I thought I might have a couple of hours to work in the garden before the rain arrived, but it was already raining by the time I got up. We need rain, and it didn't rain yesterday afternoon when it was supposed to, so I can't really complain. It would be handy if it could be nicer weather just at the moment, to encourage the new little chickens to come out of the hen house. They were all clustered in the egg laying box when I went to let them out this morning, and when I lifted the lid four little faces did look up at me, and start peering over the side of the box, so they have had a glimpse of what lies out there. It is not very convenient for the laying hen to have the nesting box occupied by tiny hens, and I hope they get a little braver soon, but a cold, wet day like today does not provide a good incentive for them to want to come out. Later on the rooster went into the hen house, and the new little chickens all tried to hide in a heap behind the food hopper, like something out of the Keystone Kops. They have got a tray of water in there, as they won't come out to use the proper drinker, and they keep kicking sawdust in it.
I spent a happy hour picking dead leaves off the overwintering pelargoniums in the greenhouse, until my feet got cold, and then scrubbed the old writing off my collection of used plastic plant labels. Pencil washes off quite easily, with the help of a green scouring pad. It's a job to save for a wet day, when there's not much else to do, and you can listen to the radio while you're doing it. Later I might scrub some flowerpots, and sow some seeds. A greenhouse is a wonderful toy for anybody who likes pottering around with plants. It has all the merits of a shed, but with abundant natural light.
I also failed my UK Citizenship Test. This would come as a blow if it weren't that I am already a citizen. I took the on-line practice test out of curiosity, to see what kind of questions they asked, after reading an article about it in the Telegraph, and Nigel Farndale was right, it is a really bizarre test. I got 63%. Nigel Farndale failed it too, though he doesn't say what he scored. It's true that I wasn't trying very hard, and maybe subconsciously wanted to do badly to prove how silly it was. I was finished in nine minutes and something seconds, and you have up to 45 minutes to complete it. However, as it is a multiple choice test you shouldn't need that long to answer 24 questions. If you don't know the answers then the safest method, like spelling a word you're not sure about, is to go for the first answer you think might be right, and not spend too long agonising over it.
For example, the number of children and young people aged up to 19 in the UK is 13,14,15 or 16 million? I guessed 15 million, which turned out to be correct. This was based on nothing except that I remembered from a Woodland Trust campaign that several years ago there were 12 million UK children under the age of 16. It turned out to be right, but what earthly bearing does it have on anybody's fitness to be a UK citizen? If they'd thought that the answer was 5 million or 25 million we should be worried that the applicant was innumerate, deeply stupid, or hadn't even a rough idea of the size of the total population, but 15 million versus 14 or 16 million? It doesn't matter. I got the next question wrong, guessing that the Muslim population in 2001 was 1.6% of the total, whereas it turns out it was 2.7%. I knew it was a low number And the question asks about eleven years ago, not even now. If a prospective new citizen believed that Muslims comprised 10% of the population, or 25%, then I'd be worried, but 1.6% versus 2.7%? Sub three per cent, either way. A smallish minority.
Some of the questions were ambiguously worded, when you thought about them. I decided that it was True for the purposes of the test that you could only attend a hospital without a letter from a GP in an emergency, thinking of visiting A&E versus seeing a consultant for the first time, where you do need a referral. But follow-up appointments with consultants, and regular attendance at things like diabetes clinics, don't need a GP's letter every time. Once you're in the system you deal directly with the hospital, so the literal answer to the question would be False. I got that one right, but failed the first question. It turns out to be False that in the 1980s the largest immigrant groups were from the West Indies, Ireland, Pakistan and Indian. They were from the United States, Australia, Africa and New Zealand. The test must take a narrow definition of immigrant group as citizens of other countries currently living in the UK, whereas I'd taken it to include second and third generations who still formed parts of culturally distinct immigrant communities. It's true that in the 1980s The Systems Administrator and I did know several Americans, Australians and Africans who were working in the UK (who never took UK citizenship and have mostly since left), but you don't hear talk on the radio or read in the papers of 'the American community' or 'the Australasian community', whereas you do hear about 'boys from Afro-Caribbean backgrounds' or 'the Pakistani community'. The latter exist as official concepts. Their attainments are monitored by state bodies and they are the recipients of outreach programmes. The former don't and aren't.
