A Gentle Gift

This week I found gentleness in broken driveways.

Once again it was unexpected.

And I was left wondering 'is this a gift?'

Aboriginal English

 

I love a plantain.

Ribwort, to be precise. Greater always looks like it's been trodden on.

I think it's my spirit weed. It comes to me in my dreams where it gives convoluted, metaphor-rich messages about Truth, Beauty, and The Meaning Of Life.

No, not really. But I do like them.

They are however an ingredient in an Anglo-Saxon magical charm against poisoning. The Nine Herbs Charm is found in The Lacninga, a collection of ancient medical writings and prayers.

Directions are given on how to make a salve with the nine herbs that involve mixing with soap and ash, and boiling up a paste. This isn't a simple recipe though. Once you've made the salve you have to recite a charm to the patient before you apply the remedy.

Sing that charm on each of the herbs thrice before he prepares them, and on the apple also, and sing into the mouth of the man and both the ears and on the wound that same charm before he puts on the salve.

This sounds very shamanistic to me. It opens a window onto our deep roots.

When I think of traditional herbal medicine I first go to an imagine of some sort of Elizabethan proto scientist weighing and distilling. Or maybe I think of a peasant woman who used weeds that grew round her cottage because her mother told her they work, in a chain of practical women doing the best they could. The idea that medicine was applied with set prayers or charms, which is just another word for spells, has previously seemed too Other. Either fantastical, or aboriginal. And yet here's the Anglo-Saxons being not us-a-long-time-ago but Very Different.

 

And, you, Waybread, mother of herbs,    open to the east, mighty within;

carts rolled over you,    women rode over you,

over you brides cried out,    bulls snorted over you.

All you withstood then,    and were crushed;

So you withstand    poison and contagion

and the loathsome one    who travels through the land.

 

Given my uncharitable feelings about Greater Plantain, I wonder if this was the species used in the charm.

 Posted with Blogsy

Common Dogs

The weeds in Garden65 (and goodness it's approximately 40% weeds) are so young they still have an air of innocence about them. They have arranged themselves into attractive little assemblages, and I can't help viewing them with affectionate indulgence.

Of course, this is a mistake. It won't be long before they grow into big bastards with a stubborn attitude.

But until they do let's take a closer look at the pretty Dog Voilet. Ha! I'm calling it pretty now, but in a couple of months time I'll be cursing it when I'm on my hands and knees prising it from the crazy paving with a butter knife.

The Common Dog Voilet, Viola riviniana, has 5 purple petals, with a central white area helpfully lined with directional stripes that guide pollinating insects down to the nectar. This is contained in a spur formed by the lower petals at the back of the flower.

There are a handful of other violets, apart from the common Common Dog, such as the Early Dog and the Sweet Violet. These have purple or blue spurs, whereas our common violet has a white spur.

And after fiddling with all the little flowers in the garden I can confirm there are no rare violets here.

Posted with Blogsy

Tidying Up The Front Bit

Tidying up the front garden is a different experience from doing the same to the back - or rather, the - garden.

For one, tackling the garden at the back of the house is done either when it has become aesthetically unpleasing, when an expert horticulturalist in a newspaper says I should, or when I can be arsed. Tending to the front garden, however, is usually done when it becomes apparent my garden is the only one in the road giving out a 'Miss Haversham Lives Here' vibe.

What and when is done in the back garden is a private personal affair, but that done to the front is generally prompted by the pressures of social anxiety.

The trouble is, I like the overgrown look. I like leaf litter, naughty Heathcliffe weeds, and scary insects. To me, as long as I have some control over where they occur, these things mean Life lives in my garden. Yes, I realise a well ordered neatly pruned garden could also make this claim - a plant, be it an exotic bought from a garden centre or a windblown weed, is always Life - but it's being able to see nature going through its seasonal and daily cycles that gives me joy and gives purpose to what little actual gardening I do.

Look at this leaf litter and earthy stuff under the hebes in the front. Today it was swept away because I thought the neighbours would think me lazy if it was left there. I was muttering 'what a shame' under my breath, though. There were worms in there, and little white hoppy things, and a startled earwig. It was a perfect feeding ground for robins and wrens, and maybe hedgehogs. What a shame that Life, that Realness, had to go for the sake of social embarrassment.

This little internal tussle highlights the whole concept of garden and gardening. Gardens are artificial constructs and gardening is a matter of control. Here I am championing wild nature, yet I want it confined to portions of my land. Letting nature run its course would demonstrate my commitment to these ideas of Life and ecosystems and beleaguered birds, but then I wouldn't be gardening, and it wouldn't be my garden. It would simply be a patch of land. I wouldn't own it.

