Gardening for wildlife

 I have been spending a lot of time in my sanctuary recently, and it is glorious.  Cicero said (and I have it written on a cushion, so it must be true) that "if you have a garden and a library, you have everything you need", and I completely agree with him.  The library is of course essential year-round, but takes on a particular significance in winter.  As for the garden, it too can be enjoyed across every season, but it really springs to life about now.

We recently took a trip to Plant World, our lovely local garden park and nursery.  Ridiculously not allowed to open until April (despite garden centres being allowed to open throughout lockdown!) it was very special to visit again.  The gardens were their usual splendour, particularly the azaleas, cherries, and the last of the magnolias, whilst all over there was the promise of colour yet-to-come.  Of course, as well as the gardens themselves, Plant World sells all manner of homegrown plants, which are consistently amongst the best quality you can buy locally, and a fair price too.  Well, we filled two baskets and took note of other things, for which I will likely go back.

Back home for a planting session, and despite the frosty nights, spring has certainly arrived in the garden.  My favourite thing at the moment is my honesty, not least because I grew them from seed myself.  They've grown to a very good size, have billions of buds, and provide a massive splash of colour, leading the charge to May.  They're also brilliant for butterflies - see the orange tip below, my first sighting of the year for one of those - and what's more, when the flowers are all spent and the plant dies, it will leave behind the most beautiful seed pods, well worth keeping in the border all year long.

Butterflies aren't the only wildlife visiting now, for the birdsong and general activity has been brilliant this year.  It has taken a serious amount of time to attract a variety of birds, but our persistence has paid off, and I've now seen more than 25 different species in our garden, which I think is pretty good for a suburban estate.  Most recently I noted the first ever sighting of a siskin, whilst greenfinch and goldfinch visits are massively up compared to past years.  I've put so much effort into increasing feeding spots and observing which locations work best, and I finally think the balance is right - certainly the disappearing food tells its own story.

We've always had frogs in the garden, and frogspawn arrived for the first time last year.  I've already seen the frogs two or three times this year, most recently when doing my annual sorting of the store behind our summerhouse (a truly unpleasant job).  However the one creature I always look out for in spring is the slowworm. To me, they're like the harbinger of the growing season here - a bit like the Ravens in the Tower, gardening doesn't really work properly without them.  If I don't see them by the end of April, I begin actively looking for them (the compost bin is the best place to start), but this year no hunting was necessary, as a mammoth specimen appeared out of the blue as I was carting compost up the steps.  It didn't seem too bothered by my presence, and I lingered to watch it for a minute, its tongue flicking in-and-out in a relatively relaxed manner.  I think it's the biggest one I've seen to date, and I was thrilled.  After enjoying it for a moment, I carefully covered it over and went about my business, safe in the knowledge that the garden season has now officially begun.

So what else?  Well, we've got hedgehogs.  We've suspected it for a while, but after borrowing a trail camera from my parents, I can now confirm at least two regular visitors to our garden.  Again, I'm thrilled, and have quickly fallen into the routine of leaving out hedgehog biscuits, dog food and water, every night.  Hedgehogs visit at least two different parts of the garden, although I've no idea if it's the same pair in each place, or different pairs (which would really be something).  At the moment I'm using the camera to try and establish if they're sticking to a regular route, so I can tailor the garden more to their needs.  In the meantime though, here's some of the best footage I've captured so far:

 

Gardening for wildlife is a passion, and I feel that really for the first time since we moved here, the natural balance is now falling into place.  I don't suffer the same problems with slugs these days, nor any garden pests really, and I think it's because we've tried to encourage nature in all its forms.  I don't use slug pellets; I don't spray chemicals; I don't kill anything; and I leave wild areas.  The result, in all honesty, has been life-changing for me - every day in the garden is a new adventure, I always see something of interest, and I get the sense that the garden as a whole is sending up a little bit of thanks for the style of stewardship we're trying to provide.  We - the garden and I - are on the same page now, and that's a great place to be as we head into the summer months.