Many of the questions are astonishingly narrow. Children aged 13-16 are limited to 10 or 12 hours of work during the school week? I don't have children, and I'm not planning to employ any children. If I needed to know the answer to that question I could find it out. But what constitutes work? Does it count if it's the family business? If it's not paid? Where is the cut-off line between helping out your parents and work? Some of the questions are straight out of O level history, 1970s style. In which year did married women get the right to divorce their husbands, 1837, 1857, 1875, 1882? What??!! They are all dates in the nineteenth century, during the Victorian age. How many native born UK citizens whose ancestors have been here since Boudicca was at war with the Romans know the answer to that question? (it's 1857, if you want to know. I didn't). If a prospective citizen thought that the answer was 1980, or 1500, I'd be slightly worried, but not very. If they thought that married women couldn't divorce their husbands I'd be more worried, and if they believed that they ought not to be allowed to, I'd be really worried.
There is nothing in the test about values or beliefs. Absolutely nothing. The cultural questions are mostly very odd. Asking whether people know what the speed limit is on single track roads is fair enough (glad I got that one right) but checking whether they know that Ulster Scots is a dialect spoken in Northern Ireland? Checking whether they are up to date with the plot line of at least one TV soap and the last round of the current reality show would be a better guide to their prospects of fitting in socially around the water cooler.
The SA failed the test as well, so we had better start searching for a country to take us in. Meantime, I have a modest proposal. Let every MP and senior civil servant take the test. Those that fail will of course resign immediately, since they are not fit for office. Or they could invent a better test.
Showing posts with label greenhouse. Show all posts
Showing posts with label greenhouse. Show all posts
Sunday, 4 March 2012
Friday, 6 January 2012
tempted by catalogues
The new year brings spring catalogues from Broadleigh Gardens and Avon Bulbs. I see that this year will be the last that Broadleigh exhibit at Chelsea, as owner Lady Skelmersdale has decided that 40 Chelsea exhibits will be enough. I have been to every Chelsea since the mid 1980s. If I were to go down to the garage and check my boxes of old RHS magazines I suppose I could work out the exact year I started, but I think I narrowly pip the Systems Administrator's record of continuous attendance at every Cheltenham race meeting since 1987. That means I've seen over 25 of Broadleigh's stands. They have always been wonderful, and I shall miss them. I can still remember Beth Chatto's exhibits, skilful displays of naturalistic planting, and she packed in Chelsea a good few years ago. Still, I suppose somebody has to retire to make room for new blood.
The agapanthus are tempting. Katherine Swift in The Morville Year has a clever trick for managing them in pots, which I pass on for those of you who aren't going to read the book, but might wish to grow potted agapanthus. She says that once potbound they are practically impossible to extract, so she grows them in plastic pots already slit down both sides, placed inside a second plastic pot of the same size. When she does need to get them out of their pot it just peels away. It is such a reasonable sounding idea, I would adopt it myself, if it weren't that I grow everything for long term display in terracotta, which I like aesthetically and believe it helps keep the roots cool.
The Allium tuberosum, or Chinese chives, sound nice as well. This is a late flowering, white form, excellent for wildlife, which I admired at the wildlife day at Beth Chatto last summer, as did a friend who liked it so much she bought a potful, and has kindly given me an envelope of seeds. If they germinate as readily as ordinary chives I should soon have lots. No need to buy Allium tuberosum, then.
Maybe I should have some more white Dodecatheon, commonly known as 'shooting stars' (although not at the plant centre where it is known as Dodecatheon.) It is a woodlander with flowers like drooping cyclamen. I have one, originally bought to go in the porch in spring close to eye level, so that I could admire it at close quarters, but it began to languish in its pot and was planted out by the ditch at the bottom of the garden, where it seems happier. One looks a bit lonely. Stingy, even. Maybe I should have several. The temptation always with catalogues is to want to try as many different and exciting plants as possible, when for maximum garden impact it might be better just to choose one plant, and blow the entire budget on buying lots of them (or at least several. Buying lots tends to require a bigger budget than mine).
I'm fairly sure I'll pass on the named varieties of snowdrops. They are interesting, and beautiful, and I'm happy to look at other people's, and might even try and get organised to go this year to the RHS London show in mid February, where there are always excellent displays of rare and choice snowdrops and cyclamen. But however delightful 'Ophelia', 'Straffan' and 'Green Brush' are (£7, £6 and £15 each respectively) I couldn't buy enough to make any difference at all to the garden. And they'd probably get dug up by voles when I wasn't looking, or the birds would scratch out the label and I'd lose them. Unless you have a collector's mind, and I haven't, despite loving many plants and being curious about them, a great big box of common Galanthus nivalis is a much better investment in a large, wild and woolly garden like ours. I skipped a year of planting snowdrops last year, as there were so many other jobs to do clearing up after the damage caused by two bad winters on the trot, but this year I might get some.
