisions without complaint. (Sorry, ladies, if I’ve lost you.)

It’s the same with gardening. We get a dry February, a sunny March and a warm April and everything ought to be hunky dory. But is it? Is it hell! For a start it meant everything began early under the delusion that spring had sprung: grass started growing like the clappers, birds decided to begin nest building, blossom blossomed, buds broke before their time, dahlias poked their periscopes up. With the inevitable downsides of course: the mowing season began on February 5th, two of Westdean’s famous rooks decided to leave the rookery and construct their new abode in one of our chimneys, pigeons gorged themselves on the damson blossom, and we got two wicked late frosts that singed if not scuppered all that early season sprouting. It’s so unfair!

But it wasn’t all disaster. Rosie’s colour combinations for the terrace pots worked a treat. The flowering in the paddock lasted for over nine weeks. The cowslips are spreading. Some of our english bluebells have retained their virginity. And I have de-ivy-ed our beech hedge.

But I know that round the corner there are things lurking: lily beetles, aphids, snails, slugs, plagues of frogs, drought, tempest, monsoons, herons, kingfishers. Kingfishers? Come to think of it, I’d happily sacrifice a goldfish or two for the regular sight of a kingfisher here. Which goes to illustrate that every downside has an upside, that there are two sides to a coin and that on balance it’s better to be a glass-half-full merchant to get the most out of life. And especially gardening.

 

The Blackthorn Winter

Rosie and I popped along to our favourite nursery this morning - Marchants Plants - to replenish a few winter casualties and rootle around for a few extras, and found Graham Gough (the owner and plantsman extraordinaire for those that don’t know) in his usual chatty and informative mode. As well as suggesting chalk-loving plants, discussing the depopulation of frogs and toads locally and the virus afflicting aquilegias, he said the current chilly winds were all down to the blackthorn winter. What? Apparently ‘Beware the Blackthorn Winter’ is an age-old country expression borne of many years of observation because, once the blackthorn is in full bloom its pale blossom is often matched by frost-whitened grass or snow covered fields and almost invariably bitter north easterlies.

And to prove the truth of this, the Cuckmere Valley is awash with blackthorn trees in full throttle and winds so bitter that they have banished the summer shorts that I happily wore a week ago when the blackthorn buds were first appearing.

It prompted me to google blackthorn winter when we got home: I discovered that nightingales favour dense thickets of blackthorn for nesting, that blackthorn should never be brought into the home lest certain death would follow, that if blackthorn spikes (long and sharp) puncture the skin it will lead to poisoning and the crucifixion’s crown of thorns was almost certainly blackthorn. But don’t confuse blackthorn with the much more amiable hawthorn which blooms later with prettier pale pink blossom and is a much better harbinger of summer than its duplicitous cousin.

Talking of harbingers of summer, the first swallows arrived here today. Rosie heard the familiar twittering while she was kneading the dough for her hot-cross buns and immediately popped outside to see and there sure enough, were three of them (swallows not hot-cross buns) flitting hither and thither to check that they’d arrived back safely. Their return is more than enough to counter the chill of the blackthorn winter.

Springtime in the paddock.

After my mini-rant over the Cuckmere Meanders I’m back to the Long House garden, more particularly the paddock. Before we bought the house in 2011 our predecessor Raymond (after whom Raymond’s Retreat is named…see Garden Tour elsewhere on the website) was mower-happy and gave the paddock a short back and sides all year resulting in a lack of anything apart from a few early snowdrops and a crop of wild violets that were low enough to escape the blades. When we arrived we planted a few bulbs we’d brought from Bankton Cottage only to have most of them scraped up during the building works six months later. In the immediate aftermath we were left with what might be termed a blank canvas:

So we decided to give the indigenous wild flowers their head, lend a helping hand by planting a cacophony of daffodils and narcissi over the next few autumns and quit the mowing routine. The springtime result is now rather pleasing and will only get better as they all naturalise. 

And as spring turns to summer the grass grows, hides the dying leaves of the bulbs and the paddock turns into a wild flower meadow threaded with mown paths and alive with butterflies and insects and the buzzing of bees. But that you can see and hear that for yourselves if you visit the garden in June or July.

Talking of mini-rants, Rosie was at it again this morning: why is it, she moaned, that us ladies can’t get insulated wellies and fleeces that are warmly lined like gents stuff is? Do the men who run these companies think that women don’t go out in the cold and wet? They should damn well try a bit of gardening instead of sitting at their desks doing bugger all. At which I put the kettle on and kept my mouth shut. But she has got a point.

Changing the subject...

