Category Archives: Spring

What a difference a few feet makes – tree following, June

I’m about to go away – garden sitters have been briefed and shown where the watering cans are – so I’ve been rushing about. We’ve also had some seriously odd weather, as have most of us, so what with that and the rushing, I’ve not been near my hawthorn.

I had hoped to get up there and catch the opening of the blossom. I thought, you see, that it would be fading by 7 June, and anyway I’ll be away then. But I only made it up there yesterday, and I found this:

hawthorn

Not exactly covered, is it? Was it, perhaps, over? I walked round to the other side and approached the tree. No, not over – many buds were still to open. Some flowers which had opened were damaged, but most were still firmly shut.

blossom

The ones which were open were attracting attention from flying things which zipped past me, helped no doubt by the sudden increase in temperature (from single figures to the giddy height of 14 degrees, mind – I was still in my fleece and walking boots).

hawthorn blossom

Those flowers which were open were also a bit battered, or looking rather hesitant and fragile.

I turned round and was really surprised. Though ‘my’ tree is the largest and oldest of the hawthorns up here by the dolmen, it is surrounded by others. It is also a tiny bit higher than the others, and that – I assume – is probably the main reason why the others looked like this:

another hawthorn

Is it snow, or is it blossom? While mine looked like this:

where's the blossom?

It’s not age, or I don’t think it is – because my followed tree has plenty to come. It’s just not doing it yet. It’s waiting, still doing the equivalent of wearing  fleece and walking boots. It’s not casting a clout either.

And in the meanwhile its neighbours are amazing:

hawthorns

It’s supposed to be warming up significantly this weekend, so I am hoping that the venerable hawthorn I’ve decided to follow will catch up – but the only significant difference between it and its fellows is a few feet in altitude. And when I say ‘a few feet’, it’s maybe two feet – just as exposed, but that little bit higher. And the trees on the landward side of the lane, which are another couple of feet higher up still, are in the same state as my tree. It would never have occurred to me that such an apparently insignificant difference could have such an impact among so close a bunch of neighbours.

Wildlife? Well, no goats this time, and no sheep either – they’ve been moved higher up. The usual ravens shouting their heads off, buzzards circling high above and calling … and the deeper call of, could it be, a peregrine? Then I spotted the peregrine’s unmistakeable flight pattern and shape, and watched it for a few minutes before it shot downwards like a guided missile and disappeared out of view, Rabbit, possibly. Plenty of those about.

And the wildflowers are benefitting from the sheep move too. The bluebells are still out up here; yellow tormentil is starting to speckle the grass; the foxgloves are heading skywards and there are some small umbellifers. I get almost as confused with umbellifers as I do with ferns, so I’m throwing this one open:

any guesses?

Could be any one of about twelve things, I think. Short (could be the conditions), small – flowerhead about 5cm across, max, generally less. Pretty, undoubtedly.

Keep your clouts on (tree following, May 2015)

The old verse / proverb / saying / whatever is something like ‘cast ne’r a clout till may be out’. It doesn’t mean ‘don’t throw clouts at people’ (clouts are clothes anyway) and it doesn’t refer to the month. It refers to the flowering of the hawthorn – or the may tree – and instructs you not to remove a single garment until it blossoms. I’ve been putting on garments rather than casting them off, and also lighting stoves, filling the oil tank, etc. It’s been cold.

We had a warm spell about three weeks ago, and I took myself off to the hawthorn I am following to make sure that I wasn’t missing out on blossom time. I wasn’t; the blackthorns were covered, but the hawthorn was just beginning to show a green haze:

tree and gorse

and the gorse was amazing. The whole area smelled heavily of coconut, rather like a hen party in Spain – a mixture of suntan oil and Malibu.

That was then. A couple of days later the weather shifted and a lot of things seemed to go into a sort of suspended animation in which they changed only slowly. But nothing stands still for ever (OK, arguable, perhaps) and things are shifting again:

hawthorn tree

The tree is now well covered in young leaves. Some, however, are showing signs of damage – I suspect that is from the terrible gales we’ve been having and, particularly, from one which was accompanied by hail. I’m fairly sure that was the culprit as most of the damaged leaves seemed to be on the landward side of the tree – and that was the (less usual by a long way) direction of the freezing gales.

