Flood Defences

It's been a wet winter.

Due to climate warming? Maybe. Some say so.

Due to human-caused climate change? Maybe. Maybe not.

Has it rained before in winter? Yep
Have the rivers flooded before? Yes
Have they flooded to such extremes before? Yes.

Rivers

River Mersey at West Didsbury

So it wasn't the named storm Abigail, but an unnamed blob (scientific term) of rain that caused England's rivers to flood.

Hoping for some drama to enliven a suburban weekend I stomped down to the Mersey, and was gratified to find it had indeed over spilled its allotted embankments and was sitting sulkily across the pathways.

Short Witchy Story

I visited a country house the other day. The gardens were lovely, though there wasn't much to buy there.  While walking round the walled vegetable garden (which reminded me of Heligan) I found these pages scrunched up under the leaves of a courgette plant. I thought you might be interested, so I've typed them up for you. ;-)

[ This is a link to the Scribd version which may be easier to read. I would also like to experiment with sending the whole document to those of my many readers (!) whose email addresses I have - but I'll do that in a few days time.]



"Dear Friend (I’m always a little shocked to have one to be honest),

Dear Friend,

I find myself with some time to kill. Having exhausted one’s repertoire of songs to sing in idle moments, and having dug the dirt from under my nails, and re-laced the boots into a different left over right, right over left pattern I can no longer bare the tedium of this enforced period of stillness. One doesn’t want to bore you with my boredom, but I’m afraid the only activity now available to me that has any chance of preventing my head exploding is to scratch out a few words to you.

Can’t imagine how a pencil found its way in here, or this scrap of paper, but let’s count our blessings and carry on ...

Perhaps I should explain where I am and why indeed I am not tweeting or Facebooking the (in)action in real time. Darling, I left in such a hurry without a thought as to what would happen next, that it never occurred to my silly little head to bring the damn smartphone. Oh, impetuosity is as always my downfall. Before I flung myself out of the window I really should have collected a few supplies. A spare pair of socks would have been on top of the list, a torch not far below and lastly ... the bloody front door keys. When will I learn? Before rushing off into the night a little forethought would pay dividends. But then, hey, when Adventure calls we must obey without hesitation, mustn’t we?

So here I am, in the dark, writing and not tappy tapping on a screen. How retro of me. Come to think of it the whole situation feels Robinson Crusoe-ish. Wonder if there are some sticks round her to light a fire. Not that being marooned on a desert island is comparable to squatting in your own garden. My predicament is far from noble. Having said that, the unexpected appearance of Man Friday would certainly chase away any ennui. ;-).

How did I get here? Yes, that’s what I’ve been pondering too. What began as a simple idea has ended up bit of a pear-shaped disaster.

You see, I just could not not hear that man’s insufferable voice going on and on. Even in the tower room of the west wing (you know the one ... the one with the alembic and all that gubbins in it, not the east wing tower where the taxidermy collection is) I could hear him droning on; and Aunt Morganna witlessly encouraging him with her girly giggles. You would think an 83 year old crone would know better. Can’t imagine she was interested in Uncle Jeremy’s exposition on wines of the Alsace region. We’d already been through how soil types affect acidity levels and the naming of all thirteen grapes in Châteauneuf du Pape. When Uncle Nigel chipped in with a speech on migrant grape pickers I thought the tide had turned, but no, on Uncle Jeremy ploughed, invigorated now the EU was fair game.

I don’t know why he thought we would be interested. When I visit Andre who runs my own vineyards I say ‘give me the wine and the profits, I don’t need to know the tannin levels’. It makes life so much simpler. We both know where we stand. I get the alcohol and the money; he gets to ponce about with his dipstick.

Being too polite (you know me and my impeccable manners) to say “Oh put a sock in it Jeremy”, I tried a cold hard stare, but I think he mistook it for my natural Bitchy Resting Face and just carried on.

I had to leave the room to find somewhere in the mansion where I couldn’t hear that pompous bass rumble. At first I went to the kitchen but the Aga was pumping out heat into the already hot air. The deep cold walls of the pantry seemed a good place to escape, but they were no match for this extraordinary summer heat, and the Gorgonzola was overpoweringly humming.

I headed upstairs, but not before overhearing an alarming exchange between the various relatives.

“Where’s she gone?”
“Didn’t she say she was going to the lavvy?”
“She’s been gone a while.”
“Yes, do you think she is having trouble?”
“I did think she left in a hurry.”
“It’s the fish course. I didn’t like the look of that fish. I must say, I didn’t eat mine.”
“Told you. What was it anyway? Pollack? Gurnard?”
“Not pleasant, whatever it was.”
“Poor woman. She has been a while. Do you think I should go and offer help?”
“Good God, no. You don’t want to have to deal with that.”

Maybe I should have gone back in, but couldn’t face the explanations and denials. The need to discuss my bowel movements with Uncle Jeremy was all the more reason to hide upstairs.

