Category Archives: Garden problems

The winter list (and a spring surprise)

Every year (OK, for the last few), I get organised. After the great meadow strim P and I walk round the garden working out what needs doing, and draw up the winter list.

winter gardening

It’s all those jobs which have probably needed doing since the previous Christmas, but which have ‘somehow’ not quite been done. It inevitably includes things which didn’t quite get done last year (‘paint trellis’), or indeed the year before that, and things which are, frankly, optimistic (‘bramble remove’) or somewhat vague (‘move slates’  – which slates? – and ‘repair pigsty: ???’).

It’s divided into the three areas of the garden, and is followed by a list of plants. That’s because winter’s a good time to sort out what needs moving and work out where it can possibly go (quite apart from to the dustbin / compost / neighbours), and then there’s the problem of remembering exactly what ‘get rid of that horrible thing by the hedge’ meant. But it’s mainly the structural jobs which get done in winter, apart from weeding of course. We’ve rebuilt steps, dug new beds, erected standing stones and laid paths. This year it was repair time.

The rowan, which had to come down after the January storms last year, ripped apart the wall above which it grew. But we never quite got round to sorting it out – partly because there was a heck of a lot to do at the time, partly because the storms didn’t let up, and partly because once they did finally stop all the bulbs came up and started flowering. So all of last year I lived with a wall leaning outwards at a dangerous angle, entirely held in place by ivy – except when it wasn’t and stones came crashing to the ground.

Now I have this:

new wallwhich comes complete with a convenient shelf for a cup of tea or a pair of secateurs. And, yes, that is the rowan stump – it’s staying put. I can’t get a digger into the garden.

There was a heck of a lot of rubble, some of the little double daffs had to be replanted and I doubt that my chionodoxas will be as spectacular as normal this year, but it’s done. At last. And we found an old bakelite top for a Pan Yan pickle bottle (c. 1920), but that was the extent of the archaeology.

I’ve also now got  a dug-out greenhouse. I should explain – there is virtually no flat ground in either the top or the bottom garden, and the middle one is iffy. The greenhouse had to go in the bottom one, so P had to dig a base into the slope, which he did. The high side was held up with a mini dry-stone (OK, dry-sort-of-stone-brick) wall, which over the years has gradually slumped against the glass. At the back of the greenhouse a prostrate rosemary was so determined to get in that it broke the glass. It needed tackling…

greenhouse wall

So P demolished the old wall, cut the bank back, rebuilt it as a stepped wall – that should be much better – and dug out the back. I’ve now got what remains of the prostrate rosemary in a  pot, but it’s looking seedy. What a shame. Oh dear. Bechod.

What with all of this (most of which has been done with me watching due to bronchitis, but hey ho), I almost forget to look out for lovely things as well. Just round the corner, I have the first wallflower:


Right, that’s it. It’s clearly spring; I can put the winter list away!

(Plus the garden is suddenly full of snowdrops and crocuses – watch this space…)

Why do I bother? Hm???

I’ve often had compliments on the long plaits of shallots that hang in my kitchen for half the year. People have asked me how to do it, but It’s difficult to explain. Nobody taught me, you see. I just did it. I think it must have been some sort of atavistic race-memory due to a Breton heritage and the long history of the Johnny Onions (not that I grow onions) who came over to the UK on their bikes, laden with plaits of onions.

I’ve wondered in the past about maybe doing a ‘how to’ post… I shshallots, posingould have known better.

Lovely sunny evening yesterday – lovely sunny day, in fact, except I was away. Put shallots out to bask in sun on return. Shallots been curing for some days now, on and off, dodging rain showers. Looked over shallots, realised stalks drying out nicely, just about ready for plaiting.

Did first string, always a bit fiddly and untidy as body memory takes a bit of time to return. Worked fine; not forgotten how after all.

Then had an ‘aha’ moment re finally getting round to doing tutorial post. Good idea. In theory.

Went and got camera, took shot of ready and waiting scene. Selected first three fat shallots, got strong stalks, quite long stalks too, vital. Set up first shot. Angle of sun not the easiest but hey. Cross three over each other…

shallot prep

Not sure that’s right. Rearrange shallots.

