Yesterday as I trundled about the plant centre I was full of plans about how today was going to be a planting out day, particularly as I bought some more plants to add to the collection already waiting to go out into the garden. I was rather disappointed when the weather forecast on the TV showed rain moving across southern England for most of Tuesday. The Tendring peninsular was just outside the edge of the rain band at times, which gave me some hope, as did the thought that the forecast might simply be wrong. However, when I woke early this morning I could hear rain drumming on the roof, and on the path outside, and when I woke again at about half past seven it was still raining.
I was reduced to trying to get the limescale off the bathroom. It has got rather thick, probably because I hate removing limescale, and don't do it as often as I ought to. Every now and then I read a newspaper article about how scientists have discovered that cleaning products increase your risk of cancer, which vindicates my decision to avoid them as far as possible (though scientists have also discovered that red meat, gin, more than half a glass of wine, sausages, ham. anything barbecued, anything fried and burnt toast all give you cancer as well. The only smidgin of good news is that cheese might lower your risk of type 2 diabetes. On the whole it is probably better to avoid reading any articles about health risks, since they are certain to give you anxiety disorder).
By late morning the rain had cleared, and I spent the last hour before lunch removing the decomposed remnants of what had been bark chippings from the mypex path by the dustbins, together with the fine crop of weeds the remains of the bark were supporting. I've said it before, but it's worth saying again, that ornamental bark over landscape fabric makes a lousy path. The bark rots and starts turning into a sort of rudimentary soil, and the weeds take hold.
After lunch I investigated my newish plantings in the end of the wood. Some brambles were starting to grow up, and a few nettles had survived the clearance, but the new shrubs all looked good. The Oemleria cerasiformis, or Oregon plum, has made extension growth and is suckering nicely at the base, and the Hamamelis has likewise thrown out new growth. It is not suckering, but as it is a grafted plant it is not supposed to. The trio of rusty leaved ferns have grown, and look shiny and bonny, and there are lots of foxglove seedlings for next year. I can't see the primroses under everything else, but I expect they're in there. Some kind of dead nettle, with small dark red flowers, is growing up around the Hamamelis, but it is pretty and doesn't look too rampant, so I'll leave it to get on with it. I might get the wildflower book out later and try and work out what it is. It is either a native, or a very rarified garden escape, since the flowers really are miniscule.
I planted a Clematis 'Broughton Star' to go up a large holly tree, the idea being that we will look straight into it from our bedroom window. This is a vigorous variety from the montana group, with double pink flowers, and the holly is a male plant that produces discreet little flowers but doesn't put on much of a display, though it is a nice tree. I thought it would look good with a climber clambering through it. There is a fairly dull hawthorn in that corner of the wood, which would look spectacular with a vine draped over it, and I've had thoughts of a rambler rose, but I don't want to overdo it, so one step at a time. The great and gracious lady gardener who fed me lunch the other week says that of course roses grown in trees always bring their host down eventually, though the books don't tell you that. (She was also reduced to cleaning the grouting in the bathroom by a wet day recently, though as she runs a B&B her bathroom has to be clean). I got my plant last year as a little young thing, which I potted on. It has made remarkably slow growth, and took so long to emerge from dormancy at the end of the winter that I thought it was dead. The roots looked rather subdued when I tipped it out of its pot this afternoon, and I think it was a victim of the peat-free compost I was dutifully experimenting with last autumn.
Then I was going to plant a Eucryphia x nymansensis 'Nymansay' in a gap in the very corner of the wood, which I think gets enough light since a big ash tree came down. It is a fast growing, upright tree, relatively hardy as Eucryphia go, which likes some shelter and a cool, shaded root run, but a reasonable amount of light on its crown. In ten years it should be capable of making it to ten metres, and if it does we'll be able to see it from the front garden, while the wood behind it protects it from the north winds, and the house breaks the full force of the south westerlies. It has large, single, white flowers in August, a useful time of year for anything to do its stuff since without planning gardens can get rather dull by then, and the flowers are attractive to bees. If it takes in this corner, and I make sure I keep the clearing open for it until it has grabbed its own space, it would be beautiful, and I have had a plant sitting in its pot in the greenhouse for months waiting for the moment when I would get into the wood and start clearing the brambles. I thought the moment had arrived this afternoon, when it began to rain again, so the Eucryphia is still in its pot, on the lawn.
Our Ginger thought that it was all too wet, and spent half the morning sleeping in front of the Aga, nose about ten centimetres from the plinth. The Systems Administrator tells me that Our Ginger has spent the past three mornings sleeping there, before moving to do an afternoon stint on the pouffe. As I was tidying the kitchen and putting away various bits of washing up I stepped over and round him without thinking about it. The cats get trodden on remarkably seldom, given their habit of lying on the kitchen floor, in the middle of the hall and on the stairs. To the horseman's bow-legged walk and the rolling gait of sailors should be added the circuitous high-footed tread of the cat owner, picking their way over and around their pets, their subconscious primed to pull back from each step if they feel anything yielding and furry beneath.
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