Purple tiger

They started as seeds, a collection of carefully labelled chilli seeds taped to a card presented to me by E.  Every type had a heat rating too.  I planted them in April, in a tray, keeping a map of which one went where.  Most germinated, optimistically, a few weeks later, although by then my map had disappeared into the piles of paper in my room.

Now, the purple tiger is easily recognisable though:  purple flowers and small dark fruit, which should ripen to red.   

The problem

Tulips

I've never had tulips before.

Morning coffee

The weather is finally allowing better use of the outside spaces.  And ever little plat is coming to life.

they came and ate us

The daffodils are suffering.  Every night the slugs emerge from their lair and climb up the stalks and grab the daffs by the neck and ravage them.  In dark, sticky and slug-like ways.

And the next morning they just slither away.

I do not approve.

February

This is the month where bulbs start bulbing, the weather teases with hints of a spring that will come, just to crush optimism with cruel frost the next morning. Some days we have rain. Other days we have a gentle mist that hovers in the garden until just before lunch.

Mail-order gardening

The snow has departed, leaving a subdued garden behind. The chickens look muddy and a bit miserable, while the quail are still waiting for summer. The lawn has been stripped down to the roots, revealing the multitude of stones I was too hasty to remove. Like scabby, uneven skin. Brandsiek. Recently defrosted granadillas that originated from next door are now decaying on the vine. The rocket has survived, albeit as something more spindly. It is still crunchy, but angrier after the cold.

From this state of hibernation, I must somehow cast my mind forward to a vibrant summer and imagine the garden. The herb and vegetable part specifically, but there is a troubling hedge-lawn junction that is not resolving itself. So tonight I'm sitting in bed reading the mail-order catalogue, because that is where gardens come from here. At first I found it amusing, because when I grew up we simply bought seed packets at the supermarket or the co-op. Once in a while we'd make the 100km trip to a nursery, which was usually combined with large-scale grocery shopping and the dentist visits too. Later there were other nurseries, closer to home, and homes closer to nurseries. Here there are nurseries too, but the catalogue solves the transport problem, guarantees a wide selection, and ensures everything you buy is F1 so you'll support them again next year. It's definitely convenient, but it's not quite the same.

I've also bought a few sheets of polycarbonate - a cold frame will be born soon.

What to grow? We haven't decided yet. There are the obvious ones, the tomatoes and herbs and leaves you can't live without. Beans, because they're so productive, capsicums are vital too. Potatoes, which I've never had, but always wanted. Beetroot, parsnips are calling me too. Courgettes. For the fruit, but not forgetting the flowers. Broccoli or kale. A sustained harvest, or incremental picking/cutting is preferred. And then there are the tempting ones, those I'd never really thought of before: Jerusalem or Chinese artichokes? Asparagus, or would it be too slow? Maybe a gooseberry? Space is an issue.

The daffodils seem to be stirring slowly.

t > 0

It is warmer today, so the snow is disappearing. You can still smell it though: crisp and fresh.

Dragon's Teeth

It is a quiet time for vegetables. Most tasks are administrative: tidying up after a busy summer, or preparation for next year. Important yes, but not really spectacular. At least in a young garden.

Ten days ago I planted my garlic. It seemed grey and grim enough, as if winter is solidly here. I didn't quite know how much I'll need: started with one bulb, then two, before finally adding another. About 30 cloves in all. Good plump ones too. I would have like to eat them. Is that too many? Maybe. But we're enough to absorb any excess produce. And really, even if they all deliver beautifully, a bulb every second week is not excessive? And that is without planning for the scapes, the roasted garlic, the pickled garlic, the chicken with 16 cloves, the lamb with 24, the baked potatoes with 127 cloves, or the garlic crisps. That last two still need some working on. They went in everywhere where I could find an open spot between the herbs. That is a lots of spots.

Then, today, they all appeared. I was quite surprised. An army of 5cm shoots marching on the thyme, with another flank cutting off the sage. Will they slow down enough to still make sense of spring? I really don't know. But I hope so.