Avon Bulbs catalogue opens with their named snowdrops, which look equally lovely and, from my perspective, pointless. £25 each for 'Fuzz' and 'Galadriel', £20 for 'Welshway' or 'Wasp'. I think not. They have a wide selection of Eucomis, or pineapple flowers, so called because of the tuft of green leaves on top of each flower. That presupposes that they do flower, and mine didn't, last summer. I think I need to feed them, and maybe repot them into fresh compost each spring. The bulbs are slightly tender, and need to be kept dry in winter, so mine are tucked away under the greenhouse staging. I have to admit that there isn't a great deal of room under the staging, what with the over-wintering pots of dahlias, and lilies, and Eucomis, and the hyacinths that I'm keeping under cover this winter after their basal plates rotted outside last year. Better not go mad buying Eucomis, then. The alternative would be to get a second greenhouse, except that I don't have time to look after any more pots than will cram into the existing one, and I don't want to have to heat a second. At least I have a greenhouse. Katherine Swift hasn't, which means that in winter she shares her beautiful house with umpteen pots of orange trees and potted myrtles.
The agapanthus are tempting. Katherine Swift in The Morville Year has a clever trick for managing them in pots, which I pass on for those of you who aren't going to read the book, but might wish to grow potted agapanthus. She says that once potbound they are practically impossible to extract, so she grows them in plastic pots already slit down both sides, placed inside a second plastic pot of the same size. When she does need to get them out of their pot it just peels away. It is such a reasonable sounding idea, I would adopt it myself, if it weren't that I grow everything for long term display in terracotta, which I like aesthetically and believe it helps keep the roots cool.
The Allium tuberosum, or Chinese chives, sound nice as well. This is a late flowering, white form, excellent for wildlife, which I admired at the wildlife day at Beth Chatto last summer, as did a friend who liked it so much she bought a potful, and has kindly given me an envelope of seeds. If they germinate as readily as ordinary chives I should soon have lots. No need to buy Allium tuberosum, then.
Maybe I should have some more white Dodecatheon, commonly known as 'shooting stars' (although not at the plant centre where it is known as Dodecatheon.) It is a woodlander with flowers like drooping cyclamen. I have one, originally bought to go in the porch in spring close to eye level, so that I could admire it at close quarters, but it began to languish in its pot and was planted out by the ditch at the bottom of the garden, where it seems happier. One looks a bit lonely. Stingy, even. Maybe I should have several. The temptation always with catalogues is to want to try as many different and exciting plants as possible, when for maximum garden impact it might be better just to choose one plant, and blow the entire budget on buying lots of them (or at least several. Buying lots tends to require a bigger budget than mine).
I'm fairly sure I'll pass on the named varieties of snowdrops. They are interesting, and beautiful, and I'm happy to look at other people's, and might even try and get organised to go this year to the RHS London show in mid February, where there are always excellent displays of rare and choice snowdrops and cyclamen. But however delightful 'Ophelia', 'Straffan' and 'Green Brush' are (£7, £6 and £15 each respectively) I couldn't buy enough to make any difference at all to the garden. And they'd probably get dug up by voles when I wasn't looking, or the birds would scratch out the label and I'd lose them. Unless you have a collector's mind, and I haven't, despite loving many plants and being curious about them, a great big box of common Galanthus nivalis is a much better investment in a large, wild and woolly garden like ours. I skipped a year of planting snowdrops last year, as there were so many other jobs to do clearing up after the damage caused by two bad winters on the trot, but this year I might get some.