Unfortunately neglected to notice precariously balanced trug, despite having photographed it earlier for potential set-up shot:


which then falls to ground with strange noise. Inadvertently jump back, stand in trug, fall over. Swear mightily. Rearrange self, trug, shallots. Where camera? Camera under bench. Retrieve camera. Camera OK.

Set up next shot, where you bend the one in the middle over the one on the left:

shallot plaitingHm.

Hang on, that’s wrong, should be the one on the right which goes over. Should it? Rearrange shallots. No, that was fine. Reaarange shallots. Next shallots due to be used fall down gap between planks of bench. Hold plait in place with camera, retrieve shallots from grass. Camera weight not enough, rearrange shallots…

I do know how to do this, honest. Decide to do another practice string, sans camera. This works, so decide to take shot showing back of plait:


Hold string up to do so. Unfortunately noise has – unbeknownst to me, because I was concentrating on thinking consciously about something I can do quite well unconsciously – attracted Next Door’s Cat.

Cat leaps on table, bats dangling shallot string with mighty paw. Have clearly made edible cat toy. Swing string away from cat, cat follows, try and biff cat with shallots, trug falls off bench again, step into the ********* trug again, fall over. Swear even more mightily, with added shouting. Cat runs off.

Abandon all hope of producing online tutorial on ancient Breton art of plaiting onions and related doo-dahs. Just do the rest, no camera, they’re fine.

shallots in kitchen

Years ago, when I was a stand-up, I used to despise slapstick. I evidently missed my way. Again.

Incidentally, when typing this up, the WordPress spellchecker kept changing ‘trug’ to ‘drug’. If only.


Questions for this gardener…

I have had a good gardeny couple of days, and without doing very much in the garden, which is probably just as well as certain parts have turned to mush. But the snowdrops are coming up (admittedly on very short stems, but they’ll grow), the crocuses are materialising around the base of the big cherry tree and I’ve even got some wallflowers doing their thing. The pruning is complete – er, even the plum, which should not have been pruned at all right now but I lost my temper – and reclaiming the blurry edges of the beds has started too.

I did have to leave the warmth of the house for my good gardening time, though, because I went off to Portmeirion with a couple of friends to attend a recording of Gardener’s Question Time. But before that I spoke to about six million people about what is, to me, a radical decision – not to rejoin the RHS. It was interesting, and revealed a very clear north/south divide.

I joined years and years ago, when I was a baby exhibitor at Chelsea. This was so long ago that The Garden was the tiny size, and very dense, and almost unreadable. When you did read it, it was knowledgeable and often intimidating, but it stretched you. Or it stretched me, I should say. Now it’s bigger, prettier, has lots of bright pictures and sometimes appears to be written for eejits who’ve never been near a garden. It doesn’t work for me, and living here in North Wales very little else RHS-y does. Take a look at the ‘events’ pages, for instance. I picked a Garden at random – I think it was June, when there should be plenty going on – and there were three whole columns of events, excluding pics, for the west and east Midlands (an area also without an RHS garden to bulk up the info). The whole of Wales merited a third of a column. Of the nine gardens very briefly listed there, six were down south – and it’s easier to get to England than it is to reach Cardiff from here.

parpI decided I might have got the Celtic Hump, a well-known disorder, so rang some other friends and this is when the north/south divide became crystal clear. Even my brother, who is within a (long, admittedly) drive of Harlow Carr, has decided to quit. It makes me sad but – so long, RHS. I did ring and explained why I wasn’t renewing, but they’ll probably just assume it was the Celtic Hump Disease and recommend spraying…

Now for something much more enjoyable: GQT.

I learned of an impending visit by the BBC’s Garden Question Time team (try saying that in a hurry) at our garden club, where it was mentioned in the notices. So three of us – well, one other member and A N Gardening Other – decided to get tickets, think of a bright and intelligent question which would transform us into respected gardening gurus overnight, and go along. We also decided to go early, take advantage of the admission to Portmeirion and have a look round; a cold winter monsoon interfered but we’re gardeners, for heavens’ sake, and we went early anyway.