However, it’s definitely picking up – and the newest, freshest, baby leaves have a beautiful red-pink colour as they open, which I have never really noticed before:

baby leaf

and that’s despite us kids snacking off them on the way home from primary school. They were called ‘bread and cheese’, and I’ve found that this is a remarkably common name across huge parts of northern Britain. Some people think it refers to their use as food in times of dearth (which would fit with the timing – this is the ‘hungry gap’ – but seems a bit far-fetched), and others just think ‘it’s a nickname’. Well, dur – nicknames come from somewhere… but where?

almost there

The flowers, however, are still very tightly in bud.

Around the tree, life is going on. The lambs are bigger, more adventurous and a lot less likely to gallop off hysterically as you approach; instead they look you straight in the eye and either stay put or get up slowly and deliberately and wander off as though they were going in that direction anyway. The road surface holds the heat, and is a favourite place to sit and snooze:

road lambs

When I left London, way back in 2002, I opened the window on my first morning here – I was staying at a friend’s place up the hill because the house I’d just bought was uninhabitable – and saw loads of sheep sitting contentedly on the road outside the farm buildings. I instantly realised that I had not made a rash decision, that I was back where I ought to be, in the hills and the countryside and away from all that city stuff. I grew up avoiding sheep resting on the road – not a hazard you encounter very often in south London – and it felt instantly right. Still a sight I enjoy!

This, on the other hand, was something of a surprise in amongst all the sheep:

wild goat

Just the one wild goat, aka gafr wyllt, officially the feral goat. There is a substantial population here (well, on what the Snowdonia Mammal Group describes as the Rhinogydd uplands), but I’ve never seen one this low down – higher up, yeah, loads – or this close either; generally in the distance, moving in flocks. As a child in Scotland we used to go out ‘wild goat spotting’ on summer evenings, and it was something of a result when we glimpsed one in the distance. The population here has somewhat exploded in recent years (there’ve been selective culls), but I’ve never been so close. Never. Amazing.

However, it’s not the tree. Here is a small montage of ‘my’ may tree in, well, May (click on an image for a slideshow):

And thanks to Lucy at Loose and Leafy for hosting this meme – without it I’d never have been eyeballed by a wild goat. Bet that’s one of the more unusual results of tree following! (Do check out some of the links to other blogs on her site, tree addicts – people are following a wide range of trees and it’s really interesting.)

Epimedium enchanting!

I have a bit of an epimedium weakness (I like erythroniums too, and many other things beginning with e but not… well, let’s not get distracted). However, my garden eats epimediums, so this year I got a bit radical.

epimedium

My one remaining epimedium – and I’ve been given epimediums which are an invasive menace elsewhere but which disappear chez moi – is this precious pearl, Epimedium grandliflorum ‘Lilatee’.  I love it, but I didn’t want to see it go the way of all flesh – um, the way of all epimediums – and so I marked its position carefully and let the leaves die back.

And when they did, I potted it up.

epimedium

One of my friends said ‘I didn’t know you could grow epimediums in pots’, and neither did I. But it’s a tiny one, despite the name, and I thought it might be OK. It came through the winter fine, nice and dormant, snuggled below the soil. Then this spring I began to notice signs of life. I moved the pot to near the back door where I could enjoy it, and sure enough – pow. A really healthy plant. Flourishing, in fact.

Then we had a really chilly night – I had to scrape the windscreen of frost – and I thought it looked a little pinched and surprised, so I moved it into my unheated greenhouse.

I think it likes it.

epimedium

It’s supposed to be warming up a little, so I might try reintroducing it to the outside world. But while it’s sitting on the potting bench (oh, I’ll come clean – the old picnic table I use as a potting benchette), it’s at just the right height for some epimedium worship.

epimedium

Those flowers, by the way, are a max of 2.5 cm from spur tip to spur tip. I’ve got another flowering stem to come out, and I’ve never seen it look so good.

Maybe I might invest in a couple more…

Free plants, free plants

There is something deeply satisfying about this time of year, especially if you are a cheapskate gardener like me. For now is the time when friends decide to clear beds of things like extra hardy geraniums and grasses and give the excess away, when divided plants reveal if they have survived the savage process of separation, when cuttings take like a dream. So while I’m not actually offering free plants (the huge number of black cow parsley seedlings I have are not yet hardened off enough),

black cow parsley babies

I am celebrating their existence.

Some things come about as a result of insufficient deadheading, or of deliberate lack of it, and I defy anyone to keep up with removing the seed heads of nigella, aka love in a mist, or eschscholzia, aka Californian poppy. As a result they are everywhere, and as far as I am concerned, they’re staying put:

free seedlings!

