Category Archives: Spring

Spring is sprung – maybe…

Ok, it’s here. My snowdrops are over, the daffodils are flowering, the equinox is passed, the Garden Club spring show is on Wednesday: it’s spring. Of course, it’s still $3!!**5% cold at night (we’ve had frosts) and there’s a nasty bite to the wind, but I’ve almost run out of chopped logs so it has to be spring.

And anyway, this has happened. Colour has come back to the garden, and not before time:


I do love my chionodoxas.

The wonderful chionodoxa carpet, which I feared had been disturbed by the taking down of the rowan and consequent rebuilding of the wall above which it spread, is back. The little darlings have shrugged off emergency tree surgery, gales, demolition, trampling, me helping, men with chainsaws, men with boulders and the attentions of the Hell Hound of Harlech. In fact, I think they’re better than ever. They’re spreading, too.

I love my chionodoxas, and I love my primroses as well. They’re coming out in their hundreds – it will soon be thousands – and they are everywhere.

prims and chio

They’re in amongst the chionodoxas, the daffodils, the hedges. They’re in paths, beds, the lawns, walls. They run riot in the meadow where they appreciate the lack of cutting (in a couple of weeks I’ll be able to see clearly where the paths have been mown in the past by the relative absence of primroses). At present they’re mostly the wild, pale yellow variety…

but then this happens:

coloured primrose

There are more and more of the coloured variants of the wild form, in everything from an almost grey yellow and greyish-pink, through salmon and pale pink to a really deep crimson. They’re not uncommon round here, and the primrose class at the Spring Show always includes a rich range of colours. I was bowled over with them when I first saw them, and I still am. Lovely things.

I’ve a newbie this year: hellebores. I’ve never been really into them; my brother adores them, and I let him fill the vacant hellebore niche in our gardening-mad family. But in recent years I’ve been given some lovelies, all singles, all orientalis:


I need to have three perfect blooms for the show (I know I won’t win, but I’m determined to enter), all of the same variety, and they have to float in a bowl. As does my camellia, which is astonishigly still flowering though it’s been at it since November – it is beginning to look a bit ratty, mind. Or the double one is ratty, the single – well, we’ll see.

The meadow is really starting it’s thing, what with the daffs and the prims and everything – oh, the anemones, how could I forget the anemones?


Mostly deep blue, some paler and a few white. Again, they’re spreading, and I’m so glad they are. Go anemones!

Walking up this way I saw a sort of haze, a blur, a vagueness, over the old bonfire site. Last year I planted it up with some foxgloves from other places in the garden, but that wasn’t it. I even thought it was my glasses. But it wasn’t:

moss flowering

It’s been colonised by the prettiest, softest moss – all flowering away like mad. This is the meadow so I don’t care – and anyway if I tried to eliminate moss from this garden I’d be left with lawns that looked like an outbreak of a particularly virulent skin disease and a nervous breakdown. It’s not going to happen. You have to come to terms with some things. Like the sudden loss of rowan trees. Opportunities, not disasters. And I love the textures of moss. I could have been twisted away form the path of righteousness by winning moss garden classes in the village show when I was a child – and I’m pleased to say there’s a class for them in our show on Wednesday. My one regret is that I’m not either 5 and under or 6–11. Rats.

And it’s sunny, right now, so I’m going out to do a bit of tweaking before I go to work.

colour returns

Or I could just dance around the garden singing ‘The sun has got his hat on, hip hip hip hooray, the sun has got his hat on and he’s coming out to play…’

Watching my hawthorn: tree following, March

Predictably, this month I discovered the disadvantage to following a tree that isn’t immediately accessible. I chose one that I could reach comparatively easily – even though it wasn’t within ten metres of the back door – and I’m still complaining. That’s because of the weather, which has been a little, um, unpredictable. I’m going to have to adapt and take shots whenever I can, because my tree is often above the cloud line.

This, taken a couple of years ago (my hawthorn is the one on the left)

tree and dolmen in mist

was in good visibility compared to some of the recent days. Moody, but not easy. So I gave it a day or two, and shot up there as soon as weather and work (and this ***** cough) permitted.

There’s no sign of any leaf breaking yet, though there are plenty of signs that the sheep have been using it as shelter:

woolly tree

though they usually disappear at speed when I materialise with my camera, and then watch me carefully from a distance. After I’ve been quiet for a few minutes they edge nearer, and by the time I’m finishing they have decided that I might as well be part of the landscape: I pose no threat and am unlikely to have sheep nuts in my pocket. There are no lambs as yet up here, though judging by the size of some of the ewes, it won’t be long; that will make them more skittish, and defensive. People do sometimes walk their dogs around here; I hope they keep them on close leads. I will certainly get defensive if I see any that are not.