And that is how we ended up in the bar of the Portmeirion Hotel, steaming slightly, drinking wine and discussing our questions.

I had wanted to ask about how you could persuade middle-aged men not to hang out of trees by their teeth while chainsawing, but that was vetoed – vehemently vetoed. In the end I settled for a rather boring one about windbreaks, so it wasn’t surprising mine failed to make the cut, though talking with another audience member gave me some good suggestions. Our other questions, also unsuccessful, were about overwintering pepper plants and whether you really need to disinfect the soil in a polytunnel, one of my companions having taken over the veg garden of a local pub and a vast supply of Jeyes’ Fluid.

The questions which were picked were a combination of interesting – how the heck to stop bamboo spreading (Napalm, IMO), pruning a grandiflora magnolia (don’t) – and wilful battling against the whole concept of ‘right plant, right place’ – trying to move a 5′ x 6′ bottlebrush to an as-yet-undecided location while not killing it and wanting roses and a lawn in a bog (???). Maybe it was the wine – and there was wine for the audience in addition to that possibly unwisely imbibed by some of us in the Portmeirion Hotel – but that was the point at which many of us lost it; the woman behind me was doubled up and wheezing with laughter. The team – Eric Robson in the chair, Matt Biggs, Christine Walkden and Matthew Wilson this time – came up with some great suggestions for the lady with the bog, but I suspect she’ll still try roses.

All in all, by the end of the evening I felt I’d done some gardening. Unfortunately, I don’t think the garden feels the same, but almost all gardens look like the wrath of god at this time of year. But not all gardens have a collapsed rose arch spread across them waiting for someone (ahem) to find the motivation to break it up and take it to the tip along with all the broken pots. Now there’s a question: how do I summon up the energy to load the car with all the non-compostable seasonal rubbish?

Not the best way to start 2014 (sniff)

I suppose something had to happen. We’ve had the most terrible weather, with very high winds – gusts of 109 and 102mph recorded at Aberdaron just across the bay – plus lots of rain and incursions of the sea. Happily I’m on the 100m contour so the latter wasn’t so much of a problem here, but my ancient rowan tree eventually gave up the fight against the first two.

rowan 1

Yesterday P was walking round the corner of the house, in yet another 70mph gale, when he noticed the whole rowan blowing in the wind. Despite being able to see the trunk quite clearly from inside (hello rowan), I’d not spotted what was going on. Blowing lightly in the breeze is not something the tree normally does, being taller than the house…

The trunk was shifting by centimetres each time, and stones were becoming dislodged from the wall above which it sits. P rushed off to get his chainsaw, I made an emergency call to another friend (this was definitely a two-man job, if only to control the inner 8-year-old that seems to pop into existence in trees), and then kept my fingers crossed that nothing would happen before they both arrived. Not only is the tree taller than the house, it’s also very close, and I could see an unfortunate tree-through-roof-and-onto-kitchen-table scenario playing out.

Happily, it didn’t. Unhappily I’ve lost my rowan.

rowan downing

The gusts were only about 60mph at this point, by the way; I delivered my usual absolutely no liability whatsoever speech and went to make tea. I then reappeared, in my by now traditional role as Chief Dragger of Brash to the Bonfire Heap, and started dealing with the debris. The weather deteriorated even further, so as soon as the tree was safe we retreated to the kitchen to polish off the Christmas cake.

The unsafe stones have been removed from the wall, the top garden is covered in branches, the trunk is in two sections and I feel really, really exposed.

no rowan

And I don’t like living without a rowan by the house either, which my mother would have undoubtedly filed in her ‘Celtic bollocks’ category of statement (though she never interfered with her own rowans – note the plural – or her father’s, despite annual chuntering about berries dropping). There are all sorts of superstitions about cutting them down, anyway, though apparently it’s all right if you have no choice – we really didn’t – and I will be planting another, just further away.

