We came home from our holiday to find Jesus had died.

We came home from our holiday to find Jesus had died. I know; sad. Readers of my blog may remember he was the broiler chicken my daughter rescued from university after he’d grown up in a boys’ student house living on beer and chips. Last week as we piled out of the car from Dorset, our lovely house-sitter informed us, after one last randy fling, (that’s him, not her) she found him flat out cold on the henhouse floor. She buried him in a grave so shallow his white tail feathers were actually sticking out of the ground and made him a cross with twigs and grass, and although it was so kind of her I’m afraid I had to work quite hard not to laugh. I love my chickens; really love them, but this one was just not that loveable.

So with the randy old bugger gone I felt I could stock some better birds. In the past I’ve bought my chickens at the market at Melton Mowbray. Operating every Tuesday and Friday, it is a stock market, not a pet shop. The last time I went there, I took my nine year old son and his friend to help me choose more chickens. I promptly lost the boys while I was browsing around the chicken cages, and when I finally caught up with them they were at the front of one of the auctions where the rabbits and eggs were being sold. I pushed my way to the front and at exactly the moment I put out my hand to squeeze my son’s shoulder, the auctioneer stepped forward and handed him the box of budgerigars he had just bid for and won. Unable to decide if I should be furious at his buying them, (although I was) or actually admiring him for working out the auction system, (for which, yes I was too), we diverted to buy then a cage, budgie food and the wretched cuttlefish shell thing, and by then of course I was terribly distracted when it came to buying any chickens. Hastily bidding for a cage full of beautiful strong birds, it was only on the drive home I noticed what sounded ominously like crowing from the box on the back seat.....and by the time we were home, I realised my son was allergic to budgerigars. So after the briefest of trials of both cockerels and budgies, all went to the local gamekeeper who has a huge cage of budgies, and very likely a huge freezer full then of cockerels.

So the latest girls in the orchard have come from the excellent chicken farmer in Wing near Rutland Water. Deciding not to clip their wings to give them some chance against the fox, I’d like to say they are settling in well, but they are sleeping in a pear tree at night, and resisting all my attempts to put them to bed in the hen house.

Meanwhile in the kitchen garden out of the warm compost heap came another garden guest.  Mo and Angel kept an eye on it, until Mo sent it on its way.

I’ve been gardening as ever; the catch-up after the holiday, alternately bending to weed and standing upright again for deadheading, and by the evening I do feel quite creaky, and as it’s too warm to wear boots I’ve been gardening in my crocs, so if anyone has a top tip for cleaning my seriously, um, outdoor feet, please could you let me know.........

After the biblical weather....

........the sun SHONE, for the most gorgeous weekend at last in the garden. Sitting in the quiet garden with a cup of tea and Mirabel Osler's beautiful book, ‘A gentle plea for chaos,’ was utter heaven, before some fierce candlelit croquet at dusk yesterday evening. It’s the best way to play; with a glass of wine and the falling light there are lively discussions about whether the balls actually make it through the hoops or not.

 The middle of the day is too hot for gardening, and I must remember how that feels, but when the heat is a little less I have been clearing the out of control strawberry bed where, for every plant I keep, about 6 others attached umbilically to the parent plant must be thrown away. It would be better to give them away, but for now they’re all going on the compost heap. This year the whole bed has been a rather pointless exercise as the squirrels ate ALL of the strawberries. Throwing most of the weeds over the fence, they are devoured by our very greedy sheep; they love the sow thistles, fat hen and groundsel. In fact every time I go down to the kitchen garden I’m spotted and they race up to the fence in full cry.

my beautiful bertie

Lovely Bertie and I have had this great thing going. If Angel, Dipstick or one of the other cats catch a mouse, and I happen to see in time, I would send Bertie off to bully the cat into dropping the mouse, which he would grab, and bring back to me, gently delivering it to my lap, safe if a little damp, for me to release into a pile of logs somewhere. Except for last week. Angel had caught a mouse, and Bertie was dispatched to the rescue. He deploys a wonderful and simple technique. He swings his head at the cat, hitting it, which always makes it drop the mouse. Carefully picking up this one, as he has countless times with others before, he raced over to me, the tail of the mouse sticking out of the side of his mouth.

‘Good boy, Bertie, give it to me,’ I held out my hands. Except this time he seemed to be unable to give it to me.

‘Come on Bertie, quickly, give me the mouse!’ I insisted, worried it couldn't breathe in there, while he sat in front of me, the tail of the mouse still hanging from his mouth, his mouth firmly clamped shut.

‘Bertie what are you doing!!’ I put my hands around his mouth to open it but defiantly he clenched his jaw.

‘Bertie, drop it NOW.’ And on my last command he threw back his head and swallowed it!

Whole!

little magical one

Little Magical One, is the beautiful and poetic Arabic name for Alchemilla Mollis.The leaves of the plants collect sparkling jewel-like beads of water which were considered by alchemists to be wonderfully pure and containing great healing properties. It is perfect for edging paths, it likes the shade and makes wonderful ground cover, is amazingly resistant to rabbits, and the frothy chartreuse green flowers make the most fantastic and long-lasting cut flower filler. Known here I'm afraid by the more prosaic nickname, Alcoholic Molly, notice how the glistening beads of water cling to each point of the serated edged leaves. Delicious and yes, magical!

raindrops keep falling on my head...

No wonder the British are obsessed with the weather; last month was officially the wettest June since rainfall records began in 1910. But as Sir Rannulph Fiennes said, ‘there is no such thing as bad weather, only inappropriate clothing,’ and I’m afraid we gardeners just have to agree; we never know what to expect, and we just get on with it.......

My favourite colour combinations this year are purple mauves mixed with the purest of greens. This year I've grown beautiful purple podded peas, vibrant fresh parsley, exotic fast growing kohlrabi, and purple veined brassicas. And what could be more romantic than stepover apples, interplanted with lavender, carpets of fragrant thyme, and soothing spreading sage, easily achieved within a border only 2’ wide. Absolutely perfect for edging paths or lawns, productive and pretty, what more could anyone want?

happy days

What a wonderful day, not sunny but soft, damp and warm, the most perfect growing weather. A beautiful day to be in the garden, don’t let anyone tell you it isn’t possible to move peonies, it is! These came from the long border last year, to be looked after in the kitchen garden. Bella has been sorting out the compost for me, and look who I spotted in the orchard! Oh and it’s a wonderful day for a birthday!! Picnic anyone? Xxxx

border control

Gorgeous weather today; summer has crept up softly, warm and fulsome, smiled all day upon us, and I have spent hours in the long border pulling out the sweet rocket which is going to seed, and planting the last of the potted dahlias, more cosmos and pink verbena. I staked everything earlier this month with lengths of hazel bent into arches over the young plants, and the taller things seem to be largely still upright, so it seems to have worked. Alongside the rocket which comes back every year, however ruthless I am, there are masses of lovely tall white agrostemma, Swanlake, also self-seeded from last year, rubbing shoulders with cerinthe, foxgloves and galega, all back without anything to do with me. It is beautiful.