mellow fruitfulness

Autumn is teasing us.  Yesterday it was so cold in the sitting room by the afternoon that the Systems Administrator put the central heating on for a trial run.  Today the sun shone with a mellow glow, and it was warm enough that I had to take my hat off as I worked.  OK, I have started wearing thermals under my gardening trousers, and a long sleeved t-shirt as an additional layer under my heavy chambray shirt and fleece.  Winter draws nearer, and even the warm days are cooler than they were.  But still it was a lovely day to be outside, albeit that every shrub and bush was loaded and primed with rainwater, ready to dump it down the back of the unwary gardener's neck.

There are still late flowers to be had.  The bright, orange-red Zauschneria californica flowers are going strong in the gravel at the entrance.  The little yellow lockets of the herbaceous perennial climber Dicentra scandens are blooming, with unopened buds still to come, and in recent days the deep, purplish-blue flowers of a late season species of Aconitum have appeared.  To my shame, I am not entirely sure which one.  I have not copied the names of things planted in the garden from my gardening notebook into my spreadsheet of garden plants for a terribly long time, meaning the only way to check the names of more recent introductions is to search page by page through the book, and I don't have a single comprehensive list of all the forms of aconite I've ever tried in that bed.  If I had, it would be easy to work out which one this must be.

The soft apricot, slightly quilled flowers of the Rudbeckia named 'Henry Eilers' are still in full bloom, as is a pretty chrysanthemum in a similar shade called 'Mary Stoker'.  I used to have a very late flowering, tall, pink chrysanthemum, also with quilled petals, but I am not sure if it is still there, or if it has been overcome by other plants.  A drawback to the naturalistic, self-seeding and spreading approach to gardening is that when everything doesn't have its own jealously preserved space, you do lose things.  If I do see signs of a pink quill, I'll pull up a couple of stems, chop them down and pot the roots.  Hardy chrysanthemums seem to root so ridiculously easily in pots from small offset pulled up with roots already forming, that there is no excuse for failing to keep them going in the garden.

The dahlias and fuschias are putting on a better show now than they were in the summer.  Perhaps they prefer the slightly cooler and moister air.  I should cut some dahlias for the house, so that we can admire them properly instead of looking at them across the concrete car parking and utility area.  Behind them, the little red crab apples of 'Red Sentinel' are starting to colour up splendidly. They are about the size of a well-grown dessert cherry, and much the same colour, once fully ripe, and they hang on the tree until the New Year.  I've had mixed success with crab apples in the front garden, however, since 'Comtessa de Paris' is looking very feeble, and 'Professer Sprenger' quietly died.  He was in one of the particularly vicious veins of soil that run across the front garden, but I hoped I might get lucky.  I wish I could grow Sorbus, but our light soil is completely wrong for them, and by now I don't have the space further down the slope, where sand gives way to clay.

I wonder whether I should have planted a Liquidambar in the back garden, where the soil is heavier, instead of the double gean, but never mind, it's too late now.  The truth is that, unless I had a garden at least the size of Hergest Croft, I should never be able to grow all the trees I'd like to.  I just have to satisfy myself with looking at them in other people's gardens.