My house is, however, still well ‘protected'; there are three ashes, a small holly and there’s iron all over the place – horseshoes above doors and even built into the garden walls along with old nails. This is undoubtedly because the field diagonally opposite me is supposed to be one where the Tylwyth Teg, aka the Fair Folk, dance, or did until they built affordable housing on it. Someone I know swears he saw one, sitting on the field gate, when he was about 7 (so it probably wasn’t the Sixteen Pints of Guinness Fairy). More realistically it’s probably an archaeological site: legends of that nature combined with a name suggestive of something built (‘red castle’), and nine times out of ten you’ve got archaeological remains. But I’m not cutting down the holly or removing the iron just yet… and I still have my guardian cement budgie, sitting on its trunk:

cement budgie

When I went back through all my photos trying to find pictures of the rowan in its splendour, I was shocked at how few I have. This is possibly because it’s – sorry, it was – so close to the house, but it often seems to spring up in the background or framing a view. So here, in honour of my late lamented rowan, is a gallery of its glory (just click on an image for a slideshow). Sniffle.

How to wreck yourself… and help!

I know it’s not long since my last post, but I need to share. More specifically, I need ideas.

I’m in pain. Everything hurts – knees, legs, back, shoulders, arms. I can’t speak for P, but judging by the stoical wincing I caught him doing when he thought I wasn’t looking, he’ll be feeling much the same. You see, we went a bit mad. And now I’m having a bit of a horticultural panic (I’m sure there’s one of those wonderfully expressive long words for it in German, something like ‘blumenstress’, perhaps, or ‘gartenarbeitpanik’).

A while ago we removed – OK, ahem, P removed – a huge and knackered hydrangea from a bed in the bottom garden:


This bed had been somewhat neglected (no, really?), the Giant Hydrangea of Boringness conveniently obscuring all sorts of neglect. It had, for instance, been where turf was heaped up when removed from the lawns to create other beds, and it was a great place to stockpile rubble – you couldn’t see any of this because of the sheer bulk of the hydrangea. Getting it sorted was obviously going to be a major task, and yesterday we got stuck in.

I thought I knew what I was going to do with it: move an Osmathus delaveyii which is unhappy in the top garden, cover the ground with Geranium magnificum,

G mag and bee bum

which is comparatively well behaved and of which I’ve got enough to make transplanting some realistic, and have lots of white spikes pushing through this – white foxgloves, veronicastrum, verbascum, etc – until the osmanthus grows up.

It’s a theory. Unfortunately it is now a blown theory, because the naked bed is absolutely flipping enormous:


The sheer size doesn’t really show here, not without P standing in it for scale and he flatly refused. After a wild guess was poo-pooed by Shedman at the Artist’s Garden, I measured it properly. It’s 6.5m across, and 4m deep at the (currently) widest part. My guess wasn’t that wild. O. M. G.

It’s also got an interesting slope, even after all the holes and lumps and bumps were filled up using the rotted-down turf mountains:


Plus, now we’ve stripped off a vast quantity of perennial weeds, some of it is bone dry. Though not for much longer; it’s raining nicely and we stopped mulching when we hit the really dry stuff. Also we’d used one whole rubble sack of bark chips…

So now what? Well, nothing until September, apart from mulching and weed control. But what then? There are several things to be borne in mind…


1. The back wall is not mine and I mustn’t grow anything up it as it’s just been repointed.
2. Though the bed itself is sheltered from the prevailing wind, the cold east wind is a nasty bastard, whips down from Moelfre behind the village and slaps straight into it.
3. The pear tree, though old, is beautiful and quite large and still productive if I speak to it nicely. There’s no room for another tree behind it, really,

pear tree

(pear plus ferns and neglected bed)

and nor do I want to add one and risk the effect of root growth on my neighbours.
4. I’ve got a Sambucus niger that is not doing brilliantly where it is and could be moved here too; and I still want to shift the osmanthus.
5. I want to keep the perennial poppies, which are fab:


and the ground by the urn is covered in crocuses in spring (they can take their chance).
6. My garden doesn’t accommodate exotics easily. Um, perhaps I can qualify that – whatever I plant has to be in sympathy with the garden as a whole, obviously, even though long views will be blocked by the pear when in leaf. For instance, last year I grew a wonderful Angelica gigas in my ‘new’ bed which was spectacular but which didn’t really work with everything else.
7. My soil is acid, though I suspect that nearer to the wall will be quite limey – I’ll be out there with my pH kit once it stops raining – following the repointing. I don’t want to add azaleas or rhododendrons as there’s more ripping out to be done elsewhere, and and I have those earmarked for the next outbreak of insanity. And I’m not a huge fan of heathers – except tree heathers and getting the ones I like is almost impossible, so they’re out. Ferns I do like, which is probably just as well as this garden does good ferns all by itself.