Ahem, the tree.

The absence of leaves means I can see the moss and lichen clearly:

mossy branch

I have been poring over various identification guides, and I’m still hopeless – but I’ve not spotted anything I haven’t seen before. However, I am looking much more closely at the lichens than I have ever done before, and they are beautiful:


Last year, when my garden sprouted all sorts of mushrooms, people were very helpful identifying varieties. Any guesses? I think this one is a Cladonia, but I’m not sure which one; could be C. coccifera. The trouble is that they are all so similar, and identification often seems to depend on the most minute differences.

How about this?

more lichen

Admittedly, identification is not going to be easy because so many of the lichens have been rather desiccated in the recent winds – not a patch on last year, but bad enough and freezing.

There are signs of life on the ground, though:

foxglovesThere are foxgloves coming up near the tree, in the scatter of stones around the dolmen. Not a lot, but they should be spectacular later on. The stone scatter is quite extensive – the large structure would originally have been covered by a huge stone mound, and these are now spread around the immediate area.

tree and dolmen

(The infill which is under the capstone is modern, but uses some of the stones.)

The tree itself has quite a few stones which must have come from the mound in amongst its roots – that’s probably how it survived the depredations of livestock when it was tiny. I suspect that many more stones have been incorporated into walls and other structures – not recently, because now people understand that you don’t just rob prehistoric remains, at least not when they’re so obvious – but the whole area has been inhabited for hundreds and hundreds of years. Superstition might stop you from raiding a convenient stone mound, but not for ever.

Let’s close with an aerial view, taken some years ago and courtesy of the RCHMW:

Fie;d system

You can actually see my hawthorn on it. Follow the second of the two grey walls at the bottom right, and mentally extend it until it joins the white strip of the first road. There are two dark green splodges just before the road; the top one is my hawthorn, and the dolmen is between them. And you can see a lot of archaeology too. This is the Cors y Gedol field system; there are the remains of Iron Age round houses, and of rectangular Mediaeval farm buildings.

And the gorse is flowering now. Spring?

Daffodils for Dewi Sant

That’s it, it’s officially almost spring. It’s bitterly cold, there’s a sneaky wind off Cardigan Bay, but I can see the hills, an improvement on the last few days, and it’s not raining. And it’s Saint David’s Day, so it really is nearly spring.


Rather than break into a loud chorus of Hen Wlad (too much coughing would be involved, due to the arrival of the jolly end-of-winter bronchitis), I thought I’d celebrate my daffodils.

But why daffs and Wales? Actually, nobody seems quite sure. Some commentators think it’s the confusion between the Welsh names for leek (cehinen, pl. cennin) and daffodil (cehinen Bedr, literally St Peter’s leek). Leeks, according to legend, were selected as an identifying symbol for Welsh troops – they were fighting the Saxons, no surprise there – by St David. What is surprising is that St David should be associated with a military context, though – a saint noted for his aceticism and restraint. Budge the legend on a few centuries, though, and leeks are supposedly used to identify troops, notably Welsh archers, fighting in France under Henry V (thanks, Shakespeare).

Leeks dropped out of favour as a national symbol because they came to be associated with odious stereotypes of the ‘Taffy was a Welshman / Taffy was a thief’ variety. So what could work? Well, daffs appear around the same time as St David’s Day – indeed, I’ve just picked my first fifteen and started the annual count – and Lloyd George (a local lad) wore the daff on this day and encouraged others to do so. It’s a recent tradition, and it’s pretty common. Unlike the general wearing of leeks, though several US commentators, including Wikipedia, insist we’re all going around today wearing leeks. Just consider practicalities. And smell. I know which I go for.

And here are some of my finest, from the meadow and previous years – natch; they need a couple more weeks to really get going (and, yes, of course some of them are narcissi… but then strictly speaking, they all are):

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…)

Allium addicts unite…

we have nothing to lose but our marbles. Especially if, like me, your garden may not feel the same way about alliums.

My London garden, my first proper garden, ended up stuffed with plants. As time went on there was less and less of it devoted to grass as I extended existing beds into the lawn or simply dug up huge parts. I had, and still have, a stone urn and pedestal combo (subject of yet more Chelsea haggling, and which knackered the front seat of my Mini transporting it home), and it had pride of place. It was backed by a bronze Cotinus and surrounded with alliums, and it was spectacular at this time of year. So when I moved it north-westwards I thought I’d try and recreate the look.