Avon Bulbs catalogue opens with their named snowdrops, which look equally lovely and, from my perspective, pointless. £25 each for 'Fuzz' and 'Galadriel', £20 for 'Welshway' or 'Wasp'. I think not. They have a wide selection of Eucomis, or pineapple flowers, so called because of the tuft of green leaves on top of each flower. That presupposes that they do flower, and mine didn't, last summer. I think I need to feed them, and maybe repot them into fresh compost each spring. The bulbs are slightly tender, and need to be kept dry in winter, so mine are tucked away under the greenhouse staging. I have to admit that there isn't a great deal of room under the staging, what with the over-wintering pots of dahlias, and lilies, and Eucomis, and the hyacinths that I'm keeping under cover this winter after their basal plates rotted outside last year. Better not go mad buying Eucomis, then. The alternative would be to get a second greenhouse, except that I don't have time to look after any more pots than will cram into the existing one, and I don't want to have to heat a second. At least I have a greenhouse. Katherine Swift hasn't, which means that in winter she shares her beautiful house with umpteen pots of orange trees and potted myrtles.
Tuesday, 18 October 2011
another job ticked off the list
I finally finished sorting out the greenhouse. The geraniums and other tender perennials are tucked away, ready for me to shut the doors when frost is predicted, as it will be any night soon. Things propagated in greater quantities than I've managed to use so far in the garden have been weeded and kept for next year, potting them on if needs be, and the contents of pots that had died or gone horribly manky have been chucked out. The lilies are stacked under the bench, together with four Whichford planters containing next year's hyacinth bulbs. Last winter I left the hyacinths out, as I've always done, and the bulb plates rotted away in the extreme weather. Odd pots containing small bulbs that I never got round to planting in the spring have been investigated, and those with live, sprouting bulbs weeded and kept, and the remainder thrown away. There are a couple of nice things from the Avon Bulbs catalogue growing on, ready to be planted out in the spring when I've finished (ha!) the great tidy-up outside. So I struck 'greenhouse' off the list, which left only fifty items to go.
I set out to flame some odd bits of beekeeping kit that were sitting outside the garage. For the non-beekeepers, this doesn't mean burning them on a ceremonial pyre (though that is what will happen to your hive if it should have one of the nastier brood diseases). Flaming to a beekeeper means running a blowtorch over the surface of wooden beehive parts until they are lightly charred, which is a method of sterilising them. As wood is porous and you don't want chemicals soaking into the hive and contaminating the honey, heat sterilisation is a good method, and I'd been cleaning my kit as I stacked it away. What I didn't know this morning, but do now, is that the System's Administrator's blowtorch uses a butane canister, which won't work below 15 degrees C. I found the torch on the veranda, where we'd had it to light the barbecue, twizzled it to on, flicked the ignition button and - nothing. Repeatedly nothing, except for a faint hissing sound and slight smell of gas. I found the S.A. and grumbled that the canister must be running out (though it felt pretty heavy) and so learnt about the thermal requirements of butane. Leaving the torch in the kitchen brought it to a temperature where it would work, but it kept running out of oomph outside, and as the wind got up I decided that today was really not the day to choose. Pity. You know how it is, when you galvanise yourself to get on with a tedious job, and circumstances get in the way.
I scraped aside the gravel where the poor Teucrium fruticans 'Azureum' used to be, and couldn't see the rootball at all. I ended up probing cautiously with a garden fork, lifting sections of soil on the basis that the ground would crumble whereas the Teucrium would come up in a circular lump. It did. There is no top growth left whatsoever, and I'm not terribly optimistic about its chances of revival, but some shrubs have surprised me pleasantly by regenerating from below ground level after being hit by cold above, so I might as well find out if Teucrium fruticans is capable of that trick. Watering it correctly in the greenhouse will be key, as it needs to be on the dry side, and is currently fairly wet. The ginger scented rosemary went into the gap. If you come across one of these then grab it, if you like rosemary. It really does smell spicy and different to the usual sort.
The gardening afternoon was cut short by my monthly visit to the Pilates teacher. She was recovering from a vicious cold, and looked rather exhausted, but that's part of the deal being self employed. No lesson, no fee. I seemed to be particularly dense this afternoon about co-ordinating my breathing with the movements of my legs. I find formal exercise one of the dullest things ever, but that's part of the deal having a dodgy back and a hardcore gardening habit. If I do some moderately boring exercises reasonably regularly and take notice of my posture I can function normally. If I don't, I can't. The teacher is a nice and cultured woman, and congenial company, which makes the lessons nicer than they would be otherwise.