And how would that affect my social standing with my surrounding neighbours? You have to be seen to have some control over your garden. It seems most people demonstrate their mastery by paving over the ground or confining plants to bordered borders. Even my messy garden in its early successional state is tolerated (I think, I haven't actually asked) because it is understood I'm 'wildlife gardening' and not simply neglectful.

The city ... nature ... humans ... wildlife  - interesting ...

Spurge v. Chickweed

I came nose to leaf with a spurge today. During a tidying up session I found this dainty little plant bravely growing out of a crack in the decking.

Do you remember my encounter with spurge last summer when I mistook the poisonous spurge for an edible chickweed? What a hoot.

I have to confess though that I still don't know the difference between the two weeds. Like a dumb animal I simply learnt not to eat little weeds. So here, after some googling, is the definitive explanation:

1. Chickweed has tiny, white star-like flowers, whereas spurge flowers are yellowy green
2. Chickweed has hairs growing on its stalk, spurge is hairless
3. Spurge has white sap, chickweed doesn't.

Image from Flickr stream of Adam Grub 'Eat That Weed'

This image found on Flickr shows the two plants together. Similar yet different.

So, if you too want to forage chickweed perhaps it would be best to wait until the plant is in flower and snap the stalk to see if it bleeds white sap.   Got it.


On a different note, I want to put in a plea in defence of decking. We are always told that the worst thing you could do if you want to encourage wildlife into your garden is to put in decking. However, from my experience of being such a sinner I want to point out that yes, perhaps birds and bees aren't interested but there is still a lot of biological activity underneath and within the decking boards.

If you are not evangelical about cleanliness then weeds will grow, and moss, they in turn will attract those tiny little insect things that are at the bottom of the food chain.

Ecosystems, people, ecosystems!

Last year an absolutely huge fungus grew underneath the boards. It was spongey and orange and a bit Doctor Who-y in its worrying proportions. In contrast during the hot weather of summer spiders and beetles love the warmth of the wood. Even That Cat likes lounging on it, and That Cat is definitely 'wildlife'.

So I say don't be ashamed of your decking.

The odd chameleon can also turn up.  ;-)



Adam Grub's image

Allotment 90

I'm pleased to announce Garden65 has expanded into Allotment 90.

Thanks to the determination and charm of Sally we now have our own patch of land in Bradley Folds Allotments.

Officially, if anyone asks, we are helping the plot's owners keep it ticking over while they deal with a busy period in their lives. We are on the proper waiting list so we still may get a firm foothold, but meanwhile this tenuous tenure will do just fine. The owners are neighbours of Sally’s. It was their purple beans we picked in August.

Our good fortune hasn’t quite sunk in yet. I have free access to land – land without any fences round it. I’m still dazed.

The icing on the cake (and I’m talking icing made with butter not margarine) is that this plot is the one with THE shed: the gypsy caravan shed. We’ve already had tea and Danish pastries in the shed with our friend Justina. Such moments are dreams made of. Well, suburban dreams, but still, I never thought I’d be allowed to drink tea with friends on a bit of my own land. Fantastic.

Thank you Sally

Unfortunately we’ve taken possession just as November has turned very wintry. The plot needs digging over before any thought of planting can be entertained. We have made a start, but the soil has a lot of clay in it and is sticky. Pull up a weed and a clump of mud comes with it that stays stuck to shovel, glove, boot, bucket, path, shed, mug, pastry, car .... My efforts remind me of when Margo helped Tom and Barbara in the Good Life. Do you remember that episode?

This is the plot (with obliging son in it):

And in context:

Dank, eh? But joyously dank. Because whatever vegetable or flower we manage to grow in the future it is the being outside in all weathers, either alone or with friends and family, that this new chapter is about.

It did my old mum's heart good to be able to mess about in the mud - my mud - with my boy. Heaven.

Not sure I'm going to be able to do the same with the "I want to be a wedding planner" daughter. Perhaps in the summer, when it's Pimms season.

The Answer To The Pea Quiz

Drum roll ... the answer to the pea quiz is ... butterflies.

The question was what do clover, sweet pea and vetch plants have in common, apart from being generally leguminous?

They all have flower shapes that are papilionaceous. That is to say they have a butterfly-like form.

The flower head has a large upper petal with a distinct vertical groove, called the banner or standard petal. Two lateral petals are attached to this that look like the wings of a butterfly, hence the 'Papillion' association. Beneath the wings are two petals that have fused together to produce a keel shape. These protect the stamens.

