Tag: garden

How did you use that extra hour?

It’s the day after the clocks went back and it’s one of those Sundays that seems to have gone on and on.

I was up early and did all the ironing, fed the dogs, order a dog harness, water bowl, poo bags and three motion sensor lights for the landing, made a pot of tea, scored eight on my daily popquiz – Popquizza.com – and finished an episode of The Rest Is Politics US before the clock showed seven-fifteen.

By eight o’clock, I’d walked the dogs and was ready for breakfast.

I’ve managed to tick loads of things off my to-do list, although by three o’clock this afternoon I was flagging and the dogs were doing circles because they were so hungry.

Mr Grigg has dug up four lots of leggy lavender for me to replace, and there is more planting to come.

I’ve also gone mad with the bulbs again, ordering with gay abandon from Farmer Gracy and then bricking it when a massive box the size of Matabeleland arrived on the doorstep with a smug look on its face.

It’s half term in Dorset this coming week but no doubt the weather will be dreadful, so the chance of me finding room for 90 narcissi bulbs is pretty remote.

Two years ago, I ordered so many tulips I had to enlist the support of Number One Son and the tiny grandson who waddled around in dear little wellies and was armed with a lethal dibber.

We managed to plant them all but, of course, I was away when they flowered, so I missed the lot.

With just five days of October left, it’s been a busy month.

And now the nights are darker, it’s time for slowly simmered stews, log fires and a ridiculous binge on all four series of Stranger Things to remind myself of the plot and premise before the new one drops at the end of November.

I’m going to try to pull my socks up and blog at least twice a week, but as my late mother used to say, the road to hell is paved with good intentions.

That’s about it.

Maddie x

A taste for the grotesque

I’m partial to garden statuary, particularly things which are tucked away and surprise you as you wander around.

I love the way that stone – even reproduction stuff – weathers and how it looks against the colours and textures of blotchy yellow lichens, luxuriant green moss and glossy ivy.

Here in Dorset, my garden includes a quiet courtyard where you’ll find numerous faces peeping out at you.

These faces are properly called ‘grotesques’ although in Somerset they’re known colloquially as hunky punks.

Years ago, I remember my mother telling me that an eye-level hunky punk on the west door of our village church was a former choirboy turned to stone. The thought terrified me so I religiously went to church every Sunday to sing with my four older siblings in the choir.

These days, I’m no longer frightened of hunky punks but I still make a point of singing loud and proud whenever the occasion calls for it.

According to Wikipedia, in architecture, a grotesque is a fantastic or mythical figure carved from stone and fixed to the walls or roof of a building. It includes the chimera, which depicts a mythical combination of multiple animals – like the centaur, with the upper body of a human and the lower body and legs of a horse, and the griffin, which has the body, back legs and tail of a lion and the head and wings of an eagle.

Grotesques in architecture are different from gargoyles as they’re purely decorative and don’t have a water spout.

Some scholars think grotesques are reminders of the separation of the earth and the divine.

They’ve been key elements of ecclesiastical architecture since medieval and renaissance times and are said to protect what they guard, such as a church, from evil or harmful spirits.

Despite the plethora of grotesques in my garden, their presence doesn’t seem to deter the slugs, which have made short work of my newly-planted marigolds.

The arrival of Spring

There are rooks flapping overhead, twigs in their beaks and heading for nest-building central.

A pair of male blackbirds are sparring vigorously, spiralling in an upward and downward dance which goes unnoticed by drivers on their way to work and children who are late for school.

The daffodils and narcissi proclaim ‘we are here‘ and the tulips emerge from the soil, ready for their chance to shine further down the line.

In Lush Places, someone has mended the church clock. It’s been stuck at the same time for ages and its chiming of the hour has been a thing of the past.

But then, on Sunday morning, I passed by just as it struck nine o’clock. It was if I’d suddenly been hurled into the present, the bell an aural reminder of the arrival of Spring.

After a sunny day here yesterday, with garden clearing a priority before the waste bin is collected this morning, the weather has turned grey and dismal. A meh sort of day.

But still the blackbird sings his joyful and mellow song, ostensibly to impress potential lady friends but, in our world, causing us to stop, close our eyes and soak up the sounds of nature.

In the garden, the hellebores are doing their thing, which is truly wondrous.

How does your garden grow?

Well, the daffodils are poking their heads up but there’s no sign yet of the four-hundred-and-ten tulip bulbs my son and I planted a few months ago.

They were on offer and I got a bit carried away.

To be fair, mid-December was a bit late to be planting tulips but, by the time they’d arrived, I was out of the country for two weeks, so, other than asking the dogsitters if they fancied a bit of gardening (they didn’t), there wasn’t much choice.

I’m hoping the little blighters are happily in the warm earth, thinking about greeting the outside world when things are a bit warmer.

And, who knows, maybe by planting them so late, they’ll put on a brilliant show in late May when I’ll actually be around to appreciate them.

The problem is, I get carried away when I see adverts for plants and bulbs. That eternal prospect of a magical garden is just too tempting.

I’ve got carried away with dahlia tubers too. Don’t tell Mr Grigg but a whole load of them are about to arrive in the next week or so.

Still, if I stick to old favourites like roses, herbaceous perennials, along with the tulips and dahlias, and forego annuals, I should be all right.

It’s when I start ordering begonias that I have to worry.

Can’t stand them. They give me the creeps.

I’m not sure why, because some of them are very pretty. I think I was psychologically damaged when my older brother once broke the heads off my mother’s red begonias. The petals bled all over the floor.

There’s something fleshy and human about begonias I just don’t like.