I set out to flame some odd bits of beekeeping kit that were sitting outside the garage. For the non-beekeepers, this doesn't mean burning them on a ceremonial pyre (though that is what will happen to your hive if it should have one of the nastier brood diseases). Flaming to a beekeeper means running a blowtorch over the surface of wooden beehive parts until they are lightly charred, which is a method of sterilising them. As wood is porous and you don't want chemicals soaking into the hive and contaminating the honey, heat sterilisation is a good method, and I'd been cleaning my kit as I stacked it away. What I didn't know this morning, but do now, is that the System's Administrator's blowtorch uses a butane canister, which won't work below 15 degrees C. I found the torch on the veranda, where we'd had it to light the barbecue, twizzled it to on, flicked the ignition button and - nothing. Repeatedly nothing, except for a faint hissing sound and slight smell of gas. I found the S.A. and grumbled that the canister must be running out (though it felt pretty heavy) and so learnt about the thermal requirements of butane. Leaving the torch in the kitchen brought it to a temperature where it would work, but it kept running out of oomph outside, and as the wind got up I decided that today was really not the day to choose. Pity. You know how it is, when you galvanise yourself to get on with a tedious job, and circumstances get in the way.
I scraped aside the gravel where the poor Teucrium fruticans 'Azureum' used to be, and couldn't see the rootball at all. I ended up probing cautiously with a garden fork, lifting sections of soil on the basis that the ground would crumble whereas the Teucrium would come up in a circular lump. It did. There is no top growth left whatsoever, and I'm not terribly optimistic about its chances of revival, but some shrubs have surprised me pleasantly by regenerating from below ground level after being hit by cold above, so I might as well find out if Teucrium fruticans is capable of that trick. Watering it correctly in the greenhouse will be key, as it needs to be on the dry side, and is currently fairly wet. The ginger scented rosemary went into the gap. If you come across one of these then grab it, if you like rosemary. It really does smell spicy and different to the usual sort.
The gardening afternoon was cut short by my monthly visit to the Pilates teacher. She was recovering from a vicious cold, and looked rather exhausted, but that's part of the deal being self employed. No lesson, no fee. I seemed to be particularly dense this afternoon about co-ordinating my breathing with the movements of my legs. I find formal exercise one of the dullest things ever, but that's part of the deal having a dodgy back and a hardcore gardening habit. If I do some moderately boring exercises reasonably regularly and take notice of my posture I can function normally. If I don't, I can't. The teacher is a nice and cultured woman, and congenial company, which makes the lessons nicer than they would be otherwise.
Sunday, 2 October 2011
pootling in late sunshine
The unseasonably warm weather is very beautiful, but it does slow you down. I gave the bees some more sugar syrup, recharged the wasp traps, took a car load of rubbish to the dump, moved some empty pots into the shed, watered the pots with plants in and moved more of them into the greenhouse for the winter, and that was the day done. Doesn't sound like a full day's work.
It is a terrible year for wasps (or a highly successful one, from the wasp's point of view). They were hanging around the beehives in greater numbers than I've ever seen. I managed to squash four against the side of one hive. The extra trap I put out a couple of days ago, using the last of a pot of strawberry jam, hadn't caught any at all, so I strengthened the bait with a teaspoon of blackcurrant jelly left over from 2009. In fact it still seemed quite soft and jelly like, and not at all rubbery or crystallised, and it almost seemed a waste to use it, but I do have three drawers of a large iron filing cabinet full of homemade jam, some dating back to 2008, so must be able to spare a teaspoonful.
One of the full size colonies seems to be losing interest in sugar syrup, and still haven't emptied their last bucket, though hefting the hive it doesn't feel especially heavy. I hope they have sufficient stores in there, but I have to trust them to know what they're doing. The others are still hoovering the stuff down at an impressive rate. After making up too little syrup at a time all autumn, and finding I have to heat a second batch, I have finally over-compensated and now have a pudding basin of the stuff left over, tucked away in a corner of the kitchen with a plate over it. I ought to do some basic calculations, like measuring the capacity of the feeders, and discovering what the volume of 2lb sugar disolved in 1pint water is, then I would actually know how much syrup to make up, instead of relying on guesswork, a hazy memory of what I did last time, and the conviction that it wasn't enough.
The dump was busy. There's a lot of autumn garden tidying going on, to judge from the waste arriving this morning, and quite a lot of conscientious recycling, with bits of timber, metal and glass finding their way to the right skips. It is going to be such a nuisance if it shuts. I don't know if that decision has been taken yet.
