Monthly Archives: January 2012

My Post

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Stacy, over at Microcosm, recently did a post about breaking free from the confines of the garden and enjoying some Big Views and some Big Sky.  “Skies that soar without hindrance and landscapes that stretch to the ends of the compass rose” – gosh, but she has a way with words.   I thought, well if it is good enough for Stacy …   And so, on a gloriously sunny (but cold) Saturday morning Jim, Solo – the Stinky Terrier and I hopped in the car and rattled east along the coast road towards Eastbourne.  We drove through the sleepy seaside town of Seaford (where we live) and down into the beautiful valley of Cuckmere Haven and up the other side and, a short while later, arrived at an expanse of open Downland called Crowlink.

It is land owned by the National Trust and, I believe, leased out to a sheep farmer who uses it as pasture.  Nevertheless, it is open access land for walkers.

And what an impressive and exhilarating place it is.  The soft, springy turf (kept close-cropped by rabbits and those sheep) is a joy to walk on.  The views are vast, the sky close by and, directly to the south, lies the English Channel.

Not many shrubs and trees grow here; it is after all exposed to the full fury of storms rushing up the Channel from the Atlantic.  But there are a few stunted pines, gorse and …

… hawthorn; clipped by the prevailing southerly wind.

Near the car park is a perfectly ordinary strained wire fence.  If you walk along that fence, after a couple of hundred yards, you’ll come to a kissing gate between two straining posts.  And it is one of these posts that I wanted to see.  Because I put it in.  Yeah, me.

That one there.  The braced post to the left of the ‘gate.  In the summer of 1999, I was enrolled in a forestry course and ploughing my way through one of the many modules that we had to complete in order to graduate.  Strained wire fencing.  Ugh, those three words still make me shudder.  What a tedious task strained wire fencing is.  Digging post holes, hammering in posts, attaching wires and netting and, every so often, erecting a braced post (a straining post) that will stand up to the enormous pressure exerted when pulling the wires taught.  Can’t say that I fell head over heels in love with SWF, especially as we seemed to do so much of it.  There are several lengths of fencing dotted about Sussex; in Heathfield, in Uckfield and just outside Lewes, as well as this one here at Crowlink, that I have muttered and cursed over, spilt blood, sweat and tears over. The ground at Crowlink is an inch or two of baked soil above solid chalk and flint.   Imagine digging a post hole in that!  I haven’t done fencing since 1999 and I don’t suppose I ever will again.  And do you know what?  Good riddance.

Me and my post

But I did want to see whether the straining post at Crowlink, my straining post, was still there.  I hadn’t seen it in almost 13 years (sorry, I’m welling up) and I had wondered whether I had put it in properly.  Whether I had done a good enough job.  So to see that post of strong sweet-chestnut, still solid as a rock and looking like it has been there for decades, was pleasing.   It’ll probably outlive me.  My post.  I felt quite proud.

Anyway, we’ll leave the fence behind now (come on, it’s only a length of fence for goodness sake and not that interesting) and continue walking south towards the sea.  You will shortly begin to catch glimpses of flashing white to left and right.

Because here, between Brighton and Eastbourne, the South Downs breakthrough to the sea.  And the ceaseless onslaught of the Channel has  sliced into the chalk to create the famous, dazzling white cliffs of South East England.  (Further east, where the North Downs reach the coast, are the White Cliffs of Dover).

To our left, eastwards, a pair of walkers head off toward Belle Tout lighthouse; a building that relatively recently was moved.  Yep, ‘they’ moved it because it was in danger of falling into the sea.   Hauled it 165 feet inland.  How impressive is that?  (If you’re interested,you can read more about it here).

Look westward and you realise how easy it would be to stumble over the cliff-edge.  No warning signs here, no fences or protective barriers.  No crowds either.  Head a few miles further east to Birling Gap or Beachy Head and, on a day like this, you’ll struggle to park your car and likely be picked up and carried against your will by hordes of day trippers.

But here at Crowlink you have the sky and the Downs,

the cliffs and the sea pretty much to yourself.  And nearby is the pretty little village of East Dean with its smashing pub, The Tiger.

They brew their own beer at The Tiger, you know.  Good stuff too.  Time for a spot of lunch and a pint, I think.  Shall we head back up to the car?