(Between you and me, as grown-up women, a butterfly is not the first image that springs to mind when confronted with this diagram, but perhaps we have to make allowances for the sensibilities of our botanical forefathers of yore ;-)  )

But hold on, I hear you say, sweet pea and vetch flowers do look the same, but clovers are spherical, chunky little flowers, not butterfly-like at all.

Here we reintroduce the word inflorescence that was used when we were talking daisies. The clover flower, like the daisy, is composed of many little flowers, or florets. If you look closely each individual floret can be seen with its wings and keel.

There is however something that the clover flower as a whole does that sweet pea and vetch don't. When each floret has been pollinated it wilts - those are the lower brown petals - and the young virginal florets remain perky and inviting until they too have served their purpose.

Sound familiar?

Pea Quiz

What do the Clover in the lawn, the Vetch in the green manure, and the Sweet Pea climbing the trellis have in common?

Warning: the answer isn't very exciting, but I thought I'd give a little botany quiz a whirl.

For a start they are all of the Fabaceae family of plants, which generally speaking means they are nitrogen fixing beany/pea-y plants (which gets explained further in the graphic below).

But wait ... there is another characteristic they share ... *secret squirrel* all shall be revealed in the next post. What can it be?!

Clover

Sweet Pea

Common Vetch

Fabaceae

Flower Infographic

Daisies make a return to Garden 65 - this time in the guise of their taller cousins, oxeye daisies.

A beautiful swathe of daisies has opened up at the same time as the fox and cubs. They occupy only a small space, about a metre square, but if you take a step in and squint a bit you can pretend you're in a summer meadow. And if you wear a floaty dress and sandals you might even get the full 'summer of love' effect, but as you see I didn’t go that far.

'Oxeye' seems a strange epithet for a white flower. Let me explain the reason for the association ...

• daisies were used in ancient times to help with wound healing.
  Apparently the Romans carried mashed up daisies with them on their marches
  
• Hera, the goddess of war, was called ‘ox-eyed’
  
• War – wounds – daisies – goddess of war – oxeye           ta da!
  

But it seems whoever the scholarly person was that first associated the flower with Hera’s nickname may have got his Greek translation wrong. The literal translation of the Greek word βοωπις is ‘cow-faced’, which was not necessarily a criticism of her looks, but could refer to her earlier more primitive guise as a horned cow goddess (think Catal Huyuk). But I digress. Perhaps we should ask Mary Beard to sort this one out.

The orange hawkweed, for that is what ‘fox and cubs’ is more properly called, has a lot of strange names associated with it. Surprisingly, given its scrappy character, it is not a native of Britain but was introduced in the 17th century as a medicinal herb to be used for eye problems. So any names attached to it must have only developed over the last 400 odd years.

The fox and cubs epithet apparently refers to the appearance of the flower clusters. If you look closely you can see one main flower on a stem with many unopened buds crowded behind it. The image implied is rather sweetly of a red mother fox hiding her darker little cubs underneath her. Awww.

Another of its names is ‘Grim the Collier’. This explanation is a little more muddled:

• The plant has black hairs = looks like it is covered in coal dust
  
• Grim the Collier was a well-known folk figure of the 17th century
  
• A play was written in 1662 called ‘Grim the Collier of Croydon’ in which the devil comes up to earth to find out how naughty women are (and then discovers they are naughty but also clever, so he goes back down again)

I’m not sure the relevance of the last point, but there seems a general reference to the dark colouring of the stems and unopened flower buds and the fiery foxy orange of the flower.

Those ancients were an imaginative bunch weren’t they? Suppose us moderns would be too if we didn’t have tv and twitter.

In the picture below I’ve combined my fleeting interest in taxonomy with the new online fashion of ‘infographics’ (diagrams to you and me) to produce some no doubt fleetingly interesting information on these two flowers.

They both belong to the family Asteraceae, which used to be called the Chrysanthemum family, and this is because, as I understand it, the shape of their flowers is star-like. And, full circle, we are back to the Greeks.

(made in Word, saved as pdf, opened in PhotoShop, saved as jpg)

Devil's Milk

I’m an idiot. It’s official. Let me explain...

I’ve spent hours at the computer today researching chickweed. Because up until a moment ago that is what I thought this plant was. Culpepper called it 'a fine, soft, pleasing herb, under the dominion of the Moon’. A nice description, but there’s not much information there to hang a blog post on. Perhaps like the dandelion I could eat some and explain my culinary experience to you. Apparently it has a mild taste like rocket.

