I spend a lot of time thinking about what my next post might be. Especially when I’m mowing or weeding or doing some other mindless task – after all there’s no-one to talk to; no-one real anyhow. But sometimes the decision is made for me.
Like the other day. I was potting up some plants in the greenhouse (sempervivums, since you ask), bent down over my stuff-to-go-to-the-compost-bin-bucket and saw this:
A handsome, largish moth – though it was only when I got home that I identified it as an
angle shades; which is, you’ll agree, a fine name. An angle shades moth (Phlogophora meticulosa). I suppose I’d carried it into the heated greenhouse (hidden amongst my fascinating semp collection) and the warmth woke it up.
I tried feeding it on the only flowers I have in the greenhouse at the moment: Pachyphytum oviferum (it wasn’t keen) and
pelargoniums (keener). But I couldn’t tell whether it actually drank any nectar.
The larvae of the moth eat a range of herbaceous plants so I suppose I should’ve been wary of helping it. But how could I not;
especially when
it looked me so earnestly in the eye.
So I gave it a little sugar-water and the following day, when it was finally a little warmer, popped it out on the grass. Their caterpillars feed mostly on nettle and dock – of which we have plenty. As long as they stick to those we’ll get along just fine.
oooOOOooo
Have you had an encounter recently? With a creature that was a little unusual? No, I don’t mean that kind of encounter; an encounter with a non-human creature? Have you seen and photographed
a mammal?
Or a bird?
or perhaps an insect? Or whatever? Something in your garden (though not necessarily – we don’t really have elephants or black vultures at the Priory); something that you haven’t seen before or only rarely? Because those jolly nice people at Select Furnishings (and me) are holding a competition to win one of these:
It’s an outdoor fire pit (in case you wondered), sells on their website for £139.00 and will keep you warm long after the barbecue has gone out.
If you’d like to win a fire pit, here’s what you need to do:
If you’re a blogger, just publish a post detailing your ‘encounter’ (with at least one photo). You’ll need to put in a link to this Anxious Gardener post (in order that I know that you’ve entered) and somewhere in the article put in a link to Select Furnishings. And that’s it.
If you’re not a blogger, don’t despair and wipe away those tears; you too can enter. Just e-mail your post to theanxiousgardener@hotmail.co.uk including at least one photo and I’ll publish it here on the AG.*
Sorry but the competition is open to UK residents only. I’m away for a few days next week so the closing date will be midnight 3rd May 2013. Select Furnishings will choose the winner and I shall announce the result in due course.
Good luck!
* I may exercise some editorial control – but only after consulting with you.
I disturbed a bird the other day. I was walking through the garden of the Old Forge and something broke cover.
Though I managed to get a hurried snap of it in flight, it was gone too quickly for me to see what it might be.
It was only later, alerted by the scolding call of a chaffinch, that I saw it properly and realised that it was a …
… little owl (Athene noctua). I’ve only seen them before in Greece; perched high up and looking down at me from the crumbling walls of Molyvos castle. Introduced to the UK during the 19th century, little owls feed on small mammals, birds (hence the ire of the chaffinch), beetles and worms. The Old Forge owner has recently found a cache of dead mice and voles in one of the bedroom window frames. It might be the owl’s larder; it might be the kestrel’s.
The owl didn’t stay around for long; what with being mobbed by small birds and intimidated by a slowly approaching clicking gardener.
I do hope I see it again and get a better photo of him/her (the sexes are pretty much indistinguishable). I think there is something rather lovely and exotic about having a little owl at the Old Forge.
I don’t get a great variety of birds in my garden.
Plenty of herring gulls,
and a family of charismatic crows. Hardly exciting stuff, though we do get …
… green woodpeckers too. These are regular visitors, feeding mostly on the ants that live in our dry, chalky soil.
But in comparison to the Priory, our garden is a bird wasteland.
A Priory great spotted woodpecker keeps a wary eye on me
I’m not really a birdwatcher. Not really. I mean you wouldn’t call me a twitcher or even a birder – I don’t even take binoculars to work. (At least not yet).
A female mallard over-reacts to my approach on the east pond
Sure, I’ve always been interested in birds just not … erm, evangelical if you know what I mean.
A male does the same – certainly breaks the quiet of the place
Not like a friend of mine, who is a little fizzy, shall we say, when it comes to birds. It is simply impossible to go on a country walk with him.
And in tandem
Every ten yards, he’ll stop, shush me (!), raise his ‘bins’ (binoculars to you and I) and spend several minutes trying to identify a tiny, brown speck fifty yards away. Meanwhile, I’ll be sighing loudly, gazing immobile at the sky, kicking leaves about, lusting after a pint, curling my tongue into a tube or petulantly flicking acorns at his head.
A chaffinch coming into land on a feeder
But since I started work at the Priory I’ve become much more aware, and appreciative of, the birds that visit or live in the gardens. One might almost say I’ve become a bird anorak. Almost.
It started on my first day; a hot, still and sunny July morning – spent weeding. I immediately noticed just how much wildlife there was. I was already in love with the place but all that ‘life’ added an extra depth of interest, a further layer of beauty that I was instantly drawn to and wanted to explore and encourage.
So, during my first winter, I built several nest-boxes. Using left-over timber from compost bin construction and old roofing tiles, they were quick and easy to make.
An old blue tit egg – I left it out on the grass. I’m sure it made a tasty (if rancid) snack for something or other
At this time of year, I clear them all out (removing the odd dead baby bird, unhatched eggs and any nesting material) and make a tally of those used during the previous season. Out of eleven boxes, seven were nested in last year – a take up rate that matched last year and one I’m pretty happy with. (Though my tawny owl box was a tawny owl no-no; looks like mandarin ducks used it again).
Father Christmas was kind to me; as well as a robin/pied flycatcher ‘box, I was given two bat boxes. There are bats at the Priory – I’ve seen both pipistrelles and a (dead) brown long-eared bat but these will be the first roosting boxes to go up.
Within an hour of fixing one to an oak it was investigated – though not by its intended tenant.
The robin/flycatcher box is now up on one of the large oaks. Looks like a perfect grey squirrel (damn and blast them) baby-bird-chomping-station to me but we’ll see.
Goldfinches visiting a few weeks ago.
As well as building nest boxes, I also started feeding the birds. We currently have six feeders (all protected against grey squirrels – damn and blast them). And we get a good selection of visiting species.All the usual suspects of course; blue tits and …
… their larger cousins, great tits (there goes another big spike in my viewing figures; thanks to the Google searches of teenage boys. Sorry lads.) …
… and my favourite of the three; the shyer, less ostentatious coal tit.
More common and less retiring than I thought, long-tailed tits flit in and out of view regularly. I generally hear their high-pitched, repetitive call before I see them. I never see a single bird; they always appear in small flocks and it this insistent calling that helps keep the group together.
During recent snow, a dunnock pauses before dropping to the ground to feed on the spill beneath the feeders.
I’d always supposed nuthatches were fairly rare but I see them daily.
A male blackbird in a hurry.
And a female heading for the apples I’ve put out. But these apples always disappear way too fast. I suspect crows carry them off. Either crows or grey squirrels (damn and blast them).
A song thrush flits away towards shrub cover. Tempting to use words like frolicking in a scene like this but finding enough food in snow doesn’t leave much time for frolicking, I fear.
I’m a bit obsessed with robins. They are constant companions and so darn photogenic, I can’t help it. But I make no apology – it is my blog after all. Anyway, it’s probably an infatuation I’ll grow out of … but I suspect not.
They are robust characters, battling with one another for the rich territory that is the feeding area. And this one is an adept master of millet-seed-balancing.
The other day, I was photographing goldfinches …
… when I noticed two different yellow finch-like birds. And quite honestly, I am not entirely sure what they are. I think (after lots of page flipping and internet clicking) that they are siskins. The top one a juvenile male and the lower …
… a female. But I would welcome confirmation (or correction) from all you birdy types out there. Needless to say, I’ve never seen a siskin before (and perhaps I still haven’t).
Shortly after I took this photo, I heard one shrill blackbird alarm call and all the birds disappeared! Just like that. The garden had been full of birds and their tweets and trills but suddenly there was just total silence. What on earth?
I turned round and looked up into the large greengage tree and, for the space of five seconds, a sparrowhawk glared down at me. I fumbled with my camera, frantically trying to focus on the eyes rather than on all the intervening branches and managed to click twice. Then he vanished. My first sparrowhawk shot! Not quite the one I hoped for but it’s a start. And I know he’ll be back. Because once I started feeding and encouraging small birds into the garden, I also created a target rich environment for a sparrowhawk; I also started feeding and encouraging them.
The grounds of the Priory can be a scary place when the wind gets up.
Even the largest trees twist and sway alarmingly; creaking, groaning and occasionally hurling down dead branches. Generally, I think of trees as benign stalwarts but in high winds, I keep a wary eye on them and avoid walking beneath those shuddering arms.
Afterwards, I collect all the branch and twig litter and barrow it off to the bonfire site.
Except for bigger, heftier branches. These I haul off to the ‘Nissan Hut’.
This is one of two that we have and is, I think, a 1940′s construction. It isn’t a building of great beauty (though not without some charm), and as it is gently crumbling, we did consider demolition. But its roof is asbestos and professional removal would have been prohibitively expensive. One day, when one of the huge oak boughs above crashes down, we will have to dismantle it, but in the meantime I’m glad we kept the ‘hut. It makes a fine, temporary log store for wind-fallen and pruned branches, as well as any felled trees. It is a dry place to work when it is pouring with rain or …
… snowing. With the radio on, one might even call it cosy.