I Love My Seed Boxes

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There I’ve said it.  Does that make me weird?  Well, so be it.  It’s just that they hold such promise.  Such potential.  Opening one is always a pleasure and a reminder of what can be (and conversely, of what wasn’t to be).  But I do find that the seed box itself has to be interesting and even beautiful if possible.  Not just a Tupperware container (there – I’ve instantly alienated everyone who keeps their seeds in a Tupperware container.  Oops).

One of my two seed boxes holds vegetable seeds; the other flower seeds.

Whenever I go into a charity shop, I keep an eye (or two) peeled for a nice, potential seed box.  I already have two because I’m not terribly good at throwing seeds away.

And so my stash of seeds has grown.  And grown.  And grown.  Take these ‘Miss Wilmott’s Ghost’ seeds for example.  I’ve often done what Miss Wilmott herself was supposed to have done.*  Scattering the seeds in appropriate places in the Priory gardens.  Without any success incidentally though I have grown a couple of plants from pot sown seeds.  Still, I can’t bring myself to throw them away and though the seeds are old now, I still sprinkle them about the place in the hope they might take.  Besides, I bought them at Great Dixter and I love the packaging.

The problem then with not throwing seeds away is that my ‘boxes are filling up and the charity-shop shelves are bare.  Then my Dad gave me a whisky box (sadly sans 40 year old whisky)

And what potential, what promise, what embryonic possibilities will soon be kept in it.  Now, where’s my seed catalogue?  I must fill it up without delay.

*Ellen Willmott was said to have secretly sown the seeds of this tall, handsome sea holly into the gardens of friends.

Mosty Frorning

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I mean … oh, never mind … you know what I mean.
After a warm, wet winter here in Southern England, last week we were finally hit by some hard and decent frosts.  I like frost.  I like how it punctuates the year and zaps all that can’t survive freezing temperatures.  I like the scrunchiness beneath my feet.  Scrunch, scrunch, scrunch;  I stride about the Priory gardens wrapped in layer upon layer of warm, thick clothes.  Like Michelin-man.  Sadly, I often forget about my feet and my thin cotton socks aid the transfer of warmth to the icy ground very efficiently indeed.

The reed mace has spread from the eastern side of the gardens and has now begun to colonise the west pond.  I don’t suppose it should have such a prominent place in a posh garden but I rather like it.  I like its shaggy, unkemptness.  And the moorhens love it; fleeing to it for cover whenever I approach.  It hasn’t been flattened by snow yet either which adds to its appeal.

I planted this grouping of three Betula jacquemontii ‘Snow Queen’  in early 2009 and they’re doing  pretty well.  Once a year, in winter, I fetch a bucket of warm water* and a cloth and wipe down the stems to show off their striking white stems.  I did have to explain to a recent visitor that no, I didn’t wash down the trunks of all the trees in the garden.

A coating of ice crystals helps the birches to sparkle.

All the fields about the Priory are sugar-frosted; crisp and crackling under a clear blue sky.

But the sun will soon be up to melt the magic.

Recently, I was writing foolishly of photinia buds trembling with the excitement of imminent Spring.  Waiting for the off.  Now encrusted with ice, they aren’t going anywhere.

In the ditch between the two ponds, these frozen (insert name of plant here - as I haven’t got a clue) are ethereal and strangely beautiful.

They remind me of the forest in an animated Czech children’s film from the early 70′s.  About a mole.  Or a lonely, sad office block.  Or both.

The cold snap serves as a reminder (were one needed) that the garden’s birds still need feeding – though I do feed them all year round.

But you’d think that having fed them, the least these blue tits …

… could do is hang around to have their picture taken.

But oh, no – they couldn’t possibly do that.

Far too busy.  Ingrates.

Still, sometimes they come back …

… and strike a pose.  Show off ingrates.

* the water is warm for my benefit – not the trees’.

Leaping Into WordPress

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Last summer, I registered theanxiousgardener.com domain name and set up a WordPress account.  I had increasingly heard how marvellous WordPress was in comparison to Blogger and, coupled with some very irritating problems that I had had with the latter, I decided (as many others have) to migrate over to WP.