…from our garden to the surrounding countryside. One of the many joys of living in Westdean is the view of the Cuckmere Meanders from the top of the steps as you climb out of the village along the South Downs Way: quite literally, it takes your breath away, partly because the 214 steps are quite steep but especially, if you’re seeing it for the first time, because it is so unexpected. If you haven’t seen it in real life this will save you the climb:

But, believe it or not, there’s a plot afoot to change the view into this:

Who would want to do that, and why, you’re asking? Well, I’ll tell you. The Environment Agency have decided to save a few quid by not protecting the sea defences at the estuary mouth. They argue that global warming means sea levels will rise and money spent on sea defences to prevent the sea invading low lying land cannot be afforded and would ultimately be wasted anyway. The opposing opinion - from the majority of the locals here - suggest that to counter the effects of allowing the sea to invade would cost considerably more: millions of pounds to upgrade local infrastructure and a considerable loss of tourism income.

If it was just about money, there is a quite a simple solution for both saving the meanders and letting the Environment Agency off the hook: which is to let the locals undertake the task of looking after the problem. All that’s required is for shingle to be regularly cleared from the river mouth, the River Cuckmere to be dredged from Alfriston to the sea, and for a few repairs to be made to the river bank. It could be done locally and much cheaper than by EA’s sub-contractors.

If only it were that simple! The problem is getting the various bodies - the EA, Natural England, East Sussex Council, National Trust, Sussex Wildlife Trust and the South Downs National Park - to agree to anything, let alone such a blindingly obvious solution like that.

The Friends of the Cuckmere are on the side of the angels and are the voice of the community. If you’d like to know more, and joining the Friends would be even better, log onto our website www.cuckmerefriends.org 

Next time, off my soapbox and back to the Long House garden.

Perforated fingers.

And hands. And arms. All in the cause of taming Rambling Rector. An annual task, like so many others in the garden. And this one falls to She Who Must Be Obeyed, who is so very good at it. Poor Rosie, it takes her several days of snipping and tidying, of manoeuvring ladders and dicing with death, and all the while being attacked by the slings, arrows and thorns of the rectorship. Not that I’m sure it’s actually Rambling Rector…there are quite a few very similar roses and it seems to be impossible to tell one from another. Just as it seems impossible to tell how it got its name, even if it is. Presumably it was a prelate with a wandering eye, or maybe a shambling gate. Who knows. Who cares.

While the Rector is undressed so to speak you may be interested to see how I string it to the trellis: rather than use garden wire (which is nigh impossible to tighten neatly) I use Gripple tensioners, the nylon wire they supply and where necessary vine-eyes. Gripple first supplied agricultural tensioners but now, thankfully, they’ve produced a domestic version which I’ve used in the garden wherever I’ve needed to string a wire…for the raspberries, the trachelospermum climbing up the side of the house, the Veilchenblau up the garage and clematis in various places. Their website explains all (www.gripplegarden.com) and they’re very helpful if you have a query. Which you shouldn’t have, as gripples are incredibly simple to use, and dead useful.

Talking of trellis, I’ve got a major gripe about fencing posts. Once upon a time garden posts were tanalised to preserve them and they used to last for ages in the ground. Now however, because tanalising contained arsenic, garden posts are pressure treated instead and although come with a suggestion they’ll last for a decade I can tell you that some of mine have rotted after just three years…and that’s in our free draining soil, not soggy clay. When I replace them I’m going to dip them in a strong preservative in the hope that’ll give them a longer lasting life. Maybe I need some divine help from the Rector.

Friend or Foe?

At last, and considerably later than last year, the first snowdrops have begun to appear. The clump below are a taller variety than the common or garden ones that appear in the hedgerows locally and all over our garden, and an earlier variety too. I’ve no idea what their name is - no doubt a galanthophile could tell me - but the appearance of them is always a cheerful sight in the gloom of winter. The ordinary ones, meanwhile, look like hundreds of pairs of tweezers stuck in the ground with small blobs of white popped on the top, impatiently waiting for the sun to shine to transform them into the real thing. A bit like butterflies. 

To me though one snowdrop looks much the same as another. Every year at this time various erudite magazines run features showing dozens of different cultivars but I struggle to differentiate one from another without the help of a magnifying glass, and then wonder why some people spend a small fortune to buy a bulb or two of the latest novelty. I suppose the triumph of owning something others don’t gives the sort of pleasure that most get by gazing at carpets of white mere-mortals. By the way, did you know that chewing the occasional snowdrop bulb can help stave off Alzheimers…apparently galantamine is good for you.

Talking of bulbs, a snowdrop’s are very similar to those of alium triquetrum: I love most aliums but I hate triquetrums. Nasty, unlovely, they reek of onions and spread like rabbits. They were everywhere in this garden when we arrived six years ago but I’m waging war on them now that I can tell the difference in their bulbs. And at this time of year their straggly leaves are a real giveaway so I can dig them up before they flower and spread their seeds around like casanova. Apparently all parts - bulb, leaves, flowers -  are edible and can be used for making pestos or in salads but that’s no reason for tolerating them in this garden. If anyone would like a few, let me know or else they’ll go on the bonfire.

 

Brrrrr!

