Preparing the way

With the days drawing out and the light levels gradually intensifying – by contrast making the dull days seem even gloomier – there’s plenty to be done in the garden now in preparation for the season ahead.

Time to break out the big guns. Well...saw.

Mid February in the garden and, while there might not be much actual growing to be done, there’s an awful lot of preparation that can be gotten on with. Not to mention purposeful striding about to be undertaken, all the while gesticulating grandly towards nothing in particular, and declaiming vastly overambitious visions of glory for neglected corners of the garden.

I have washed pots, culled old, worn pots and bought in replacements, tidied the greenhouse (after a fashion – doesn’t bear close scrutiny), and finally managed to get some heat into the structure by way of a vastly over-priced paraffin heater which, for all I can fathom, has been manufactured from a couple of old biscuit tins, but seems to do the job admirably.

No more of this, thank you very much

I’d read one terrible review after another for this type of apparatus, mostly from people who had returned to the greenhouse following the first night’s use only to find the entire place covered in thick black soot. A growing suspicion formed that the people who write these reviews can only be muppets of the highest order, who’ve failed to read the instructions and either left the wicks too long or allowed the heater to run out of fuel.

In spite of costing an arm and a leg for a bit of old tin, this little greehouse heater seems to be doing the job admirably

So far, everything’s working perfectly – and I’m pleased to have got the greenhouse to a reasonably snug and frost free state before seed sowing starts in earnest, if a little too late for several more delicate pelargoniums. (As an aside, the holders of the National Collection of Pelargoniums – the lovely people at Fibrex Nurseries – have ‘jokingly’ refused to sell me any more plants until I sort out my regime of annually culling my tender pellies over winter. At least, I think it was a joke.)

I’ve also decided to introduce some raised beds into the veg patch. My reasons are practical, rather than horticultural – chiefly that it allows me to elevate crops above small dog level, which will put an end to the thankless task of trying to chase Bill off the lettuces, his contribution to our kitchen garden adding an unwelcome piquancy to the salad dressing. Having taken the opportunity to add some timber-edged bark paths around the beds, this should drastically cut down on the amount of time we spend either weeding this part of the garden, or bemoaning the fact that it needs weeding. I’ll have to top up the bark on a reasonably regular basis – it decomposes fairly quickly, and inevitably gets mud trodden into it – but that’s a price I’m willing to pay for convenience.

Stapling in the weed control fabric to the timber path edging. I’d’ve preferred thick black polythene as it’s a bit more rugged, but this was to hand and will do the job for now.

That should make things a bit easier.

I’d been mulling the whole raised bed idea over for a week or so, when I came across further inspiration from Naomi Schillinger’s blog Out of My Shed. The sight of Naomi’s posh COR-TEN steel edging gave me raised-bed envy, and I have to admit I was sorely tempted. But I also rather like banging about with bits of wood in the shed and, since I’m also not very good at waiting about once I’ve finally decided upon a course of action, I took myself off to the local timber yard, strapped 12 three metre gravel boards precariously to the roof of the land rover, and drove cautiously home. The boards are pre-treated with a preservative called Tanalith E, which the Soil Association are happy to approve for materials used in the construction of organic veg beds (as long as the material is pre-treated, renewed applications of the preservative would have implications for organic status).

I’m intending to line the inside of the timber walls with black polythene, which should give an extra level of protection, both to the timber, and to our crops.

The process of filling the beds – pencilled in for the weekend – will have the double advantage of distracting me from sowing seeds far too early, whilst simultaneously providing a useful home for the various piles of soil heaped around the garden. Sometimes the place feels more like a bronze age burial site than anything else, though to date no dig here has yielded treasure more valuable than a few old bricks and the occasional Bakelite switch. While I’m about it, I can also add in the contents of the compost heap and the two Bokashi bins we banished months ago to the courtyard beyond the back door, for offences to olfactory decency. Lucky, lucky veg.

All of which activity feels revoltingly timely. Which is just as well – spring is on its way, and by then any feeling of being on top of things in the garden will be a distant memory.

Shopping for seeds

There’s nothing quite like the satisfaction of growing the plants from your garden from seed. The only trouble is, at this time of year I’ve a tendancy to overestimate the size of my greenhouse whilst underestimating the amount of time and effort that will be involved. Still, I like to think I’m doing my bit to keep the horticultural economy ticking over.

We gardeners are spoilt creatures. There are so many ways for us for us to get our kicks. Take the business of acquiring new plants, for example. There’s the sheer delight of wandering through a plant show, reveling in the  variety and quality of the wares on display, and returning home with a pot or two (or three) containing those beautiful, expertly grown specimens that simply refused to be left behind. Then there’s the joy of the unexpected gift from a green-fingered friend – when you just happened to admire her fancy Aquilegias within earshot – freshly dug from the garden, plunged into whatever container comes first to hand, and thrust into your arms with a generosity and kindness for which your half-hearted protestations are no kind of match at all. And then there’s that whole other panoply of experience, the fairground of emotions that accompanies the process of raising your own plants from seed. The highs and lows of elation and despondency are enough to rival any roller-coaster ride, the excitement we feel at a crop’s successful germination, the appearance of the first seed leaves, and the healthy bulking up of each plant, all more than tempered by concerns over compost choice, should you prick out or sow in modules, watering and feeding regimes – not to mention the thorny issue of whether or not your neighbours can be trusted to tend the things should you be crazy enough to go on holiday while your infant plants are still at a vulnerable stage.