My Welsh garden sneered at this example of metropolitan assumption, and – I suspect – ate the alliums. So I tried again, this time in another place. Nope, though one did grow (and continues to flourish) behind the greenhouse, where I know I did not plant it. Over time, I have come to understand that this garden has a pronounced personality, and that it will do what it wants to do and very little else, and that it will just not tolerate some things. When it comes to alliums, it has strong views.

Ramsons, yes:


no problems there. And completely independently it will produce tons of the other form of wild garlic, the one with the weedy straggly leaves, which spreads like b****** and which requires either major excavation or the use of Agent Orange to dispose of it. Dispose of it? I’m fooling myself again: control it. Slightly.

But I will not be deprived of my alliums, so I grew some in pots. That worked, and I was pleased with the effect:

potted alliums

which rather begs the question of why I decided to dig them up and plant them out. Admittedly, they’re in the new Capel bed – it backs against the wall of the chapel house next door – which is almost the driest bed I’ve got, and will give them the best chance, but I’ve still only had two of eleven produce flowers. The garden evidently noticed.

It hasn’t, so far, recognised these as an allium:

allium siculum

though it is their first year, and that might change as it realises that Nectarscodosum siculum is now reclassified as A. siculum (evidently my garden is using an old edition of RHS Plants and Flowers when it decides what to reject). I have been warned that these will join in the spread-fest of the wild garlics, but will they? I wouldn’t bet on it. Plus they’re so lovely that they’re welcome to spread wherever they wish, though I may regret this statement.

And, in defiance of the prejudice and in a spirit of wild optimism, I planted some A. christophii in the Capel bed. The stray back-of-greenhouse allium is a christophii, so I might get away with it. I do hope so:


I find myself stopping to adore these when I should be doing other things, like spreading slug pellets. The flower buds are so huge and fat and promising before they burst, and the individual floret buds seem rather improbable, almost as though they belong in some William Morris-style interior or on the set of a fantasy movie. They’re heraldic, but not a heraldry I recognise; there’s definitely an almost-alien elegance about them.


They look hard and spiky and odd, but they look good here. Which does surprise me, because generally the odd doesn’t work in this garden (Angelic gigas, while fascinating, was definitely a mistake). They’ve opened very slowly – the weather has been, and continues to be, not very good – but that’s just kept the suspense working, and I have found myself really enjoying their gradual appearance. I’ve got ten. What’s the betting that next year I have two, and one of them has shifted to behind the greenhouse all by itself? I don’t care; it’s worth it for this year.

And now it’s time to battle the slugs which, although they don’t much care for alliums, are really, really enjoying the irises. Who knew?

My followed tree and the wind…

My poor birch, the tree I am ‘following’ once a month, is blowing all over the place. And that’s although the storm we are having at the moment scarcely merits the description compared to those we endured over the winter, with 108mph gusts and floods and railway lines being washed away. I am amazed at how resilient the three birches are proving to be, even though the bigger two are now substantial. They just bend and lash about and hang on in there. It helps that there’s no direct threat from the sea – happily I’m on the 100m contour line – but they do cope extremely well with being in the direct route of Irish Sea gales.

The contrast between them and the evergreen trees can be seen very clearly now the birches are in full leaf. This is my followed birch, the baby one, zoomed up against the Western Red Cedar which is diagonally behind it:

the state of that...

It’s probably just as well that the other WRC was taken down a couple of years ago; this poor thing does look embarrassed at the state it’s in, and the other was in a much more prominent position.

The birches, on the other hand, are downright perky.


Lots of lovely fresh growth, looking fresher than ever in the drizzle and wind – I’m taking shelter under the WRC here, and ‘my’ birch is the smaller one in the middle, the furthest from the camera. The meadow is growing up around it, and though I am managing to maintain a clear circle at the base, it’s getting more difficult to do so. Especially as I decided not to mow the path which ran beside it, almost in a straight line on from the central path here. It was bumpy and lumpy and there were too many fritillaries to avoid, so that path is history now. This can make photographing the Chosen Tree a little awkward, but that’s nothing to the problems some of the people blogging around  Loose and Leafy‘s tree-following meme are having.