Mushrooms

I should have been expecting it, but the arrival of autumn still surprised me. Mild, sunny days quickly changed to days of solid rain. The world smells different. Wet. With the earthiness of decomposing leaves. Days are shorter, and shadows are longer. And the mushrooms appear, discreetly, very quietly.

So many of them: a city on the lawn.

Home

I got home after 23h, having started to Bratislava Hlavna Stanica at 6h, and in a different time zone too. A day punctuated by waiting, before continuing on the bus, bus, train, walk, metro, metro, bus, plane, bus, train, bus, train, bus, walk sequence I'd somehow thought would be a good way to spend the last day of my trip. At the airport I walked around for 30 minutes looking for something that will fit into my 720 forints. A beer was 730. Sigh. Just as I found I could afford a tiny glass of vermouth, an ex-Kiwi offered me the remains of his money. I was incredibly grateful.

At home, I put down my bag, greeted the others, walked straight on to the garden. Even in the dark I could see the green glow of the lawn, grass that had been but little hairs two weeks ago. I stroked it, like you would a dog. A long, flat green dog.

Further inspection the next day showed more happiness than I had ever imagined. The lawn is still a bit bumpy, but it's alive, and exuberantly so. I gave it a first, gentle trim over the weekend. I really need to decide what else should go in there.

On the herb side, the rocket was doing what rocket does. Enough to steal a fresh leaf or two. A gentle bite - it is still young.

Also more lettucey bits showing. I suppose that's what a packet of cut-and-cut-again leaves should give me? I can hear all slugs in the garden perk their tentacles as I type this.

And a forgotten garlic, stuffed into the ground a month ago. It was a sprouting bulb I'd taken from a friend's fridge, but the sprouts disappeared shortly after planting. Now two cloves seem to have changed their minds, and restarted the process. Should I eat it green or see what happens over winter?

5 days later

The first signs of life. This morning I couldn't see anything, perhaps I was too hasty. But this afternoon I detected a gentle green stubble. The beginning of the lawn. And looking further, I found more. Hundreds of young seedlings, with a definite preference for the sunny spots. Thin, almost wiry. Much like my face if I neglect to shave for a few days.

And on the herb side, the rocket will always be first. It might become "mixed greens for salads". But rocket is a good start.

Garden

When I was young, I would sometimes go for a drive with my father. Late spring, just after planting. We would drive for what seemed like a long time (today I know it wasn't very far), stop, then walk into the still empty maize field. He would crouch down in the red dust and gently scratch open a couple of seeds, see how many were germinating, whether they could escape the hard crust formed after a light shower , then close it up again. Wipe his hand, then walk a few meters further, then check again. I now find myself doing the same.

It started with a bonfire, about a month ago. The chicken coop was moved to the back of the garden and a heap of garden debris was burnt. Fire is strangely satisfying. And, happily, it freed up about half the garden for new horticultural experiments. And it was in dire need of attention. My primary need is for a usable space. Somewhere to sit, chat, have a glass of wine, read. Herbs. Wine. A flower too. Some bulbs maybe? And at the same time balancing the needs of the others with equal rights to the garden.

Brambles had to be tamed, the soil turned over and rubble removed, much of it looking as if it had been there since the war. My spade discovered the stump and roots of a forgotten tree: golden chips against the dark soil. And bulbs, probably bluebells. I perspired. The chaos slowly dissolved, eventually allowing us to move our current few meters of lawn from one side of the garden to the newly flattened earth. This will be where the table goes, at a future barbecue. So it makes sense to place the established grass here. The areas previously covered by grass will be have herbs and edible leaves. Maybe some veg too. It's been years since I last grew my own vegetables.

This weekend saw the latest instalment. The definite arrival of autumn encouraging me to at least get something in the ground before the winter shutdown begins. The last mound of debris was levelled, ground stamped firm, levelled again. A rake would have helped. And then I could dip my hand into a bag of seed, and scatter across the soon-to-be-lawn. Sowing by hand has an ancient rhythm, a calming one. Then, while soaking the ground, think about where to shrubbery should go, where to bulk up the hedge, where the sun shines and where people move.

Now I crouch down every day, discreetly scratch the top layer of dirt away, willing the dormant seeds to life.