Happy Easter Mr Barnum

As we know, Easter is all about rebirth, and the eternal hope that the resurrection of Jesus Chris brought to mankind.  It's an amazing story, and one worthy of reflection, especially after such a tumultuous year for everyone on Earth.  I think this message of hope often gets lost in our modern world, both by those who seek to detract and discredit religion, and those religious people who commit great evils in its name.  But in its heart, what's not to love about the Easter message?  Surely there's something in there to inspire each and every one of us.

Rebirth is a wonderful notion, and one that gardeners know very well. It's surely no coincidence that Easter is celebrated in springtime, when this renewal of life is abundant throughout the natural world.  In our garden, spring is a time to reacquaint ourselves with old friends, and there are many - hostas are pushing their new spikes above the soil, the leaves of the asters are forming little mats, the primulas are flourishing after a long and lonely winter, and the fritillaries - always the fritillaries - are once again making their play across the bank. It's magical, inspiring stuff, and it arrives every year, right on cue, to gladden the heart beyond all measurable belief.  Surely if Jesus Christ rising from the dead is the ultimate sign of heavenly hope for mankind, then this springtime miracle offers an equal hope here on Earth. 

Of course, it's not lost on me that this spring we'll also be reacquainting ourselves with old friends of a human kind, as lockdown measures begin to ease.  So, as far as spring 2021 goes, it's an all-encompassing affair, and there's an awful lot for which we can and should be thankful.  I'm looking forward to seeing the people I like again, for the winter has been a long one, and I am ready to reconnect.

Back in the garden, I recently had cause to save a bumblebee which had fallen into our path.  The bee was covered in mites, to the extent that it could no longer fly, infested under the wings and around the thorax.  To save the bee, I got a tub of water and some thin twigs (I think a think paintbrush would work too); then with bee in hand, I slowly began to remove the mites one-by-one, dipping my twig in the water regularly to clean them off.  This process took me about half an hour, but in the end I could see that the bee was pretty much mite-free.

The bee was by this stage bedraggled, and not fancying its chances on a cold, sunless day, I took it indoors and gave it a temporary home in a little carry case that I occasionally use for my fish. I put some sugar water into an unturned bottle lid, along with some garden foliage and some kitchen roll to help it dry off, then left the container on the windowsill for maximum warmth.  We also named the bee, Bee T. Barnum.

Well fast-forward 24 hours, and Bee T. Barnum was much better, to the extent that it had begun flying around its hospital room.  This day was a sunny and warm one, and so I took Bee out into the garden, opened the lid, and let it reclaim its place in nature.  Every bee matters right now, so I was pleased to be able to help one live another day.

It remains to be seen if Bee T. Barnum returns to our garden, but I hope we'll be top of the list when it's choosing where to pollinate from now on!  And so to anybody reading this blog, I wish you a Happy Easter and a wonderful spring.

Seen around Dorset - Abbotsbury Subtropical gardens

Hestercombe Gardens

We popped across the county border over the weekend to visit the gardens of Hestercombe House, near Taunton.  The gardens had recently been featured on Gardeners' World, and looked so enticing that we immediately made a plan to visit.  Since the easing of lock-down restrictions, we've seen all around us how hard people have been working to get their attractions up-to-scratch for the summer season.  At Hestercombe, the gardens are usually maintained by a team of eight, with up to 30 volunteers, but since lock-down, that number has had to be reduced to two gardeners, taking care of some 50 acres.  I can only imagine how hard they've had to work (there's two of us to work on our back garden, and there are times when that doesn't feel enough!),  but for what it's worth, they've done an unbelievable job.  On a day when even the sun was drunk on summer, it was a pleasure to amble around the woods, meadows, and formal gardens of the estate.  And all sown up with a cream tea too (as I informed Lizzie, in Somerset it's neutral territory for the cream-jam debate, although obviously we stuck to the correct, Devonian way.)  Garden enthusiasts should get themselves here as soon as possible - just don't forget to book online.  Here's just a snippet of what we found...