On the more constructive side, I’ve an open mind about colour, though I have just sown 30+ white foxgloves in preparation for Unrealistic Planting Idea No. 1. I’ve already eliminated things like prairie planting as that would just look silly, and I know I want to introduce some more bulbs for the spring (just as well I’ve not done the Peter Nyssen order yet). I’m wide open to any suggestions which may help my incipient blumenpanik. And if that isn’t a word, it definitely ought to be. There’s plenty of time for Unrealistic Planting Ideas 2 to 58,000. Well, about ten to twelve weeks.

And on the even more constructive side, it’s surprising how well aching limbs respond to a hot bath and a large whisky. Ow. Must repeat.

Yikes 3

(new bed with large plant pot)

8. Oh yes – and anything on the far side will overhang the lane and must absolutely NOT infiltrate the retaining wall. I have snowberry for that (and a man with a mattock for the snowberry).


So farewell, then, hy-flipping-drangea

I have had a hydrangea in the garden since I came here. That’s not unexpected; most of the gardens in the area have hydrangeas. Some are gorgeous colours – my favourite is the mix of deep pinky/purply/crimson.

My hydrangea is not deep pinky/purply/crimson. It’s baby blue. With shades of faint lavender fading to washed-out greeny white, turning to unpleasant brown.


Around its feet are wild garlic, all sorts of bluebells (rapidly becoming one sort of bluebell, and the wrong sort), some St John’s Wort, a vast number of Welsh poppies and more of the crocuses.

crocus patch

The hydrangea is very old, very big and very reluctant to put on any sort of show. We’ve pruned it, with varying degrees of savagery, in an attempt to persuade it to a) flower more prolifically, or b) die.

This is the time of year for pruning hydrangeas.

Only this year I had a fit of the vapours:


Take that!

And because hydrangeas can spring back, even from this, take even more of that:


It’s been mattocked, and the root is now reposing on the bonfire heap. I defy even a hydrangea to come back after that.

Now I need to clear up this bed, remove the rest of the Great Root of Doom – and decide what on earth I’m going to put in its place. Any ideas? My soil is acid, the bed is in shade a lot of the day and the wall faces east (killer winds) but does provide shelter from the prevailing westerly wind. There’s an old pear tree nearby which really prevents the introduction of anything large or tall (and is the reason why there are no distance shots of the bed – I’ve taken some but they’re all pear tree).  The world is my oyster, or possibly my azalea, but I’d better do something quickly before the rest of the bed is colonised by the wild leeks and interloping bluebells. So, suggestions please (no, not another hydrangea).

And now I’m off to psych myself up for the village Garden Club’s spring show on Wednesday. I’ve never entered anything in a flower show before, and I would pick the year of the Big Winter Blast, wouldn’t I? Well, at least everyone else is in the same boat…

A crime – solved?

Well, Holmes and Watson have been round to look at the evidence from the mystery excavations in my garden:


All right, it was actually Karen (Artist’s Garden) and Shedman, but that is me in the feathered hat.

A paw print, now sadly blurry, was discovered.

Paw print, not – alas – claw print.


So much for the dragon theory.

But it also scuppers another – badger would be larger, rounder and claws would be more clearly visible – and leaves me with this:


Though possibly not a cur fox, but a young female – hence the absence of smell. There are certainly a lot more foxes around here than there used to be, leading to the removal and execution of a persistently annoying cockerel in the village, but I’d discounted them on the grounds that there was no other evidence. But the paw print clinches it, unless it is a passing dog. I could – according to Watson – try laying a trap of currants, which foxes apparently love. My own experience of foxes leads me to think that a discarded doner kebab might be more effective, but I could be corrupted by spending twenty years in London.

Next question – what to do?