This cold snap has put paid to spreading my home made compost and the delicious Puckamuck I mentioned last week. But it has brought other benefits instead. One of which is staying indoors and catching up with all sorts of jobs that I put off if there’s half a chance of being outside. The other is actually being outside when the sun sun is shining even if the temperature is below zero: on the coastal side of the South Downs we’ve had such a strange mixture of cold days in the last week or so, quite different to the weather just a few miles north of us. On foggy days there we’ve had crisp sun and the following day, vice versa. It doesn’t help that here in Westdean we’re in quite a frost-pocket so we’re probably chillier than most. Mind you, if it’s cold, sunny and windless it becomes quite magical with early morning hoar frost and then enough warmth in the sun that the birds sing, fish rise up beneath the ice in the pond and I am able to sit outside (albeit wrapped up well) with a cup of coffee and ponder on the delights of winter.

Which are many and varied: watching a thrush searching for snails, a green woodpecker for insects, seeing the sun turning frost into steam, wondering how the birds can be cajoled into springtime song by an hour or two of January sun, seeing the smoke from my bonfire gently drifting upwards, listening to children’s voices as they happily hurl logs into the village pond (little sods), and generally being thankful that I’m alive and able to take such pleasure in such small things. 

And at the same time contemplate that this time last year the snowdrops and early daffodils were flowering while today their noses are hardly above ground…with any luck that means the first mow of the year is still a couple of months away.

 

A mucky business

At last the apple pruning is finished and we can get on with the next urgent task: adding goodness to our soil. In this part of the South Downs it is free draining alkaline soil with lots of chalk, interspersed with lumps of flint of varying sizes and occasional seams of claggy clay not far below the surface. It doesn’t half need feeding regularly otherwise the plants begin to take on a rather sorrowful look. When we first came here in 2011 I rang around a few places - local farmers, livery stables, horticultural societies - to see if I could locate a source of good manure but met with no useful success. “We’ve got fresh stuff, and you can come and collect if you like” was the nearest I got, but as I was after mature manure delivered to our door it became obvious I was asking for the moon.

So, in case all this sounds depressingly familiar to you, I will let you into a little secret: my new friend Matthew at Puckamuck is the answer to a maiden’s prayer. He will deliver to your door manure that looks good enough to eat and stuff that your plants will love you for. Puckamuck is, basically, horse poo (equine manure as they say rather daintily on their website) but of the highest quality as it’s collected from racing stables in Surrey and Sussex and then shredded, mixed, turned and fully matured for a year or more. We’ve used it on our beds here for the last six years and I can thoroughly recommend it. Particularly as it’s easy to spread and it doesn’t pong. The only snag is that the job of barrowing the manure around the garden is a bit of a bore but you have to console yourself that it’s keeping you fit. If you’re interested, Matthew’s number is 07899 676166, his email is info@puckamuck.co.uk and he’s based in Findon, West Sussex.  (By the way, he doesn’t know I’m writing this, nor has he paid me for the plug…I just like to recommend people or products that deserve a mention.)

Come tomorrow, She Who Must Be Obeyed and I will continue to load wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow until our large pile of Puckamuck has finally disappeared. Then we’ll feel really virtuous. Oh, and healthy. 

 

Prunings musings

I don’t know about you, but we had an amazing apple crop this autumn. So many we gave them away at the gate from the time they began falling in mid September right up to early December. Regular dog walkers (we’re on the South Downs Way so there’s no shortage of them) know that there’s always a dog bowl for their thirsty hounds so for about ten weeks they had no excuse for not baking Dorset Apple Cake, brewing their own cider or concocting Crumbles of various sorts. Our five trees are fairly ancient so we’ve no idea what varieties they are though we have worked out that we have three separate types of cookers, one of which ripens to become a very edible eater. Delving into a book on Sussex Apples I came across a old variety called Alfriston which had similar characteristics to one of ours: bearing a local name it presumably was first grown locally so might easily have been planted here. If that logic bears fruit that just leaves the other two varieties a mystery. 

What isn’t a mystery though is the need to prune the damn trees. I really shouldn’t refer to them in such a fashion but for all their summer beauty and autumn mellow fruitfulness when it comes to winter they are a curse…hopping up and down ladders in the cold and rain is enough to make anybody cross. If one can convince oneself that pruning has therapeutic value or that the finished article is akin to an art form and better than anything in Tate Modern then it becomes marginally less irksome but after five days at it and only two trees done I’m beginning to doubt my own propaganda. The only consolation is my trusty iPod and a constant stream of Wagner, Bach, Mozart and the Beatles. (Talking of pruning as an art form though, if you’re ever near the other West Dean - the one near Chichester - pop into their Victorian Walled Kitchen Garden and admire their apples and pears pruned and trained into exquisite traditional shapes and espaliers. And be inspired.)

As for my remaining three trees, what will tomorrow bring? Procrastination, exertion, perspiration, satisfaction. In that order. I hope.

 

All photographs © Robin Lloyd