Floods and frosticles

Awoke to frost, and finally it feels like winter. God knows we’ve had enough of mild and wet days, particularly here where storms and flooding have taken a harsh toll over Christmas. The river is bound by its banks once more and neighbours are starting to return to sodden homes, allowing us to welcome the most decorative incarnation of the third element with a combination of gladness and relief.

Fields that only a few days ago were under several feet of water have now drained, crisp tussocks of frosted grass receeding into the distance in the morning sunlight, instead of a stretch of eerily silent water. Things, it would seem, are getting back to normal; pasture and gardens will survive relatively unscathed, and the amazing resiliance and cheerfulness exhibited by even our worst affected neighbours suggests that it will take more than tempest, storm and flood to subdue the holiday spirit in this part of Kent.

26 December: Boxing day floods

29 December. Business as usual, albeit frostier

Cold and crisp in the garden this morning...

...and just as nippy in the fields

All this being said, I can’t escape the feeling that last December’s Frosticles were more impressive.

Planting hedges in the mist

The shape slumped in the doorway was unrecognisable in the early evening gloom. Reversing the land rover onto the drive, I allowed a minor curse to escape me, directing it towards remote sensor for the porch light which since the start of the recent damp weather spell has been working only intermittently. I’d been expecting a delivery but had left instructions for it to be left around the side by the log store, so The Shape by the front door was either what I was hoping for, but in the wrong place (a minor thing), or...something else. It was not something else. The shape in the porch was a large polythene sack containing 50 bare-root yews and an assortment of similarly naked dogwoods. In essence, a nascent wood, in a bag. Just add soil.

The yews I had ordered for a gap-toothed hedge which I’ve been looking forward to rectifying all year, while the majority of the dogwoods, Cornus alba 'Sibirica' AGM, were destined for a particular long border in the same garden, red stems forming a rosy thicket about the large-lobed, rusty winter foliage of Hyndrangea quercifolia. Come spring and summer we can look forward to the leaves of the dogwood – a green of particular freshness and intensity – providing a backdrop for the white pyramid flowers of the hydrangeas. These shrubby cornus species are not grown for their flowers, unlike their more showy cousins (the kousas and the floridas, for example) and, while the flattish florets of creamy white flowers and blue berries are incidental as a garden spectacle, they are welcome all the same as an interesting detail and an additional food resource for birds and insects.

Cornus alba 'Sibirica' in early spring

Frosted leaves of Hydrangea quercifolia

The final occupants of the large plastic sack – a handful of Cornus 'Midwinter Fire' – are to find a home in our own garden where over the years no doubt we will increase their numbers with hardwood cuttings. I remain entirely unapologetic about my love of a bed full of fiery stemmed dogwoods over the winter months; the more I can cram in to the allotted space the more content I feel about the prospect. There are plenty of other views within the humble plot that excel in presenting monochrome vignettes in drabs and browns, and so it’s welcome to have a splash of flame at this end of the year to echo autumn bonfires and the more distant, hot colours of late summer blooms.

Thick mist lay heavily across the wealden landscape the next morning, and persisted for most of the day. Perfect conditions for hedge planting; the ground damp but workable, water hanging thickly in the air all around, like a fine persistent rain, but one in which on closer observation the droplets of water appeared reluctant to obey the laws of gravity, seeming to travel sideways as often as downwards, and apparently even upwards on occasion. This is a garden on a high ridge where often it’s unclear whether a cloud has descended to envelop the hill, or the mist has risen to achieve the same effect but, whatever the cause, I knew there was little need for concern that the young sapling yews would lose moisture through their bare roots while they waited to be lowered into their planting position. In any case, immediately upon removing from the plastic sack, each fresh batch of ten plants was plunged into a large tub of water to help rehydrate them after their journey from the nursery’s fields at the other end of the county.

Bare-root hedging plants are tough as old boots, and native plants such as yew have formed part of our familiar hedgerows for centuries. With relatively small plants such as these (60cm in height), a perfectly acceptable way to plant them is to make a ‘slit’ in the ground with your spade, rocking the handle to enlarge the opening and then, once the spade has been removed, to insinuate the roots of your plant into the hole to the same depth as the plant had been grown in the field (the mark between the aerial and the subterranean parts of the plant is quite apparent once you get your eye in), finally closing up the hole with your booted foot. For several reasons, I don’t use this method, trie, tested and ‘old country’ as it may be. Firstly, actually I find it a bit of a faff. Secondly, I’m not usually planting in an open field, but often in areas where previous plantings have had to be cleared. And thirdly, while I know there will be a pretty good success rate with plants grown in this way, somehow it doesn’t feel like a particularly auspicious beginning for a garden feature you’ll be looking at for decades to come. Planting a long line of hedgerow as a field boundary would be an ideal time to use this slit planting method but, in a garden, I like to be sure that everything I plant gets off to as good a start as possible. I include a couple of soil conditioning products; a handful of bonemeal as a slow release organic fertiliser, and also a sprinkling of myccorhizal fungi – sold under license by the RHS under the brandname ‘Rootgrow’ – over the roots. This fungi forms a symbiotic relationship with the plants via its roots, exchanging nutrients taken up from the soil through the fungus’s wide network of hyphae with sugars synthesised in the plant. My usual method is to sprinkle a small amount over the roots with the plant in its final position before backfilling the planting hole, although I noticed in this pack that the manufacturer is now including a sachet of a wallpaper paste like substance (actually, I think it might be wallpaper paste, hopefully without the anti fungal additive) which can be mixed with the Rootgrow crystals in a bucket to form a dip for the roots.

