Solstice songs go silent

Summer Solstice. Midsummer. The longest day.*

Many people feel a twinge (or more) of sadness on this day, as the year turns and we start to head towards shorter days, and slide inevitably towards winter.

 I have mixed feelings. My birthday is the longest day, so it's always something to look forward to. Also, the slowly shortening days do not concern me too much - after all, the evenings are still to get warmer, and there's time enough to sit out in the garden and admire the evening sun through the Stipa. Shorter days but even into September an evening of gardening, or reading a book outside, is possible. And the primarily pagan celebrations at this time of year make the heart pound with excitement - dragons, drums and green men may not necessarily be accurate, but they make a stirring spectacle.

For me, the sadness of this day is signified by the gradual disappearance of the song of the blackbird. A few weeks ago people stopped complaining about the dawn chorus waking them up, but blackbirds sang quietly on. Around now, I notice that their melodies are starting to thin out. Soon, without me realising, I will have heard the last blackbird song of the year. And that is what makes me sad.

And then, one quiet morning in February, I'll hear a sound that makes my heart race a little bit, and makes the day seem just a little bit better. The first blackbird song of the year. If long, dark nights have to come before, then it is worth the melancholy, to hear that first melody.


*Yes, pedants, I know that these may well fall on different days, but I'm talking about feelings, not facts.

Photos from 2014 Chester Midsummer Watch Parade - well worth a look if you're near Chester at Midsummer.

A belated Show of Hands

VP over at Veg Plotting organised an online event for the Chelsea Fringe, called 'Show of Hands'. You can see the final contributions here. Due to a combination of forgetfulness, never having a camera at the right time, and then finally, prolonged problems with our broadband, I missed the chance to contribute.

Nevertheless, I thought I'd post our contribution here.

We have been digging for buried treasure, but not doubloons, gems or bullion.

There aren't many things more exciting than unearthing potatoes.

Feelers out, what’s about?

Firstly, if you despise people who allow their toddlers to watch TV, please stop reading now.

So, that might leave one or two of you. If you have a toddler, or have idly flicked through the channels and come across CBeebies recently, you cannot possibly have failed to have seen a trailer for something called Minibeast Adventure with Jess. It’s a programme for children about wildlife. But, instead of featuring lions, tigers, elephants and bears, it contains animals that your child actually can meet on a face-to-face basis in their own environment, whether that environment is rolling acres, or a small back yard; and as such, I love it. Jess is a zoologist, is very enthusiastic, and her love and knowledge of the seemingly inconsequential creatures we choose to ignore/avoid/scream about/squash is evident. Anyone who can encourage a small child to get excited about a centipede is alright by me.

 

Now, I’ve always encouraged Thomas to peek at the little creatures who live in his surroundings, and I’m lucky that with a background in zoology I’ve probably got a reasonable knowledge of the critters that lurk in our garden. He loves me to pick up pots in the garden so he can peer at the beetles, woodlice, millipedes, worms, slugs and snails beneath. But I haven’t always been that keen to get to know some of them too personally. However, there’s nothing more encouraging to get you up close and personal to a (admittedly only medium-sized) house spider than the knowledge that if you show fear in front of your toddler, one of two things could happen, or possibly both:

- said toddler decides that minibeasts such as spiders are scary, horrible, and not worth sharing the world with, or…

- deciding that, as he gets older, it would be great fun to chase mummy around with a gargantuan house spider scrabbling in his hands.

I  know which one is worse, and surprisingly, it’s not the thought of a hairy spider being thrown at me. A child without a love and understanding of the small creatures around him won’t make a connection to the environment and its precarious web of life.

It’s easy to care about a panda (though I have my reservations about them, but that’s another topic). It’s not so easy to love a slug. A few holes in a Hosta are nowadays acceptable sacrifices in order to see a child enthralled by animals he can encounter in his own domain. If this programme has encouraged a few more parents to get on their knees and wonder at a woodlouse with their child, then Jess, I salute you.

Flowery Friday

I don't think I could every truly trust...