So I went to my backdoor, pinched off a few leaves and ate them. They tasted fine; a strong peppery taste. I continued at the computer looking for recipes. The pepper taste continued on my tongue, like chilli. Then I grew suspicious. There were some nice recipes for salads and rice meals but no one was mentioning the burning sensation – or the white sap.

I Googled ‘chickweed sap’, and made a horrible discovery. That plant that for years I thought was chickweed, isn’t. It’s Euphorbia Peplus. Commonly called Petty Spurge, or Devils Milk. Ha! You’re telling me. And what is even funnier it’s toxic; to such a degree that it’s a well known cancer cure.

Now I could end this post with advice on not eating plants you are uncertain of, but for one I’m sure you wouldn’t, and secondly I didn’t either – I thought I knew what it was.

So, if you don’t hear from me again, dear readers, you know why. It’s been a blast. Send donations to an eco-charity of your choice.

Botanical Look At Daisies

While grubbing about in the grass to take the meditative film of daisies I noticed some of them were past their best – a state I can sympathise with. The white petals were falling off and the yellow middle bit was turning red and changing shape. What’s going on? The biologists and horticulturalists amongst us might know (ssh now, don’t spoil the fun), but for the rest of us here’s my stab at an explanation.

Firstly that pretty round daisy flower is not a single flower but a collection of many. They are called composite flowers because they are made of a compound inflorescence of hundreds of tiny florets. The little yellow ones, called disc florets, don’t have any petals (but they do have corollas which are the yellow bits we see), but the florets on the outside, ray florets, do – the long white ones. Still with me? Maybe this will help:

Here’s a couple of images of the aged daisies on my lawn. It looks like something is happening to the disc florets.

If we borrow a picture from an obscure American university the structure of the disc florets becomes clearer.

So if I understand it right (and I don’t), then my style, anthers and corolla are decaying and the ovary has now turned into a seed. Which then disperses.

OK the scientists amongst us can now pipe up ...

• Why has the upper portion of each disc floret turned red?
• Why does the central area (the receptacle) dome upwards?

Admittedly these aren't the most pressing questions of the age, but when you're nose to floret you just can't help wondering.

Internal Weeding Dialogue

Most common thoughts while weeding:

• Oh no you don’t
• What’s that?
• Did I plant that last year?
• You can stay there for one more year then you’re out
• Bloody hell!
• Oh bugger, not that one
• What the hell are you?
• I should really have gloves on
• Back again eh?
• What’s that? Oh it’s you.
• That’s a bit better
• Ouch
• You’re pretty
• That’s a shame
• I remember you from last year

Grey and Old

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

Better GIF

Improved.  A little more soothing.

My First GIF!

I know it's really annoying, but it's taken me all afternoon to suss out how to make this, so I had to share it with the world, if only to justify my cross-eyes, that extra plate of food, and the numb bum.

Hopefully the next one will be less "turn it off!!!!"

Dandelion Omelette

So that you don't have to, I ate some dandelion leaves.  Verdict:

• keeps shape when fried
• pretty green colour
• chewy
• bitter
• like spinach leaves
• edible
• no unpleasant after effects (so far) 

• not necessarily pleasant 

That's Ribena top right - not wine - honest

Dutch Passion

I wanted to know about these tiny weeds that grow everywhere in my garden, so I Googled them. Look what the first result was ...

The Green Fuse

My lovely friend Karen invited me to a talk by the artist Idris Khan at the Whitworth Gallery in town. 

His work involves the layering of many images - photographs, postcards, or texts - into one, such that an underlying structure can be seen.  At first there is the impression of frenetic movement as if the objects were shaking.  But viewed as a whole a quietness exists; a delicacy. The essential truth of the subject appears from the mist of activity.  Separate from the variables of everyday life a constant shape persists.

“Blossfeldt…. After Karl Blossfeldt ‘Art Forms in Nature.’”

Inspired by Khan’s work I attempted a similar effect with dandelion leaves found in the garden.  Before I began I assumed the interest in the final image would be in the serrated edges of the leaves. But what strikes me now is the strong straight upward line of the central vein.  Whatever the outer form of the leaf shape, however battered and chewed it is, there is always a steady support of life giving sap.

Which of course reminds me of Dylan Thomas’s famous line:

“The force that through the green fuse drives the flower”

  And, yes, Karen, I  have also noted the phallic shape, but choose not to comment on it! ;-)