When you're feeling blue and it just won't stop raining...

Easter garden

It's fair to say that the garden has hardly sprung into life, during what must have been one of the coldest - and wettest - Marchs for years.  Pretty much nobody in the UK needs a reminder of the weather, which brought heavy snow (twice) and an array of precipitation, from sleet and hail to good old rain.  Hardly a month for getting out and being enveloped by the unfurling spring weather, but we've nonetheless made the best of it here, and have been very busy prepping for the coming seasons of warmth.

Looking around the plot, it's easy to think that winter is still in charge, with plants sensibly deciding to keep their heads down until all is clear.  However, look a little closer and there's more than meets the eye.  There's erysimum Bowles Mauve that never really stopped flowering, providing lovely light purple spikes that are so important for those early-flying pollinators.  Emerging on the woodland bank are snake's head fritillaries, a firm favourite and a flower that seems to relish being in our garden, along with grape hyacinth and cowslips, those lovely English wildflowers that remind me of childhood.  In the shade, pulmonaria - lungwort - has poked its flowers up again (and I have added some more.)  Our camellia, having established itself last year in our ericaceous soil, has also popped out numerous buds, and although they're not long-lasting flowers, they do have a certain regal charm.

On to the main project this month, which is largely spurred by the really tragic news that Sudan, the last male white rhino, died two weeks ago, probably spelling the end of this subspecies (notwithstanding IVF treatment, which we all hope is a success.)  As human beings, we're all responsible for our environment and for ensuring that the diversity of life on Earth continues and flourishes.  When a species becomes extinct, every single one of us, and the whole world, is poorer for it.  When I was a kid in school, we learned about the dodo with fascination, and by the age of 10 understood extinction, along with what we as humans could do to stop it.  Now, short of writing to my MP to urge greater pressure on global environmental issues, I feel powerless to save entire species around the world.  But what I can do is provide suitable habitats in my own sphere of influence, in which local wildlife - which is all under pressure from human activities - can live and thrive.  I get frogs, slow worms, butterflies, moths, bats, birds, and all manner of insects, which make my life a richer and more rewarding place to be.  So whilst there is breath in my body, whilst I have strength to pick up a trowel, or am able to make a wood pile or water a plant, I will not allow that wildlife to starve, be homeless, or to needlessly die.  Life without it would be no life at all, and in my garden, I will do everything in my power to preserve them and give them a home.

Jumping off my soapbox, practically this has meant building a pond, both to draw more wildlife in and to keep what already resides within my fences.  It's not massive, but it's enough to make a difference, and as it establishes, and as the aquatic plants grow and flower, it'll be a new haven for pollinators, along with all the creatures associated with water.  Growing out of the water are natives such as marsh marigold, spearwort, water iris, and golden stripe rush.  Filling the cracks in the slabs, meanwhile, I've added aubretia and erigeron, the "Devon Daisy."  Here's the before and after shots:

Recently, on a trip to the local Oxfam bookshop, I picked up a lovely book called A Selborne Year, publishing pages from Gilbert White's journal of 1784, in which he records his observations in the garden.  It has spurred me, perhaps a little late, to start keeping my own garden journal, a place to record improvements, experiments, and observations about wildlife.  One of my major points of celebration this month has been the visit of a bullfinch to the bird feeder, the first time I've seen them in the garden - it's now in the journal, and will be a great point of reference as the years pass by.

And so we come to the Easter weekend, a time to reflect, a time to be grateful for what we have, and celebrate the rebirth which takes place both in the Christian faith, and also in nature, through the coming of spring.  To me, it's a time for everyone - religious or not - to share in the glories of new life, with all the hope and promise that this represents, and is all the more poignant given the dreadful weather of late.  Now as I write, I realise it's all coming back again - the first bumble bee of spring, the new buds, that wonderful spring birdsong - the first page of the next chapter being written as each day passes, and we once more jump aboard for the journey.  Happy Easter everybody!