...someone who doesn't feel a little bit of childlike wonder when they see a rainbow.

Guest Post: Nigel's New Year

Ahem.

Unaccustomed as I am to public speaking, or barking, I was invited to say a few words on this blog about the rolling in of 2014.
Of course, it appears that I was not important enough to be invited to speak on the first day of the new year, but the 2nd will have to do.

What does a mere dog know about the rolling over of one random, arbitrary date into another arbitrary date? Well, as much as Alan Titchmarsh's cat does, and possibly more so. After all, cats sleep for 23.5 hours a day, so don't notice much at all. He probably still thinks it's 2003 and Alan's still on GW.

So, my horticultural friends, what does 2014 hold? Soothsaying can be done in many ways, but I hold with the traditional canine divination technique of throwing my bowl of premium tripe over my doggy shoulder and reading the future in the stomach linings. Well, it's better than eating the stuff.

So, what do the bovine guts say about the forthcoming year?

Well, firstly, there will be an increase in interest in handsome golden retrievers as garden accessories. Not entirely sure what this new trend is down to, but I completely approve. A sun-kissed retriever enhances any multiple-thousand pound greenhouse, or extensive trowel collection. But not even I can rescue a weedy, ill-conceived 'mound'.

Around about the time of the new Gardeners' World series, he who must be obeyed will suddenly start searching for his mobile phone and muttering something about tweets. Perhaps he's interested in the nesting birds.

Carol will, unfortunately, suffer an industrial accident. The extent of woolly scarfage she drapes around herself will lead to a hideous accident with a shredder, resulting in scenes reminiscent of the ending of Fargo. Either that, or she will explode with ecstasy when explaining the intricacies of primrose fertilisation.

I will win Britain's Got Talent with my outstanding potato balancing act.

Finally, I foresee that flouncing will become the new twerking. Just try not to get the image of my beloved master twerking in your mind, or you'll require industrial amounts of mind bleach.

Oh, one more - everyone on Twitter will take a chill pill and not bother replying to or following people who they get slightly narked with over silly things. Oh wait... that'll never happen.

Happy new year. WOOF!

A slightly early Happy New Year

May all your snails migrate to next door in 2014.

 

More legs than are strictly necessary

Wordless(-ish) Wednesday - Separated at Birth?

Milo form the Tweenies
(source)

 

Joe Swift
(source)

The ugly death of a one-trick pony

I wouldn't call myself a plant snob. Well, obviously. I just have exquisite good taste when it come to my horticultural choices. OK, apart from my penchant for blousy dahlias, retro candytuft, peonies so frou-frou that even Barbara Cartland would have blanched. And she was pretty blanched to start off with - I love Clive James' description of her eyes "the corpses of two crows that had flown into a chalk cliff".

Anyway, I digress, but it is my prerogative to do so. To get back to the point - I don't think I'm snobbish about plants. Except hydrangeas. However, Somebeans begs to differ, considering me a plant snob of the worst sort when it comes to Forsythia. He thinks that I won't give it room in the garden because it's common and it's bright, whereas he rather likes it and thinks it brings a bit of colour early in the year.

Pah. I like yellow. My garden is full of dandelions, for a start.

  

What I'm not keen on, as a gardener without rolling acres, are one trick ponies that don't pull their weight for the rest of the year. Yes, Forsythia - I'm looking at you. Twiggy and not a great looker once the flush of yellow has vanished. If you're lucky, you might get a bit of fasciation, but that's more of a freakish talking point than a thing of beauty.

But.... I have to admit there is a one trick pony that I adore, and will have nothing bad said against. A flush of fragrant flowers, and some nondescript, rather dull leaves without autumn colour. And its flowers once they have died - oh dear.

Even I can't defend them, and most of the time I'm not fast enough at pruning them off. But, for their flowers, their scent, I can forgive them everything. They transport me back to my childhood and fill me with joy. Forsythia, when you can do that, I'll find a space in the garden for you.

Yes - I can forgive lilac anything.
Even their ugly death.


Note: No ponies were harmed in the making of this blog post.