But then the sun shone, the birds sang, flowers opened and I sat about and drank tea (and beer) and did the thinking; I worried about transferring over to a new, unknown blogging platform and I worried about losing months of content and I worried about losing all my links.  Got quite anxious actually.  It’s very easy to convince yourself to stick with what you know and so … I stayed put with Blogger.

However, over the past couple of months, I have continued to read and hear just how much better WP is than Blogger.  Apparently.  (A simple google search will reveal loads of articles explaining why).  So finally, after much advice from Andrea Gracia (howdy and thanks), I have decided once again to make the transfer.  (A post by Petra was the final nudge I needed).

Hopefully, you need do nothing – (except update any links you might have to The Anxious Gardener and re-subscribe, should you want to, to either email updates or the new RSS feed).  The transfer across will be seamless (uh huh, like really).  It’ll take me a while to get theanxiousgardener looking how I want it, I suppose.  But, bear with me. We’ll get there.  It’s too late to go back now.  You see I’ve clicked the button.  The WP import from Blogger button.  Crumbs, aren’t I the brave one?  There may be a few teething problems but let’s see what happens.

Fingers crossed, I’ll see you soon at theanxiousgardener.com.

If not ….. Bye then.

Dave

The Relief of Mattocking

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In one of the two Kidney Beds (so named because of their shape) is a large cornus; a dogwood.  They are generally grown for the colour of their stems in winter.  I personally wouldn’t have put one into a formal border as they’re pretty much a one trick pony.  Colourful stems and er, that’s it.  Not a lot of year round interest, but for the time being, I’m loath to remove plants that are fulfilling a function.  And here the function is filling a space.
Dogwoods propagate easily and a low-lying branch from the mother plant has, in the past, stretched out, touched the soil, rooted and now …

… to the right of the original plant, is an unwanted satellite plant.  Ever since I started work at the Priory, I’ve been meaning to remove it.  It is one of those jobs that I have never quite got round to doing.  Well, let me tell you – that’s about to change.  Being a Man-of-Action, I’m on the case.

To make things a little awkward the unloved, unwanted, soon to be yanked out satellite is sitting in the middle of a clutch of snowdrops;  a personal favourite.  But the time is nigh and my blood is up.  I figure if I do the deed now the snowdrops can be saved.

The only tool to grab as I’m leaving the workshop, is the mattock.  The grubbing mattock.  When removing the roots of a recently cut down tree or shrub, what tool are you going to use? The grubbing mattock, that’s what.  But use with care.  Even if you tried, even if you sat and thought and doodled, and thought, and drank tea and thought, (and doodled) you couldn’t possibly design a better tool for taking off your foot at the ankle; in one clean sweep.

To start, using secateurs, I removed the stems from the unwanted cornus.

And then, with just a couple of hefty swipes and a bit of levering, the roots were out.

The two resultant dogwood plants I shall use elsewhere (though I haven’t decided where yet).  And the snowdrops I definitely have a use for.  They should be moved and/or planted ‘in the green’ though I would, of course, normally do so after they had flowered. Still, in this case it couldn’t be helped; the small dogwood had to go.

I adore snowdrops.  They have an immaculacy and perfection to them that is unrivalled.  And they are the shining white, beautiful outriders of all that is to come.  When I lived in the village above the Priory, a neighbour (hi Ben – real name) gave me a huge trug full of unwanted, recently dug-up snowdrops.  Thousands of them.  A gift fit for a king.  I set to planting them all over the Priory, where to my mind, there weren’t enough.  The ones in the above photo I quickly re-planted in the Eve Bed (see last post).  There are already some there and they augment the heuchera nicely; fading as the latter get under way.

A quick re-arranging of the soil and you’d never have known that I’d been hacking away with a tool that wouldn’t have looked out of place at any battle-field from the past few millenia.

I’m very lucky, at the Priory, to have loads of space.  Up behind the greenhouse are two raised beds that I built a couple of years ago.  The far one is now mostly an asparagus bed and the nearer one has a mulched rhubarb, a couple of temporarily heeled-in beech trees and (now) two recently mattocked dogwoods. (You can make out the Kidney Beds in the distance).  Having this holding bed is really handy and I’m tempted to build another in order to sow the seeds of delphiniums and wallflowers and lupins for example; plants that can then be transplanted out into the formal beds when they have reached the necessary age and size.

Before I go, and as a special treat, here’s another shot of my mattock.

Lovely isn’t it?