The rhythm of Autumn

Autumn is in full swing again, bringing with it the usual blaze of colour, chilly skies, and earthy emotions.  The garden is preparing to shut down for another winter - or at least, it is moving into a new phase in its life - as late summer's passionate and exotic hues give way to the season's mellow tones.  For me, autumn is the greatest time of year, offering an opportunity to reflect, to bring in the last of the garden's harvest, and to be thankful for the season of plenty - as well as the festive time to come.  The focus of life, so firmly rooted in the garden over the June, July, August and September, shifts dramatically to indoors now, and leisurely sunshine barbecues and evening al-fresco beers are replaced with hot chocolates, and warming homemade crumbles on the sofa.  Talking of crumbles, Lizzie's first effort of the season is another stunner, made all-the-more pleasing by the fact that all the fruit (and there are apples, blackberries, raspberries, blueberries and blackcurrants) come from our own plot.  They're ingredients that make each-and-every mouthful that much more delicious.

Out on the plot itself, the party has finished amongst all but the hardiest of plants, and the world is bedding down for the cold weather ahead.  There's an urge amongst gardeners to clear and tidy their gardens at this time of year, but I take an entirely different approach, and will largely allow mine to die down naturally.  Fallen leaves and spent stems may not look all that attractive, but they're a God-send to all manner of insects and mammals seeking shelter in the cold nights, and seed heads will provide that extra bit of food to the birds that live in our neighbourhood.  Seed heads also add a wonderfully architectural element to the garden - they can definitely stay for winter.

The season is a very interesting one for those with a naturally inquiring mind, and around the garden at the moment I'm seeing plenty of fungi (including this superb toadstool, below) and a number of oak galls.  Oak galls are formed when an oak tree becomes host to a tiny type of parasitic wasp (Andricus kollari,) which lay eggs on oak buds.  The larvae inject chemicals into the buds to induce abnormal growths which enclose the larvae, giving them a safe space in which to develop.  Oak galls will frequently be seen with a small hole in the bottom - these are emergence holes, which gives you an understanding of just how small these creature are.  As usual, nature is amazing!

November arrives with the first frosts, and by the time I get home from work in the evening, it's already pitch-black.  Over the coming months, I will get but a glimpse of life in the garden, but whilst I leave it to its own devices, I have a strong sense that we're still living on the same rhythm, sharing the beat of the winter as it continues its inexorable march to the spring, when life will once more begin anew, and we will again greet old friends with excitement and vigour.

Autumn musings

The Autumn

Go, sit upon the lofty hill,

And turn your eyes around,

Where waving woods and waters wild

Do hymn an autumn sound.

The summer sun is faint on them - 

The summer flowers depart - 

Sit still - as all transform'd to stone,

Except your musing heart.

Nigella "Love-in-a-mist" seed head

Seed head of the teasel

How there you sat in summer-time,

May yet be in your mind;

And how you heard the green woods sing

Beneath the freshening wind.

Though the same wind now blows around,

You would its blast recall;

For every breath that stirs the trees,

Doth cause a leaf to fall.

The evocative crimson of the blueberry bushes

Fallen oak leaves

Oh! like that wind, is all the mirth

That flesh and dust impart;

We cannot bear its visitings,

When change is on the heart.

Gay words and jests may make us smile,

When Sorrow is asleep;

But other things must make us smile,

When Sorrow bids us weep!

Japanese anemone - an autumn star

Contoneaster throng with berries

The dearest hands that clasp our hands - 

Their presence may be o'er;

The dearest voice that meets our ear,

That tone may come no more!

Youth fades; and then, the joys of youth,

Which once refresh'd our mind,

Shall come - as, on those sighing woods,

The chilling autumn wind.

A bumper apple harvest awaits

Acorns

Hear not the wind - view not the woods;

Look out o'er vale and hill - 

In spring, the sky encircled them - 

The sky is round them still.

Come autumn's scathe - come winter's cold - 

Come change - and human fate!

Whatever prospect Heaven doth bound,

Can ne'er be desolate.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning