Sunday, 19 February 2017

miracles and magic in the garden (moncler)

At the moment, in my garden, the moss and mulch is doing most of the work. At this grey time of year, where all work undertaken is bundled up in layers and cringing from the cold, I came across this image in a months-old magazine of a pale woman wearing warm clothes, but not enough clothes to keep her warm, holding a peach tree aloft above a cold Northern lake. She believes in the summer. From the depths of February, do you?


The other image from the same campaign cages the snow and the far northern trees in the heart of the man, in chilly homage to Magritte's therapist. The gardener inside, making his own ice on the sofa while outside and inside the snow falls.


I am not averse to moss in the garden. I grew up in a wet enough area that the soft spring of moss underfoot is comforting. This dozing pixie from last year's campaign has landed in the dream of perfect moss; green, luxuriant, like exotic upholstery.


The company in question (warning: home page contains a short Esheresque auto-playing video loop) does do rather fabulous fashion shows, as well as the Leibovitz-unleashed fashion shoots.

Here's next season's look: invisible in your own forest.



As everyone's garden will have its own palette, it should be possible to do a customised jacket in the style, given a little patience an old jacket and some mixable fabric paints. Post-production pixel smoothing not included.

Saturday, 11 February 2017

gardening is colossally dull; also cold

It's a dismal day today. Flecks of snow spattering down from a low, grey and somehow gritty sky, the exact colour of cat-litter. I've been out, for a walk, but not into the garden because at this time of year it's dark, depressing, soggy, muddy and miserable.

It's also a catalogue of problems:

  • The side neighbour's tree
  • The back neighbour's hedge
  • The dead geranium bushes
  • The plant pot that has become a plant pond
  • Rotting grapes on the vine
  • The unpruned vine
  • Leaves from the aforementioned tree, everywhere
  • Overgrown ivy
  • Sulking clematis
  • Tired passion vine
  • Filthy greenhouse
  • Etc.
Which is not to say that there are not (deep breath) winter jasmine, quince, hellebores, snowdrops and even Tim's confetti bush actually in flower right now, and any number of things sprouting, showing fresh leaves and generally having a go, but still, February, ugh.

In all honesty, I'd rather be curled up inside with the cats.

But before that, I need to take out the compost pail. A week or so ago, I was taking the compost pail out and somehow tangled my ring in the door handle, slipped on the outside doormat (now mostly moss, dead leaves and slime, oops, something else for the problems list) and landed on the little planter outside the backdoor, which mercifully broke my fall, but also broke. So the first step is a ginger scoot around the shattered plastic fragments of that. Then up the steps -- moss, and more slime. The soft fruits trees have been left out in the weather for the first winter ever, and I edge past them too, noting a few blackened branches and then the blackcurrant and cotoneaster I should have pruned last year, a plant prop whose plant is long since withered and fallen, and the greenhouse, which is green with algae, unwatered inside and covered with dead leaves outside.

And then the emptying of the pail.

The lid of the compost bin comes off fairly easily - no frost today - and inside it is teeming and steaming, worm city with a sprinkling of woodlice, slugs and centipedes. At least one thing is going right, and as soon as it's warm enough I'll put that on my garden.

Er, maybe. 

Saturday, 4 February 2017

February in the Garden

February in the Garden February in the Garden February in the Garden February in the GardenFebruary in the Garden February in the Garden

Twilight in the garden; small glows mark where the flowers are starting to flicker through. The quince is in flower too, but so deep in shadow that the camera won't focus.

Friday, 23 September 2016

latebricole: Of an animal, esp. a spider: living concealed in a hole.

September has come to the garden. Mostly I am experiencing this by walking into spiderwebs. With pleasurable synchronicity, OED's Word of the Day has served me up latebricole.

hole in the wall

This hole is not from outside. It's in my veranda, a boxed-in porch that is not quite inside but a great deal more than outside. I sprout plants in their in the spring; in winter I overwinter chillis, even though it's too dark and the temperature swings are too wild.

spider spinning

The spider's webs I'm walking into outside do not belong to a latebricole spider, but to the European Garden Spider, which lives in or near its web, concealed in foliage.

The beast in my veranda is likely a lace-web spider.

Wednesday, 29 June 2016

there's a secret roofgarden outside my office

roof garden roof garden
roof garden roof garden
I can see Sow Thistle, with its usefully shallow roots; Willowherb, which will of course grow anywhere; Jack-in-the-hedge, one of nature's great spreaders, and other wayfaring weeds. Pigeons are sometimes up here, and dust blows in; that's enough to make soil.

I'm only here for a week or so.

Friday, 24 June 2016

June in the Garden

the garden in june the garden in june the garden in june
the garden in june the garden in june the garden in june
the garden in june the garden in june the garden in june

The most beautiful flowers are food for the slugs (actually they don't seem very keen on the foxgloves).

Wednesday, 22 June 2016

notes towards a green wall

My garden is steeply terraced, and the bottom retaining wall is an ugly concrete block affair. My guess is that it was always meant to be finished, but never quite got there. That long-term ambition to green that wall up (unlike household walls, moisture on this wall will be no problem) is curtailed by the lack of light in that tiny space. It'll need to be grotto planting; very tolerant of low light indeed.

notes towards a green wall notes towards a green wall
notes towards a green wall notes towards a green wall

This sunny bank out beside a Boathouse's floating wharf on the Thames has the look I like though - semi-wild, space for the stones between the plants. But I suspect I'll have to swap around species -- Asplenium for the Hart's Tongue, maybe. And should I be putting a loose stone face on the concrete for the plants to peek out of?

I think about it on the way home, past the distractions of June. The house on the corner of my street has old fashioned climbing roses threaded through mature apple trees. The roses are small and apple blossom pink and highly scented, so it raises your head to the flowers as you walk by.