And when I can get up close and personal, and when the tree isn’t lashing about like a demented Morris Dancer on speed, there have been changes. The catkins are now mostly over – thank heavens, I’ve been mainlining Ventolin – though there are still plenty of flowers:

catkin and flower

and though the majority of the leaves aren’t quite as sparkly and new as they were (dur, obviously), there are still some unfolding – much to my delight. I think the fresh green of new birch leaves is one of my all-time favourite  colours.

new leaves

This is the time of year when birch leaves were traditionally gathered, dried and eventually made into a decoction and drunk as a herb tea (not recommended, btw) or used as a skin wash for eczema. That was tried on me by my grandmother, and the spot of eczema did vanish, but then it was only a minor problem anyway; I was lucky. There’s more evidence for birches being used medicinally to treat arthritis, but I don’t think I was the only victim of skin-problem ‘solutions’. It seems to have been a rural French standby, judging by some other people I know.

The bark, of course, has traditionally had many more uses and, as I noted when I started ‘following’ this tree, this one’s bark is an appealing shade of burnt orange. However, it was suggested by several people that this would not last, and indeed… look what’s happening:

peel a tree

Beneath the burnt orange is a paler, more tawny shade, like a fine old sherry – and beneath that is a silvery colour. Maybe it will join its compatriots and shine in the evening sun. Oh, I suppose it does that anyway (when we get evening sun, that is); it’s just different.

Associated wildlife, I’m afraid, is not that evident. As yet; things will improve as the meadow grows up and the wind dies down. At present the tree’s only visitors seem to be the Upper Garden Robin, who uses it as one of his/her many shouting-at-other-robins posts, and some blackbirds. The crows and jackdaws avoid it – it’s probably not stable enough or high enough for them to use it as a lookout, or the robin is really threatening – and I haven’t seen much sign of insect life. Yet. Yet…

My very own standing stones

I have been a bad blogger recently; opening the garden to the local garden club meant I had to try and catch up with the weeding. Perhaps it’s just as well the NGS are not involved – can’t imagine how bad I’d be if they were!

Anyway, time to catch up with some of the things that happened over the winter, and which have made a real difference, giving the beds in the bottom garden a real point and focus. And not plants, either. Standing stones.

stones under construction

As you can tell from the lack of growth, we put them up a few weeks ago. I’d been hoarding some appropriately tall slates, but even so some were not tall enough as P assured me that at least a third needed to be in the ground. We were left with two huge ones and five smaller strips, maybe originally intended as risers for stairs.

Perhaps it’s not surprising I’d end up with standing stones of one kind or another; I am, after all, by training an archaeologist. And I live in an area littered with megalithic monuments, from the huge and unique double cairn behind the school to the lines of individual stones marking a trackway running into the hills. Aside: I know someone who farms up there, and one foggy morning he was driving carefully along when a woman loomed out of the fog, hugging one of the stones. He pointed out that there was a much larger stone hidden in the mirk just up the hill, but she said that the one she was wrapped around had the ‘power’. Evidently, as he said afterwards in the pub, size doesn’t matter…

Admittedly my stones are not 4,000 years old, admittedly they’re rather smaller, admittedly they are in the wrong material – slate. But we did spend ages fiddling about, getting them into some sort of alignment:

stone lines

and thinking about what plants they would frame and what would look best against them. Oh yes, and what might be already in the ground and hidden when P started digging (answer: weeds, so that’s OK).

Now that the plants are beginning to spring up and bulk out, I can see that the decisions were about right. One set, these big stones,


will have an agapanthus in front of them (er, in front when you look at them from this angle, and the giant but dead pheasant grass in the bed behind them has gone now). Mind you, there was another agapanthus roughly here which seems to have vanished, so it may not only have been weeds which were disturbed. Tant pis ou tant mieux…

Overall, I’m pleased. They do exactly what I hoped they would, seeming to pull the middle bed and the bottom bed together and give them a focus – the other beds all have something, whether it’s a gable end or a stone wall, and I now realise that this was what these two beds lacked. Worth saving all the odd bits of slate from the depredations of people who thought they’d work better as steps.

garden with stones

And I’ve just realised they’re a bit difficult to spot here. Big ones, no problem. The trio are just behind the ginkgo (bright green leaves) and the others are in the shade of the acer. They’re even more difficult to see here because of the reddish cast of the tree. Slate comes in different colours,

slate colours

(thank you, the National Slate Museum, Llanberis – great place, fascinating), and while most of my scavenged stones were grey-blue local slate, some were the almost pinkish purple-red – ‘Vivian’ it says – of slate quarries further north. Completely coincidentally, they needed up closest to the acer, where they look just right. And in front of them will be the bright acid green Euphorbia schillingli (the stones will be visible through it from the most usual angle). Should work. Hopefully.

(And in the list of colours above, I’m not sure what to make of ‘green and wrinkled’. I guess that was a pretty accurate description of us once the slates were up. It’s done now. And so are various joints. Joints of the body, thank you!)