The greenhouse is filling up. I think everything will fit in, as the dahlia pots will go under the staging, as soon as their tops have been blackened by the first frost and I've cut them down. Each year is a challenge to try and improve on last year, and not put pots in places where they block my view of other plants, which always ends in things being over or under-watered. I leave narrow tracks along the floor, like animal paths in a forest, so that I can reach all parts to water and weed. Part of me itches for a larger greenhouse, which is silly, since I don't have time to care for any more pots than I already have.
A useful job that didn't take long was to glue the broken halves of a couple of terracotta pots back together. I use Evo-stik impact adhesive, and while I wouldn't depend on the mended pots to stand outdoors all year round with permanent planting, they do well enough for summer displays, or in the shelter of the conservatory, as long as their occupant doesn't have too expansionist a root system to force the broken halves apart again. It is worth wiping the nozzle of the glue carefully after use before replacing the lid, as once I managed to glue the lid to the tube. That was the end of that tube of glue, as I utterly failed ever to get the lid off again.
The least good part of this beautiful day was Radio 3. This week's Sunday morning show was as painful as last week's Breakfast show. After listening to a (very crackly) pre-war recording of a Czech performance of Smetana's Blanik, followed by tumultous applause and the singing of the Czech national anthem, Rob Cowan read out a handful of listeners' e-mails and texts about it. I really wish he wouldn't (or rather, that the R3 bosses wouldn't make him. I can't believe he wants to.) One of the reasons why I have never joined a book club is that I am dourly convinced that discussions would be couched at the level of which characters in the book the other members of the group liked. Hearing how assorted random strangers felt listening to the Czech Philharmonic's rendition of Czech patriotic music as the Nazi menace tore across Europe is about equally dull. I was so disheartened I gave up with the radio until after lunch, and then settled for Classic FM as being much less cheesy than R3 trying to be Classic FM.
It is a terrible year for wasps (or a highly successful one, from the wasp's point of view). They were hanging around the beehives in greater numbers than I've ever seen. I managed to squash four against the side of one hive. The extra trap I put out a couple of days ago, using the last of a pot of strawberry jam, hadn't caught any at all, so I strengthened the bait with a teaspoon of blackcurrant jelly left over from 2009. In fact it still seemed quite soft and jelly like, and not at all rubbery or crystallised, and it almost seemed a waste to use it, but I do have three drawers of a large iron filing cabinet full of homemade jam, some dating back to 2008, so must be able to spare a teaspoonful.
One of the full size colonies seems to be losing interest in sugar syrup, and still haven't emptied their last bucket, though hefting the hive it doesn't feel especially heavy. I hope they have sufficient stores in there, but I have to trust them to know what they're doing. The others are still hoovering the stuff down at an impressive rate. After making up too little syrup at a time all autumn, and finding I have to heat a second batch, I have finally over-compensated and now have a pudding basin of the stuff left over, tucked away in a corner of the kitchen with a plate over it. I ought to do some basic calculations, like measuring the capacity of the feeders, and discovering what the volume of 2lb sugar disolved in 1pint water is, then I would actually know how much syrup to make up, instead of relying on guesswork, a hazy memory of what I did last time, and the conviction that it wasn't enough.
The dump was busy. There's a lot of autumn garden tidying going on, to judge from the waste arriving this morning, and quite a lot of conscientious recycling, with bits of timber, metal and glass finding their way to the right skips. It is going to be such a nuisance if it shuts. I don't know if that decision has been taken yet.
The greenhouse is filling up. I think everything will fit in, as the dahlia pots will go under the staging, as soon as their tops have been blackened by the first frost and I've cut them down. Each year is a challenge to try and improve on last year, and not put pots in places where they block my view of other plants, which always ends in things being over or under-watered. I leave narrow tracks along the floor, like animal paths in a forest, so that I can reach all parts to water and weed. Part of me itches for a larger greenhouse, which is silly, since I don't have time to care for any more pots than I already have.
A useful job that didn't take long was to glue the broken halves of a couple of terracotta pots back together. I use Evo-stik impact adhesive, and while I wouldn't depend on the mended pots to stand outdoors all year round with permanent planting, they do well enough for summer displays, or in the shelter of the conservatory, as long as their occupant doesn't have too expansionist a root system to force the broken halves apart again. It is worth wiping the nozzle of the glue carefully after use before replacing the lid, as once I managed to glue the lid to the tube. That was the end of that tube of glue, as I utterly failed ever to get the lid off again.