I tried the linen cupboard first, but the close darkness brought the sweat out on my upper lip and it really was a childish place to hide. Of course the bathrooms were off limits, and the bedrooms were too hot. Those velvet drapes may be opulent but they do cling on to heat. At last I climbed up into the west wing tower and stood quietly amongst the alchemy equipment.

I could still hear his voice; not distinct words, but the drone was inescapable. I pulled up a chair by an open casement window and looked out into the dark, enjoying the cool breeze. Suddenly a flash of light lit up the garden and two elephants later thunder cracked. Rain began to fall. This was the first rain for weeks. I leaned out further and sniffed the new freshness. It was beautiful. If I stretched my arm out into the night air I could feel raindrops prickle my sweaty palm. Delicious. Standing up I tipped as far as I could out of the window. The rush of the summer storm blew around my face eliciting a little whoop of joy. With my head out of the window I couldn’t hear Uncle Jeremy, and I was free from the stifling heat of the house.

“I would rather be out there,” I thought.

Which is when the trouble began.

The sensible, more adult response would have been to go back downstairs, clear up the diarrhoea misunderstanding, then clearly state my intention to walk in the rain. However, as I say, impetuosity is my downfall.

The broomstick was downstairs, so flying out was not possible, but, I don’t know if you noticed when you last visited, there is a tall fir tree growing very close to the tower. Jumping across to the tree and then shimmying down did look achievable. I’m not scared of heights, I reasoned, and leaps of faith into the air are my stock in trade. It was a tight squeeze through the window, and the skirts had to be bunched up around the legs, but I managed to balance on the window sill. Helpfully another flare of lightning lit up the tree. I judged the distance and leapt.

The manoeuvre was successful. I finished clinging to the main trunk, fifty or so feet up, at last free of the fetid mansion. Now, I may be a master of herb lore, but my arboreal knowledge is somewhat lacking. What I had not anticipated were the thousands of sharp needles sticking into my every inch. Ouch. The momentum of the jump had driven them though my clothes. My arms were pierced and they had managed to get passed the armoury of the corset. My inner thighs, so tightly clung to the trunk, were hedgehogged with them. The climb down then was excruciating. Once down I did my best to shake the little beggars free but for the rest of the night, in fact, right now as I write, every move was torture.

Still, ‘yer makes yer choices’ and all that, this hard won freedom was here to be enjoyed. I ran into the rain arms out wide, exalting in the cool air and the drama of nature. It was marvellous.

All of a sudden a shaft of lightning hit one of the weathercocks on the tower. Roof tiles crashed down. It was so near the force of it pushed me backwards. I stopped exalting and ran under a nearby horse chestnut tree, but then remembered the most dangerous place to be in a storm is under a tree, so I dashed back out in to the open, then remembered that being in the open was also a perilous place to be, so I scurried under a rose arbour, having some thoughts on standing in doorways during an earthquake, but then another fork of lightning hit a dovecot (the white one, not the green one), blowing it up and frazzling a few doves, so thoroughly freaked out by this point I darted across the lawn, zigzagging as though to dodge the bullets of a sniper, into the safety of the potting shed.


And here I remain, crouching amongst the pots and spiders, waiting for the storm to pass, scribbling my pickle to you, and trying to compose an explanation of my dishevelled state to the relatives."

After The Deluge

After two days of constant rain I ventured out into the garden with the intention of taking arty shots of raindrops. Instead I witnessed a tragedy no doubt being repeated throughout the country.

This poor bee, with his matted teddy bear fur and school boy fringe plastered to his forehead, was sat violently shivering in the weak morning light.

A garden spider had got to work weaving today's web. She was too busy to give him any attention (just as well perhaps).

I kept snapping away, trying to get him in focus (and failing), looking for good angles, and then compassion whispered in my ear. I felt like a war reporter taking photographs of someone struggling for life. There is a dilemma between witnessing the event so others can see the truth, and putting down the camera to help.

Admittedly this tiny moment was not as important as some atrocity of the human world. It was only a cold bee. But some part of me felt bad.

In the end I did try to encourage him onto a saucer of sugar water, but in doing so knocked him off his perch into the shrubs below and lost him. Now I feel even worse!

Arty shots:

See the reflection in the rain drop

(I get confused - are bees female, male or neither?)

August Rain Storm

If I were to advise anyone on starting a blog I would suggest choose your garden as a topic. It's not a sexy subject and you won't get invited to cool hipster events on the back of it. The advantage however, and it's a big advantage, is that you don't have to go hunting for something to fill your posts with - it comes to you.

An August Rainstorm - it's not sexy, and I won't be going to a cool hipster party because of it, but goodness it was mildly exciting there for a moment.

PS My son is currently at Leeds Festival. Do you think it will be worth washing the muddy clothes coming my way, or should I just throw them in the bin?

Fire and Water

Midsummer 2012

Dandelions - They're All Around

Have you noticed the dandelions?

Here they are in my local park. I’ve never seen so many.

Do you too harbour the suspicion there are a lot of them this year? And massive?