Yews planted and trenches backfilled, I mulch with well-rotted manure – compost would do if it’s not too weedy, otherwise it largely defeats the object, which is to supress competition from weeds while the new hedge is getting established); likewise woodchip would be fine if, again, well rotted, as fresh organic matter will rob the establishing hedge of nitrogen. There is just time to plant the cornus at the top of the garden, as the sun begins to set and the mist starts to thicken, visible across the valley like a white, fluffy sea surrounding islands of bare trees.

And then all of a sudden the mist is gone, and golden sunshine glints and sparkles from a million tiny lenses on dew laden grass and leaves. For a moment, it is breathtaking, and I remind myself; this is my office. What a lucky so and so.

Lords and ladies

The first week of December and, rather late to the party, Arum italicum makes an appearance in the garden, just as everyone else is leaving. So late in the year is its appearance that one could almost consider it indecorously early for spring, but advent has barely begun and we should really be on the other side of Christmas before we can even think about such things.

Of course, the plant in question has not been absent from our gardens throughout the rest of the year. In spring its pale green spadix is a feature of damper, shadier spots, and the short ankle-height columns of orangey red berries are a familiar site in gardens and woodland in autumn. The berries are highly poisonous and will cause breathing difficulties from irritation to the tongue and throat. Now, from among the detritus of the year, dark green leaves emerge on the floor of the garden, marbled with bold tracings of ivory. It’s a reminder that nature never sleeps; we express our belief that throughout the winter months she is at work beneath the soil, plumping bulb and swelling root, and the faithful are rewarded with signs as miraculous as these, unfurling, richly luxuriant while all around is pale and limp and dead.

A very good friend has a ‘rude border’ in her garden, for which I periodically supply plants whose names appeal, for all the wrong reasons, to those with minds that might obtain puerile amusement from such things. Here specimens such as horny goat weed (Epimedium spp.) and Rubus cockburnianus have found a home; I am not quite certain, but surely she will have included a plant with such a variety of lewd references amongst its common names. Arum italicum is known variously ‘Lords and Ladies’, ‘Priest's Pintle’, the ‘willy lily’ and, my favourite, ‘Cuckoo Pint’ - a reference to the fandigulare of the male bird. Having never knowingly been in the vicinity of a gentleman cuckoo's undercarriage I find myself unable to comment on the accuracy of the likeness, but posterity in its wisdom has chosen to preserve this particular nickname, and so we can consider it safe to assume that at some point in history a person, or persons, who were in the position to make the comparison found it an apt one, and so made it.

Arum maculatum shares many of the same features as its showier cousin. Its large mid green spear-shaped leaves lack the attractive marbling, but are handsome nonetheless. It also shares the same common names, and is consequently equally qualified for my friend’s garden.

Manure for the garden: a fundamental matter

Not quite seven in the morning, and I’m on site to make preparations for an early delivery. The faintest glimmer of daylight fringes the trees bordering the fields of the stud farm opposite, but nearer to hand the tarpaulin laid out over the drive bounces the harsh brightness of the security lights about the garden. A slightly surreal, not-quite-half-light time of the day and on the chillier side of mild and dry – which is very good news. As with most garden tasks it’s possible to do this job in the wet, but a day without rain makes for a distinctly more pleasant experience. All is set; I pour myself a large mug of tea from my flask and walk across to the lane outside to await the arrival of the tipper.

Ten minutes, a mug of tea and sixty quid later, I have what I came for – a significant heap of chocolate brown horse manure, shrouded in a haze of steadily rising steam, and a warming morning’s work ahead of me. There’s about three cubic metres of manure to move, roughly two and half tonnes depending on the water content. Experience tells me that it will take three to four hours to shift it, depending on how far it has to be barrowed, and longer if it’s to be immediately used to mulch borders already stocked with plants. This lot is destined for a temporary location between the compost heaps and the bonfire.

The going is soft, if not sodden, and I wear a trench in the turf as I go. This part of the lawn will need some remedial treatment, aerating and topdressing in order to relieve some of the compaction caused by repeated trips made by a stout gardener and his heavily laden wheelbarrow. But that’s a job for another day. This is lovely stuff from I source that I trust – well rotted, mainly crumbly with the odd pocket of really rich gloop every few shovels fulls – let’s not be coy, we are talking about horse shit here, but it doesn’t smell, as indeed it shouldn’t. Given a horse’s largely hay-based diet there’s little if anything to be squeamish about; just processed, rotted down vegetable matter that will do the garden a world of good. Wheeling each successive load past the borders it is pleasing to think how much the garden will benefit from a generous helping of the gardeners’ black gold.

