Tag: gardening

The Summer Solstice

It’s the summer solstice today, when the path of the sun in the sky is farthest north in the northern hemisphere.

It’s the longest day and the shortest night.

I’m in France at the moment and the scene yesterday evening was the calm before the storm.

Last night, it chucked it down, enough to fill up the wheelbarrow in the garden.

And it’s been raining on and off all morning. Not just drizzle but great big stair rods, drumsticks and knitting needles.

In England, there are blue skies and warmth, which makes a change from the wet conditions and cold nights that have resulted in a deluge of slugs and snails.

Strange happenings with the climate have got everyone talking, all over the world.

Yesterday at Stonehenge – the creation of which is inextricably linked to the summer and winter solstice sunrises – the ancient monoliths were sprayed in orange powder paint by climate activists demanding that the new government elected on 4 July legally commits to phasing out fossil fuels.

The climate emergency and the role of humankind in doing something about it is the biggest crisis facing our world today.

But to deface an ancient monument, albeit temporarily (protestors say the paint will wash off in rain) is probably not the best way of getting people to sit up and take notice. It’s counterproductive. All it does is outrage people, which is actually how we should be feeling about the climate crisis and the inability of our so-called leaders to save the world.

We must all do our bit. Rather than glue myself to a motorway, I’m currently allowing great swathes of mullein to grow in the garden in the most inconvenient places.

‘They’re weeds!’ a friend scoffed.

‘A weed is just a plant in the wrong place,’ I replied, rather self-righteously, gazing at all the mullein moth caterpillars chomping on the leaves and the bees buzzing around it in total ecstasy.

I’m lucky to have the space for the mullein but I think anyone with a garden does their bit for nature, with proper grass (not fake turf), flowers that the bees and butterflies love and inventive ways of dealing with slugs and snails rather than using the dreaded blue slug pellets, which killed off Edgar’s little sister when she was only a pup.

It’s easy to be overwhelmed with the magnitude of the climate crisis. But small things can make a difference, and do.

On the summer solstice, here’s to peace and harmony between nations, individuals and to all of us who want to leave the planet in a better state for the generations that follow us.

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.