I did wonder if the recent dip down into semi-Arctic conditions, especially at night, would destroy them, but no, thanks, they’re fine. Last year my random seed bed was a little disappointing – though only really to me, and only to me because it became dominated by wild carrot, which are brutes. Pretty brutes (bit like some men I could name but won’t, hee hee), but thugs nonetheless, and difficult to eradicate completely (er, ditto…). This year I’m hedging my bets. I’ve sown some seeds directly, as last year, but also sown some in trays and they’re currently germinating nicely in the greenhouse.

(Hm. Some of them are, but I won’t be buying from Plants of Distinction again. Grumble. Nor will I be getting shallots or garlic from Marshalls – doubtless I’ll have a separate rant about then when I get onto veg at some point in the future. That will also take in PoD and their **%£1@Z@ tomatoes, double grumble.)

But my favourite freebies are probably the gifts and swaps. I’ve still got a verbascum which I got from Sara Hillwards (who is also celebrating a gorgeous freebie at the moment, incidentally). Then Karen at Artist’s Garden gave me this lovely hardy geranium

hardy geranium

and a great big chunk of her phlomis,

phlomis

in exchange for a giant garden bucket/trug full of osteospermums (they like it here, but a bit too much, so I had the odd one, er, odd hundred or so, which were surplus to requirements).

Some garlic chives and a tray of baby black cow parsley went to Janet aka Plantaliscious, as she said she’d swap them for some Stipa tenuissima. Some stipa. Just the ‘odd one’, you understand:

yikes

Of course I should have known, given the great Offloading of the Osteospermum. ‘Some’ equalled eight big ones.

I know exactly where they are going (once we’ve dug up some dandelions and snowberry) – round the side and back of the greenhouse. Self-sown foxgloves (another freebie) will stand up amongst them, and with a bit of luck I should have a river of stipa and foxgloves instead of a river of dandelions, valerian seedlings and flipping snow flipping berry, stupid flipping ineradicable thing. Flipping. Ahem.

P. also did some perennial splitting this year, and not before time (I did try, but I wasn’t strong enough; that’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it). That’s also very satisfying, but I am clearly going to have a garden full of agapanthus:

agapanthus

I am toying with an idea: breaking up the iris bed, which will need to be dug out and refreshed this year anyway, and replacing it with agapanthus. White agapanthus. Which one of my neighbours has said she will swap for some black cow parsley… and so it goes on!

(PS: I’ve still got some osteospermum, by the way…)

A walk through the woods (tree following, April 2015)

Bank Holiday weekend, and I should have known better. The weather was most peculiar, with a heavy sea fog blanketing the bay and making anywhere fronting it about 10 degrees colder than places inland. Get to about the 100m contour line, and you were looking out over a sea of fog with the mountain tops protruding in a rather unearthly manner – and you were in bright, warm, delightful sunshine. So when I drove up to the little car park I use when I walk along to the hawthorn I ‘follow’ every month, I found it full.

A bit lower down there’s a muddy spot which locals know is actually safe parking, but it’s an uphill bash back to the car park and the hawthorn. Or I could walk through the woods to get to my tree. It was no contest… fancy a walk? walk to the woods The woods are old coppice, at least at the start – they get a bit wilder once you’re through the gate at the end of this path. Just before you reach the gate there are some rather prolific hazels, but I’ve never managed to beat the squirrels to the nuts. streams It’s been dry for some days, but it always takes time for the woods to dry out. Some parts were decidedly squishy, which didn’t surprise me but which did startle the family I met coming in the other direction. They were staying on a nearby campsite, which doesn’t really explain why the mother was wearing stilettos. But, chwarae teg / fair play, she was giving it a go. Good for her. beech mast In dryer parts it is quite clear from the forest floor that most of the trees are beeches, and there were patches of wood sorrel and quite a few celandines. In about another month or so the woods will be so full of bluebells that you can smell them long before you see the first hint of blue – maybe they’ll feature in next month’s post.

The woods are criss-crossed with paths, and I chose – bearing in mind the squishiness – to follow the higher ones. They give occasional glimpses of the hills on the opposite (southern) side of the valley – the woods run roughly east–west – which will soon be invisible behind a screen of leaves. uplands However high the path you follow, though, they all dip down to a general meeting point and run along the river. This is the Afon Ysgethin, and it is just magical. Sometimes in summer I stop work and bring a sandwich lunch and a flask up here and just chill by the river for 30 minutes or so.