Then let me reassure you, you are right. Apparently they have stolen a march on other weeds by sucking up all the recent rain before the others could get their roots and stems sorted out. Now they outnumber them to the point they may be endangering those less opportunist wild flowers.

According to a Telegraph article the overall population of dandelions has also been increasing year on year due to nitrogen pollution caused by car exhaust fumes.

"Whereas other plants don't like nitrate, dandelions will gorge on it until they become so abundant that other neighbouring species start to be pushed aside and disappear.

"We are seeing a rise in dandelions at road junctions and roundabouts where they get a direct hit of nitrates from the constant exhaust fumes.”

Next time you’re on an A road with green verges take a quick glance – there really are a lot of dandelions.

This only adds to my suspicion the increase in cars over the last 40 odd years has caused the fall in insect numbers. See the post: Mason Bee House

Another Short Story

This was written last week during a rainy afternoon. It should have been posted then because now it's all sunny and we can't remember the deluge. But then again I don't think the rain has entirely left us yet.

The other prompt for this story was a post I did about the bureaucracy of an organisation I found that is trying to improve the conditions of upland peat bogs. I think that is what it does. It is hard to tell from their website. Have a quick shufty of the post to get the drift: My Tweetathon with Sir Humphrey

Again, apologies for the high school standard of writing.

(Image of upland (minus Witchy) from a lovely blog about hill walking called My Pennines. Don't tell him - he might not understand)

In Which Witchy Get Caught in the Uplands

Mason Bee House - I Do DIY

I have a question for those of us who were around in the 1970’s. Don’t be coy; I know you’re out there! Think back to the state of your dad’s (or husband’s) car when he had driven miles to your holiday destination. It was covered in dead insects wasn’t it? Sometimes the windscreen wipers had to be employed to get rid of them. Now think about the state of the front of your own car when you’ve been a distance down the motorway ... still clean? Hardly any insects?

Over the last couple of years I’ve been worried about the very obvious lack of insects. There really aren’t as many bluebottles and daddy longlegs are there? Some blame can be put on industrial agriculture, but surely the main damage is pollution from cars. Obviously I am no expert but in the 1960s and 70s weren’t the insecticides used more deadly than now? It seems to me as a casual observer the number of cars and road miles have increased incredibly over the last 40 years (good grief, I’m old) and it is this that must be responsible for the decline in insect numbers. And sadly NO ONE is going to limit car use. If I’m right insects will have to wait until we are using electric cars, or we run out of oil before they get back to previous population densities. Not some time soon, I think.

So, with this observation added to my list of ‘things to worry about’ I’ve taken a greater interest in the insects that visit my plot of Mancunian ground.

With the successful return of ‘my’ Tawny Mining bees, and the exciting visit from the Naomi Campbell of the wasp world I want to do more to encourage bees and flies and other edible (birdwise) insects. The other night (while eating an Aero and sipping a rather nice Rosé) I had a quick chat with ‘@DayMoonRoseDawn’ on Twitter, who has uploaded this impressive film onto YouTube, about providing suitable nesting sites for solitary mason bees. This page on The Pollinator Garden was also useful.



Here is my version. It’s made from florist’s oasis, holed with a pencil, and kept dry in a draw from the desk it is sitting on. The thing beside it is an ‘insect hotel’ that until I knew better was left mouldering in entirely the wrong place.

Although I’m very pleased with myself for being a responsible wildlife gardener and for doing a little light DIY, I have low expectations for any occupancy. Some spiders may take notice, but if mason bees do turn up ... goodness it would be like winning £50 on the lottery. Bet it’s the decaying bamboo sticks that get most visits.

UPDATE: the weather today is so outrageously bad – think Wuthering Heights – I’ve had to take the bee house away to stop it flying off into the garden. The poor bees will have to huddle where they are until the sun comes out.

Image Processing, Cameras, and Rain

We didn't have snow here in Manchester.  I imagine it was because the weather front was coming in from the North East and the Pennines saved us from the worst.  It's one of those rare times when they had a beneficial effect.

True, it is colder than normal, and the strong winds are chilly, but nothing dramatic has happened so far.  The rain was needed, to be honest.  I boast of the sponge-like quality of life in Manchester but I was beginning to look speculatively at the hose.

Spring rain has a beautiful softness to it. It brings out the colours of the plants as if the Saturation level on Photoshop has been cranked up.

On the advice of my son I’ve edited these photos in Lightroom, instead of Bridge.  The sharpening and noise reduction facilities are certainly much better.  These are two processes I need because my camera is a lady-like Olympus with the lens it came with.  It is a handy size to use when dashing out into the garden when a new blogging idea strikes, but the quality of picture isn’t too clear.  I haven’t been blogging for long but already I’m itching to upgrade my equipment.  And oh, for a proper video camera .... and grown up sound recorder.

Let me know what equipment you use – are there any cheap options?

Fritillary Update

Something is eating my Fritillary.

Slugs or snails I suppose, although I haven't seen any out in daylight.

Oh dear, and that means with this current wet weather the slimy ones will be out in full force.

RIP Fritillary, a brief but glorious showing.