Using an axe is obviously warm work but, perhaps surprisingly, so is wielding a chainsaw. Perfect cold-weather work and lots of it too. Once chain-sawed or split, I take the logs to another outbuilding containing old pigsties.
This sty holds all the logs I’ve cut/split this winter: a stack five foot high, fifteen long and five rows deep. We have quite a backlog (!) of firewood, so these logs won’t be burned for three or four years; more than enough time to season.
I don’t think we shall be cutting any trees down at the Priory this year, but at the Old Forge, I’ve felled half a dozen dead pines.
Call me over-cautious, call me timorous but working alone with a chainsaw and on a slope, this is about as big a tree as I will tackle.
Cut up, mixed with hardwood and seasoned, the pine will eventually be used on the house woodburner.
Incidentally, if you’re unsure which wood burns best, the following poem is a good starting point.
‘Song of the Forest Trees’
Logs to Burn! Logs to Burn!
Logs to save the coal a turn.
Here’s a word to make you wise
when you hear the woodman’s cries.
Beechwood fires burn bright and clear Hornbeam blazes too; If the logs are kept a year To season through and through.
Oak logs will warm you well,
That are old and dry;
Logs of pine will sweetly smell
But the sparks will fly.
Birch logs will burn too fast;
Chestnut scarce at all;
Hawthorn logs are good to last -
Cut them in the fall.
Holly logs will burn like wax,
You should burn them green;
Elm logs like smouldering flax,
No flame to be seen.
Beech logs for the winter time,
Yew logs heat as well;
Green elder logs it is a crime
For anyone to sell.
Pear logs and apple logs, They will scent your room; Cherry logs across the dogs Smell like flowers of broom.
Ash logs, smooth and grey
Burn them green or old,
Buy up all that comes your way
Worth their weight in gold.*
Holly and ash do indeed make fine firewood and may be burnt ‘green’ – though you shouldn’t have to. Ideally, season all firewood for a year or two. Personally, despite the above, I find Sweet Chestnut burns well – perhaps they mean Horse Chestnut which I haven’t tried. The poem doesn’t mention willow or alder; the Priory has plenty of both and when dry and seasoned, they too make excellent firewood. Burning too much conifer can lead to a build up of resinous tar in your chimney and increase the risk of a chimney fire. And you seriously don’t want that. If you’re ordering a load of firewood, do ask what sort of wood you’re buying: rather a mix of oak and ash than, say, leylandii! And order only from a recommended, reputable supplier. A friend of mine didn’t and had a huge tipper-load of sopping wet logs dumped on her driveway.
Anyway, back at the Priory, I also keep warm by tending to the …
… seven large compost bins. I turn the contents regularly, though when I built them …
… I hadn’t foreseen how much rainwater they would hold and how that would turn the surrounding ground into a quagmire. Definitely, welly work. After a few minutes pitch-forking, I’ve already removed two of my statutory five-layer, winter clothing.
Whenever, I turn compost there will always be a robin close by. Always.
And living in the compost …
… is a fine, big, fat toad (November 2012). Feeding on my worms, no doubt. I occasionally get mole hills beside the bins too – it seems allsorts of creatures covet my lovely worms. Frogs and toads in the compost would explain why a grass snake (Natrix natrix) has taken to hanging about – (filmed last summer).
Beauty isn’t he? And a big ‘un.
As I’m jogging about the estate, doing star jumps, staving off frostbite, I keep an eye on Margaret’s sheep. Occasionally, after heavy rain I’ll see a ‘cast’ ewe, ie one on its back and unable to right herself.
Her ‘friends’ are supremely un-concerned by her plight
Sorry, not a great photo – I used my phone as it seemed discourteous to leave the poor thing feebly waggling her legs whilst I ran for my camera. Once tugged back upright, she was fine and wobbled away without so much as a thankful nod or glance. Left alone, wet, and particularly pregnant, ewes are often unable to get on to their feet and can die; a soaked fleece is very heavy! So if you see a cast sheep, do help out. It won’t thank you but the farmer will.
I’d never seen this before. Like an oxpecker on an impala, this magpie is feeding on parasites.
Initially, I worried it was pecking at the ewe’s eyes. But no, it was just gently probing about for ticks and grubs. It also spent some time diligently probing the ewe’s bottom – I’ll spare you that photo.
Happy magpie, happy sheep. Such a simple, symbiotic, Serengeti-ish, Sussex sylvan scene.
Warms my heart.
* Reproduced from ‘Learning to Live in the Country’ by Kathy Jones
I tried feeding it on the only flowers I have in the greenhouse at the moment: Pachyphytum oviferum (it wasn’t keen) and
especially when