But before all the angst, comes the weeks and months of happy anticipation – otherwise known as winter – during which we pour over seed catalogues, envisioning how our greenhouses will look in the spring, and our gardens shortly thereafter, bursting with verdant wonders raised through our own skill and guile from tiny packets of dust and crumbs. We pride ourselves on the wisdom and prudence with which we manage the household resources, cannily opting to grow plants from seed at a tiny fraction of the outlay that it would cost to obtain potted stock, and then promptly buy far more varieties than we have space to grow or time to manage.

I’ve been doing just this. I’m usually a little later than some getting started, but I like to think I make up for lost time with the ridiculous ambition of my plans. Actually, last year, I decided to exercise restraint. Coupled with an awful year with unreliable peat-free composts, that attempt at moderation was decidedly unsatisfying, so we won’t be doing that again. This year, it’s back to business as usual, and I’m all set to Go Large or Toddle Off Homeward – if you’re going to fail, you might as well do it with spectacular aplomb. Consequently, I’m still in the process of ordering far too many seeds, and the first batch arrived a few days ago.

These were from Ben Ranyard at Higgledy Garden. The arrival of a parcel from Higgledy is always something of a red letter day – the brown envelope addressed in Ben’s generous looping hand, the red logo rubber-stamped on each of the matching seed packets, and the jolly handwritten note – little details that delight, and that’s before even considering the handful of slumbering potential contained within each small brown paper package. It’s enough to make you come over all unnecessary.

I shall have my work cut out for me this spring. I don’t sow until March – I find domestic conditions tend to favour straggly seedlings if sown this month – and in addition to my Higgledy bounty, I’ve another order to place from elsewhere, plus whatever I have left over from previous years – a not inconsiderable collection which needs to be sorted into the potentially viable and the probably defunct. Best get on with it.

My Higgledy shopping basket contents: Zinnia 'Mammoth', Sweet Pea 'Winston Churchill', Sweet Pea 'Beujolais', Sweet Pea 'Jilly', Reseda luteola, Helianthus 'Vanilla Ice', Helianthus 'Earthwalker', Eschscholzia 'Orange King', Echinacea 'Primadonna White', Craspedia, Cosmos 'Pied Piper', Cosmos 'Purity', Cleome spinosa 'Violet Queen', Chrysanthemum 'Rainbow'

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Order seeds now from higgledygarden.com and quote the discount code GWW15 to get 15% off your shopping cart. Code valid until midnight 19 February 2016.

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What are you growing from seed this year, and have you started sowing yet? Let me know on Twitter, or leave a comment below.

You snooze, you lose

It might still seem a bit dull outside, but we’ve somehow made it more than two thirds of the way through winter. So, when it comes to the garden, now’s not the time to be caught napping.

December is all mulled pies and minced wine – twinkly lights, good will and good grief, in equal measure, to all mankind. January cowers under a blanket of gloom and despondency with, if we’re very lucky, the odd glorious cold bright day to break through the murk. By February, it’s too easy to find ourselves succumbing to a creeping inertia brought on by the cold, the wet and the dark.

We must fight the dullness, kicking off the listless mood which can paralyse a gardener through a long winter. By the time February arrives, we need to be psyching ourselves up, taking advantage of every second of extra daylight in preparation for spring. Complacency can be a pitfall during the shortest month – barely four weeks long – by the end of which the gardening year will have begun in earnest. Experienced gardeners might even be forgiven for a fleeting sense of panic around now, knowing just how much there is to be done in so short a space of time.  

l’m not concerned about the obvious tasks getting done in time – the pruning of fruit trees and roses, the mulching, the weeding, the almost certainly pointless bramble attacking sessions (in spite of last week’s post, I’m still gardening old stylee). It’s the next category of job where I’m likely to find myself caught out – the almost obvious things which, perfectly apparent on walking through the the garden, but which, in the absence of decisive and timely action, too easily get moved from “Oh yes, I can do that next week” to “Oh bugger, I’ll have to do that next winter”.  Replacing the supports for my clients’ vines is an example of this, the issue being that if I don’t do this in the dormant season, the ageing fixtures will be torn out of the wall by another generous summer crop. Claret everywhere.

Then, just to complicate things, there are the tasks that are being brought forward by the mild winter. It’s t-shirt weather again today, and you don’t have to look far for signs of life. The phlox is leafing up nicely in one border of The Rabbit Garden, which means the rabbits won’t be far behind. Better get cracking with the protection – a not insignificant job that wasn’t in the diary for another few weeks yet. And – I’m still slightly in denial about this – the grass, which hasn’t really stopped growing, really could do with a cut. If the ground dries out enough, I’m going to have to break the mower out early.

This is beginning to sound as though I’m limbering up for a whinge, but not so. I’m as happy in the garden in February as I am at any time of year. The unglamorous nature of so many winter gardening tasks – the raking, the barrowing, the endless leaves – could seem like drudgery if you were to adopt a certain mindset, particularly over the dark days that top and tail the year. A few weeks of this, and most people disappear indoors for the duration, refusing to countenance the space beyond the back door until tempted outside again by the smell of some pioneering neighbour’s late spring barbecue. But we’re not most people. We’re gardeners, and we know that this routine stuff is what keeps us connected with our plants and gardens throughout the year, so that we’re on hand and in a position to tend or tweak should tending or tweaking be required. And yes, I’m quite aware of the many keen and vociferous advocates of a winter’s break with a spring catch-up, just as I’ve heard tell of those who insist on brown sauce rather than red in a bacon sarnie. What’s more, I’m happy to defend to the point of being mildly uncomfortable their right to exercise such eccentric lifestyle choices, always assuming no harm is done.

But you won’t catch me napping in February ’cos it’s cold and wet outside. Where would be the fun in that?