There are always things to see – lots of birds like treecreepers and dippers, sometimes a kingfisher, sometimes a lady in stilettos… Ysgethin Parts of this area are an SSSI, which is probably not surprising. The ferns are something else. They grow everywhere, including on the trees: ferns and one, the hay-scented fern Drypoteris aemula, is rare in North Wales (in fact, this is one of the few places where it is found). But this dawdling over other trees wasn’t getting me closer to my followee, so I followed the path back up again to come out of the cover of the trees by the ‘English shelter’, the old drovers’ stop.

Once out in the open, then sun was quite hot and I soon shed my waterproof and a then another layer. I turned back, walking roughly parallel to the woods but above them, going along the single-track road towards the hawthorn. The gorse this year is amazing: gorse and the whole of this area smelled very strongly of coconut – not off-putting though, except it made me think of ice cream, and then of cold drinks and how nice it would be to shed my walking boots.

The dolmen by the hawthorn isn’t the only archaeology up here: the whole area is littered with evidence of previous generations. One remarkable place is an Iron Age roundhouse just below the road, so I took a detour to see if the badger sett nearby looked as though it was inhabited (and if it was, had they damaged the site). It wasn’t, and they hadn’t: round house The dip in the middle is the (blurred edges now, mind) floor of the round house, and the trees are growing out of what were once the walls. The dip at the back between the two scrubby hawthorns would have been the entrance. It’s pretty big and could easily have housed a large extended family. Distracted, again!

But my target wasn’t far off. Five more minutes, and I was confronted by ‘my’ tree – and by a hawthorn that appeared to be almost exactly the same as it had been last month. After a few minutes of wandering around it, I realised that it wasn’t. Not quite: hint of green! Woo! A hint of bud break! Spring!

Thanks to Lucy at Loose and Leafy for running the ‘tree following’ meme, and apologies that this month’s post hasn’t been more about the tree itself. Blame the Bank Holiday, the weather and my ability to be as easily distracted as … well, as anything that is very easily distracted!

Spring sprang (and now it’s gone away again)

It was spring, I know it was. We had the Gardening Club’s Spring Show, so it had to have been spring. But now it’s not. It’s even more &4%%2™T?È$ freezing than it was last week, and I was moaning about it then. But I have these to finish planting:

triffids

I know they look like baby triffids – I’m convinced this is how triffids start out – but they’re actually Shetland Black seed spuds, planted in honour of my forthcoming pilgrimage wool- buying opportunity, ahem, trip to points north (I’ve also planted some Juliette in case these don’t appreciate being grown in what is, for them, the tropics).

And we had the show. I didn’t do as well as previous years with my daffodils, though my miniatures did come third in their class:

baby daffs

This was taken so early on that there was only one other entry. In the end the class for ‘species, dwarf and miniature’ varieties was so big that we had to move it onto another table, so coming third was definitely a result. First came some beautiful species daffs – I must, must, must grow some next year. And maybe the class needs to be broken up…

I was ridiculously pleased with these, by the way. Last Easter an elderly friend of mine bought me a little pot of daffs, very overcrowded but gorgeous. We planted them out close to the house, and I thought they might not survive competition with the meadow, the chionodoxas, the primroses, the fritillaries and the Hell Hound of Harlech. But they have flourished, looking gorgeous amongst the sea of blue chionodoxas and contrasting well with the primroses. Plus the HHoH is now tethered to the big cedar at the back of the garden on an extremely short lead following the not entirely surprising demise of my multi-headed daffs after repeated excavation.

I also did well in the ‘flowers not already mentioned’ class, which features everything from huge bergenia (yuk) to tiny scillas. My chionodoxas came first (YIPEE!), and my leucojeums were second – quite amazing that I actually had three almost identical stems, as they have been really bashed in the wind. But nothing for my camellia:

camellia

which was thoroughly overshadowed by more spectacular delights, or my primroses:

primroses

of which I had to try and select an almost-matching trio. Next to impossible with my lot (but that’s why I love them so much). And I have learned that primroses keep really well – they’re only just going over, a week and two days after they were picked.

My hellebores were outclassed, too, but I was seriously unsurprised: there were some stunners. I rated mine, but – well… I clearly need more of those too.

wowser

My main problem, as always with the Show, is getting things to be perfect. I try and garden as organically as possible, which means that things – inevitably – get eaten. What is it that eats hellebores? And can I train Next Door’s Cat to go after whatever it is? Is it, indeed, Next Door’s Cat? I may have to install webcams.

There are some more shots of the show – such a friendly event – on the garden club’s website, here. Yup, there is a certain unity of style – I am now on the committee (didn’t move fast enough) and have been elected Webmeister. Meistress?

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:

chionodoxas

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:

hellebores

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?

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…’