The least good part of this beautiful day was Radio 3. This week's Sunday morning show was as painful as last week's Breakfast show. After listening to a (very crackly) pre-war recording of a Czech performance of Smetana's Blanik, followed by tumultous applause and the singing of the Czech national anthem, Rob Cowan read out a handful of listeners' e-mails and texts about it. I really wish he wouldn't (or rather, that the R3 bosses wouldn't make him. I can't believe he wants to.) One of the reasons why I have never joined a book club is that I am dourly convinced that discussions would be couched at the level of which characters in the book the other members of the group liked. Hearing how assorted random strangers felt listening to the Czech Philharmonic's rendition of Czech patriotic music as the Nazi menace tore across Europe is about equally dull. I was so disheartened I gave up with the radio until after lunch, and then settled for Classic FM as being much less cheesy than R3 trying to be Classic FM.
Thursday, 14 April 2011
unexpected lodgers in the greenhouse
Robins are nesting in my greenhouse. I was watering one day, and stretched out my hand to remove a pile of leaves that seemed to have suddenly collected in a tray of bronze grasses, when I realised it was in fact a bird's nest. There was no sign of any actual bird, and I assumed that the greenhouse had got too hot for them and that the nest was abandoned, as we'd had a couple of unusually warm and sunny days before I put this year's shading paint on. I was beginning to think that if I removed it carefully and treated it for fleas my nieces and nephew might like it, when I saw one day that there was an egg in it. Still no signs of birds, and I again thought it must be abandoned, but left it alone. A day or two later I saw there was another egg, brownish pink.
My partner, who knows more about birds than I do, said that it was probably robins, as he'd seen them in that corner of the garden, and that they laid their clutch over several days but didn't start incubating them until they'd finished laying, so that all would hatch at the same time. I had no idea that eggs were able to survive in limbo, at room temperature, until the parent bird was ready to sit, but I don't know much about the domestic habits of robins.
I looked into the greenhouse this morning and a pair of anxious eyes looked back at me over the top of the nest, so they have started sitting. I'll try not to disturb them, but I'm not prepared to vacate the greenhouse entirely and not water any of the plants until the robins have finished nesting. I think the best thing to do will be to not ever look at them directly, and pretend I haven't noticed them. They can't be afraid of me per se, because they follow me around the garden when I'm weeding.
Searching around the internet I gather that the female incubates the eggs, but that both parents help feed the young. They can have 2-3 clutches in a season, and it sounds as though they build a fresh nest each time, which I suppose is more hygienic but extra work for them. It will be interesting to see how they get on, and how we rub along together. I've got a wooden frame with netting over it, previously used for keeping the birds off some strawberries. Incubation apparently lasts 12-15 days, and once the eggs get close to hatching I'd better see about leaving the frame wedged across the greenhouse door, to deter the cats from going in if they hear the babies squeaking for food. It's not as tall as the door, so there'd be a gap at the top for the adults to fly through, plus I'm sure they're bright enough to discover the roof vents.
My partner, who knows more about birds than I do, said that it was probably robins, as he'd seen them in that corner of the garden, and that they laid their clutch over several days but didn't start incubating them until they'd finished laying, so that all would hatch at the same time. I had no idea that eggs were able to survive in limbo, at room temperature, until the parent bird was ready to sit, but I don't know much about the domestic habits of robins.
I looked into the greenhouse this morning and a pair of anxious eyes looked back at me over the top of the nest, so they have started sitting. I'll try not to disturb them, but I'm not prepared to vacate the greenhouse entirely and not water any of the plants until the robins have finished nesting. I think the best thing to do will be to not ever look at them directly, and pretend I haven't noticed them. They can't be afraid of me per se, because they follow me around the garden when I'm weeding.
Searching around the internet I gather that the female incubates the eggs, but that both parents help feed the young. They can have 2-3 clutches in a season, and it sounds as though they build a fresh nest each time, which I suppose is more hygienic but extra work for them. It will be interesting to see how they get on, and how we rub along together. I've got a wooden frame with netting over it, previously used for keeping the birds off some strawberries. Incubation apparently lasts 12-15 days, and once the eggs get close to hatching I'd better see about leaving the frame wedged across the greenhouse door, to deter the cats from going in if they hear the babies squeaking for food. It's not as tall as the door, so there'd be a gap at the top for the adults to fly through, plus I'm sure they're bright enough to discover the roof vents.
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