Grow

On a slope too steep to walk without staggering, where the wild strawberries (Fragaria Vesca) have stubbornly conquered almost half the ground and, prior to this Spring, where hundreds of Spanish Bluebells pernicious in their spread once ruled, stand six apple trees.

This bank of earth, dividing the two garden spaces is too narrow to plant four trees let alone six (seven if you count a stray sapling), their branches overlap, tangled together and this overcrowding must be one of the causes of their suffering..

Twisted and gnarled, they are all sick. Suffering from a history of poor or incomplete pruning with gaping holes that collect rainwater to rot them, limbs that scratch and rub overhead and, clogging up the cracks and crevices from late Spring to Autumn is the sticky white fluff of the Woolly Aphid. All these afflictions can be healed with some judicious pruning, greasing and washing. Unfortunately the tell-tale signs of Canker (splitting bark exposing the hard grey dead wood) I’ve seen of late ratchet up the concern somewhat. I’ve read the RHS Advice on Canker and plan to rid as much as I can this Winter although such is the spread in two of the trees that I have thought of grubbing them out.

The old men of the garden gave a great sulk this year. The crop was shamefully light — six trees and only a small basket of fruit. Last year I decided to reshape the trees to begin cutting out the canker and inward growing branches (plus all the usual twiggy pruning). I’ve since learned that a tree’s store of energy is matched to support the growth of the size of tree before pruning. If a large amount of growth is removed then the excess energy feeds the vigorous growth of whippy stems, suckers and water spouts (thin branches that usually grow straight upright) instead of fruit or spur growth.

As for the fruit, four of the six share the same variety. I searched through the list on Orange Pippin resource and narrowed it down to either the Catshead or the Calville Blanc D’Hiver. I’m plumping for the Catshead though, certainly the apples match the variety’s angular, ugly ridges and coarse texture. Originating in the 17th Century I’m pleased that they are a heritage variety despite being diseased and not especially attractive. The other two trees produce apples that are larger, have an orange blush on one side and again are not an eating variety but their identification eludes me.

Arguably the most delicious of all our native berries the desire for a productive Raspberry plot led me to dig in several bare root canes last year. Unfortunately the mistakes made with the planting depth and incorrect pruning leaving my collection of canes in an unenviable state.

The distinction between Summer and Autumn fruiting canes was clearly lost on me as I chopped several bushes down to the ground after fruiting in July only to discover that Summer canes fruit on growth from the previous year. And for no reason I can recall I opted to leave several canes, that I later discovered were Autumn fruiting unchecked.

Despite five of the plants growing on to crop (they are supposed to be one of the best low-maintenance of the fruiting plants) I was disappointed with the number of berries. Either they need to establish a good root system before fruiting handfuls of berries or the planting depth wasn’t right. That said, I have plans to lift and replant the fruiting area of my L shaped raised bed but wonder if this would disturb the roots?

Undeterred I’m going to order a few more Autumn fruiting canes (likely to be the Autumn Bliss variety), prepare supports where necessary and start again. Possibly because I’m impatient for a garden task to lose an hour to or rather it’s likely to be far more enjoyable experience than say, sorting the mess of the compost heap or the despondent clearing of the pigeon-pecked cauliflower seedlings. And this time I’m going to label them clearly.

I’ve taken a gamble this year and stuffed the garden full of bulbs. It’s part of the long term plan to introduce flowering plants into the garden after two successive years of pulling up, scrubbing out and lifting all of awkward looking shrubs and digging over ground that, in it’s dormancy, given safe haven for the rampant Spanish Bluebells. I’ve tried to keep to just two bulb species, the Alium and Tulip. Choosing from these several varieties that I hope will start to define many of the borders and corners around my disjointed plot.

I’ll admit the Aliums I bought in are a predictable bunch. Forty of the ever popular, striking Alium Hollandicum ‘Purple Sensation’ bulbs have been pushed into the clay rich soil at the front and dotted in between the ailing Hydrangea Annabelle plants (they battled throughout the growing season against slugs and a persistent wind) along the side boundary. Fifty Allium Sphaerocephalon, arriving as part of a cheap bundle, were quickly despatched to a shady, dry strip neath a hedge. I don’t hold much hope for them. And a small packet of Allium Ostrowskanium were quickly spread throughout the patch of Echinacea White Swan that seem to be bulking up well. I took more care with the placement of the fifteen or so Alium Caeruleum bulbs that I had mistakenly ordered but after a little research discovered that their rarity, being a mid blue Alium, and an heirloom plant from 1830 that surprisingly shoots up stems of around 24 inches despite such tiny bulbs, deserved to define the walk up from apple trees to the vegetable garden. They should look rather regal rising above the charming but common Cornflowers, Geraniums and Campions that are starting to knit together beside the stone steps.

Opposite to the abandon of formality in planting the Aliums  I took to planting the satisfyingly firm, chunky Tulip bulbs with more seriousness. All were from the ‘Lily’ class of Tulip, admired for their elegant, tight blooms, and chosen to compliment two new border areas that I’ve spent a few days working on improving over the Summer. White Triumphator, with it’s distinctive reflexed petals, arched and pointed, should burst up in neat contrast to the messy white border on the low edge of the orchard slope. The clean whites of the Triumphator have been paired with Sappora with it’s promise of primose yellows and frostier greens. Several more Triumphator Tulips also line the top edge of the orchard slope that has only recently been cleared, ready for a gravel path and a low hedge of Rosemary (although this may need to be rethought given the achingly slow growth of the wiry Rosemary plugs).

The last set of Tulips have been shoved into the awkward sticky clay bank above the pond where I have part ruined through clumsiness and part saved over a couple of frantic gardening hours that were devoted to near impossible attempts to remove a horrible looking variegated grass and some indeterminate narrow leaved shrub. The intention was to replace the unwanted planting with a bed of Euphorbias and this has been mostly successful however their companions (a few Gaura Lindheimer and Hellebores) seem less capable of settling in the ever present ferns are starting to spread again. It’s the Euphorbias I want to thrive however and have placed twelve Tulipia Spring Green bulbs within their reach hoping that their fresh white green feathery petals will play against the thickening Euphorbia spikes and lead the much needed regeneration of the garden focal point.

As is more often the case much of the planting was done in haste. Only afterwards did I spend a short while reading around techniques for planting bulbs and found that Sarah Raven challenges the standard ‘double height’ recommendation, planting her Tulips at a 10″ depth.

In the bulb fields of Holland, they are planted near the soil surface to encourage them to reproduce. The higher soil encourages reproduction of the bulb, with the mother bulb developing satellites, or bulbils around her base. Once this has happened, most of her energy goes into these offspring. The mother bulb will almost certainly not flower the following year and the bulbils will not be large enough to flower for two or three years after that, resulting in a blind bulb.

Despite being beholden to the seasons and the slow motion life of plants, much of gardening can be about instant impact, be it pruning, planting in new specimens or clearing spaces. The act of planting bulbs returns us to the contemplative, patient source of gardening. So as the garden melts into Winter, hidden beneath the mulch of brown herbaceous fall out, rotting leaves and sodden soil is over a hundred sleeper cells that should leap up and revolutionise the spring flowering to guide and inspire the activity around the garden next year.