I use an annual dressing of a manure for two main purposes. Firstly as a mulch, which suppresses weeds, both warming and insulating the soil and having a pleasing aesthetic effect of providing an even dark tone against which the plants can stand out. Secondly, I add manure as a conditioner for the soil. Not as a fertiliser – the nutrient content of well rotted manure is rather low (slightly higher for horse than cow manure, not nearly as rich as bird guano which is a phenomenally good, natural fertiliser) – but as a material rich in organic matter which the soil flora will process in short measure, turning it into rich humus, aiding the ability of the soil to retain moisture in dry spells whilst also creating a favourable soil structure with the kind of friable texture envied by those whose unmanaged clay flip-flops from waterlogged in winter to rock hard in summer.

If I’ve managed to convince you of the benefits of manure for your garden, you may have a few further questions, which I'll endeavour to answer. Do please use the comments section below this post if you have any queries which aren’t covered.

Where can I get hold of manure for my garden? 
The most obvious place is probably your local DIY shed or garden centre, most of which sell well rotted farmyard manure in large bags. This is probably the most expensive source.

Should you have the time and the inclination, many stables and horse owners are only too keen to get rid of their manure for free, and a phone call from a gardener in need is often met with a positive response. It is highly likely that you’ll be welcomed in to help yourself, meaning you’ll have to shovel, bag and transport it to your garden yourself (bring bags and tools). For anything other than small quantities, this can be very time consuming, though the benefit of an unlimited supply of free mulch and soil conditioner may outweigh the inconvenience. Some kind owners even bag the manure themselves and leave it for collection, for a small fee – look out at the roadsides when driving through Kent; we’re not short of stables.

If you have the space and the cash, the best option is to find someone who will deliver a load for you. I found my supplier through the supremely uncomplicated approach of a google search. It often works out more affordable if you can find a local farmer or stables who will deliver, rather than opting for one of the commercial ‘bulk bag’ operations. This tends to be good stuff, but not the cheapest.

Should the manure smell?
Well rotted manure, which is what you want, should not smell at all. If it does have a whiff, then the process of decomposition is still going on and you will need to leave it in a heap until this has finished, or else it will rob your plants of valuable nutrients and possibly cause plant tissue to burn (rotting involves an exothermic i.e. heat generating process).

Should my manure contain straw?
A small percentage of rotted down straw is acceptable, and indeed inevitable when dealing with the product of mucking out, but you don’t want too much. Any lumps which have yet to finish decomposing I leave in a heap or put on the compost. Undigested carbon, which is what straw consists of, causes essential nutrients such as nitrogen to be ‘locked up’ by the microbes involved in decomposition, making them unavailable to your plants.

Should my manure contain a stirrup/random bits of tack?
Not really, though it’s happened to me more than once!

What equipment do I need?
A good shovel is essential. Don't try to do the job with a spade, they are about half the size of a shovel and have no sides so stuff falls off the edges. Buy a lightweight shovel, you don’t want to add to the weight of what you’re lifting with the weight of the tool.

A wheelbarrow, likewise, is an obvious requirement. One with a big tub, preferably made out of composite (plastic) material rather than metal, which is lighter and just as strong. A pneumatic tyre, suitably inflated, will relieve stress on the joints, too.

A tarpaulin is a very good idea if you are having the manure delivered. It can be spread over your drive or lawn where the heap is to be tipped, and makes clearing up afterwards so much easier. Get the biggest size you can, it’s frustrating when the footprint of the pile turns out to be larger than the tarp.

A lightweight, long-tined compost fork is great for spreading the mulch out when you’ve got it to the final location.

How should I shovel?
This is important, albeit a bit of a nag. Keep your back straight, bend your knees, and keep your core (stomach) muscles engaged i.e. tight. It sounds silly, but try to move gracefully and in a flowing motion, and watch out for obstacles that might catch the shovel and cause jarring to your body. Sloppy shovelling, as with lifting, can cause you painful persistent back and joint problems. Of course, the best way to shovel anything is to get someone else to do it.

How thickly should I mulch?
There is little point in doing things by half. To be effective, mulch needs to be applied at a thickness of no less than three inches, preferably four inches (10 centimetres) or more.


Other mulches, and a warning for dog owners
There are of course other materials that you can use for mulching, many of which will eventually rot down to become incorporated in the soil, although only garden compost will do this with anything like the speed at which manure decomposes; this might be a benefit or a drawback depending on your point of view. In fact, compost generated from the garden is the most desirable material for mulching, being free, and having the benefit of returning to the ground much of what has been removed, although many if not most gardens are unable to produce it in sufficient volume to be used to without adding to it from external sources. The various other mulching options could form a blog post of their own, but I will just say there is one material I absolutely won’t use as a mulch on any garden – cocoa shells, which in spite of its eco-credentials as a by product of the food industry contains dangerous levels of theobromine, potentially fatal to dogs in reasonably small doses. Even in homes without dogs, you can never be sure if friends will visit with the family pet, so I would rather err on the side of caution.

fundament 

noun

 1 the foundation of basis of something

 2 formal or humorous a person’s buttocks or anus

Oxford Dictionary of English