Gardens, gorse and interior decor.

Housewarming pressie from Isobel

Part nine and a half.

On my way back from returning the rotovator (on another beautiful morning with a magnificent sunrise… ouch!)

Stupid o'clock

more stupid o'clock

I called in at the local farmer’s co-op to pick up some seed potatoes and fertiliser. Actually I stopped at the not quite so local co-op as my most recent visit to my local had left me feeling a little self conscious. I had managed to snap the handles of both my pickaxe and my axe in an excess of gorse butchering excitement. When I brought the sorry remains in, hoping for replacement handles, my reputation as the crazy axe woman was firmly established.

Gaining access to this co-op turned out to be no task for the faint hearted. I had been stuck behind a car being driven in typical ‘oul fella’ style. That is to say, random changes of speed, unexplained stops, weaving all over the show, no sign of indicating (there is a subtle difference between this and the ‘utterly rat arsed’ style, but it’s hard to explain). As I had nearly rammed him up the rear several times I was looking forward to turning off and leaving him to it (overtaking was out of the question), I may have become a little vocal when he stopped dead in front of me and then turned up the boreen I was headed for. When I got to the yard, guess who else was going there??!!! There was a lorry delivering, so the access was all but impassable, with some waving and gesticulating I squeezed through, but once I had, there was no escape. In consequence, I left with the trailer loaded with a sack of seed potatoes large enough to sow a substantial field, and a 50kg sack of fertiliser to go with them. I am reliably informed that the fertiliser at least will keep.

I set to ‘chitting’ the potatoes, a process I had inexplicably forgotten about (it formed a significant chunk of my childhood…. Coming across trays of spuds with alien tendrils and a distressing smell, that my dad had forgotten) until my cousin, a very keen and expert gardener reminded me. This process involves cadging some vegetable boxes from the local shop, and scrounging egg boxes from whomever you can. You place a small spud in each compartment of the egg box, place the egg box in a tray and put the whole lot in a light, frost free place. Then you wait for them to sprout. There are further refinements to the process, but this was as far as I got. I carefully placed them in their egg boxes and lovingly gave them space in the downstairs bedroom (which I ended up sharing with them when my daughter and grand daughter came to stay). They resolutely failed to sprout. I even talked to them every morning….perhaps I wasn’t getting out enough? Or perhaps my parsimony with the heating was coming home to roost???

On a happier note, a lovely German lady with a house on the other side of the peninsula offered me some of her herbs. The original agreement was that I would try to reduce her New Zealand Flax to a sensible size in return for some rootstock. She did tell me what they were as she wrenched them from the ground, but I hastily administered first aid by plonking them randomly into buckets and adding water, so apart from the obvious, like parsley or mint, I will have to suck it and see. Hopefully this will not have too many psychotropic effects….. I managed to plant some raspberries, garlic and onions as well. Weird soup anyone? Current reports suggest that temperatures have not been conducive to growth and I am told that so far nothing has broken ground….

In order to break the daily monotony of swinging a pick and generally grubbing about in the mud I got into the habit of taking the dog down to the beach for a good run (otherwise she settles down on a tussock for a good sulk until she gets really fed up and goes and barks incessantly at the fork). We often meet my mate’s husband and their dog and the dogs sort of socialise. Another reason for getting away is the practice of gorse burning. The exact purpose of this is unclear, as gorse mostly grows where nothing else will and doesn’t encroach much on grazing or arable land….Unless this is because it gets an annual torching? The law says that no gorse may be burned from the first of March, this is in order to protect nesting birds (though it doesn’t help anything still hibernating in there, perhaps that explains the absence of snakes? Sorry St Patrick). The winter has been so unremittingly soggy that it has been almost impossible to get anything to ignite. Suddenly the weather dried out and the wind blew and every pyromaniac in the county was out with accelerant and matches and possibly a pitchfork (although the latter may simply be in order to cast a dramatic silhouette).

On several occasions whilst attacking the garden I found myself engulfed by smoke, with a gentle snowfall of ash settling on me. These fires have been known to get out of control on the odd occasion, which is why I have devoted so much time and energy to creating a firebreak behind the house.

While I was dogsitting I found myself with streaming eyes and choking as I dug the garden. I had been keeping an eye on several vigorous blazes down the hill. Deciding they probably weren’t close enough to the road to cause a big problem I loaded the dogs into the Landrover and sallied forth. I fancied a bit of beachcombing, so I decided to carry on past my usual spot. I could see a bit of smoke, but I was completely taken by surprise when I rounded a corner into zero visibility. Now I struggle to see the end of the bonnet at the best of times, but that is because I’m too short to see over the wheel. In this case the problem was a thick, toffee coloured smoke. The situation was not improved by the fact it was a cliff road, with a sheer 200ft drop somewhere on my right. The little wall would be no match for my steel chassis…. I could crawl along, hugging this wall, on the wrong side of the road – but that’s exactly what anyone coming the other way would be doing. I had no idea if the smoke was ten feet, ten yards or ten miles thick….

At this point I noticed that it was getting rather warm. Leaning across the passenger seat I could see the gorse on the verge alight and the flames licking at the wheels. A hastily executed sixteen point turn (zero visibility, remember?) later, we were making a getaway. When we finally made it to the beach, via a four mile detour over the mountain (in a Landrover, the experience was akin to being on a rather noisy switchback rollercoaster) I could see what I presumed to be the culprit, standing on the crest of the hill, just above the smoke and flames, pitchfork in hand. I can’t imagine what he expected to achieve with it….

Part nine and three quarters

Since my return to England (snow, more snow and some frost…) I have worried about the progress of my garden. Will the potatoes get blight before I can spray them (will there be anything to spray???) Will the garlic suffer from neck rot? Will anything even grow? Will it all be overwhelmed by weeds?

When it all gets too stressful I distract myself with fantasy forays into the world of interior décor. Now I have perused the odd magazine, mostly in waiting rooms as you could probably buy a decent piece of furniture for what they charge for a glossy magazine. They do have some pretty pictures, but there seems to be a printing error, the decimal point is at least two places too far to the right on the prices???? To be honest, if you take delivery charges into account, even IKEA is out of my price range. That is why I shop on eBay and preloved and any charity shop I happen to pass.

One of my bedrooms is rather dark. I may, at some point, knock a hole in the wall and put another window in. For the time being, I can’t be arsed. Therefore I have turned this bedroom into a Moroccan tent (well I tried, it went slightly astray and ended up in India).   I have just got back fromAmsterdam, where I spent hours in the fleamarket hunting for rugs and hangings. Unfortunately they were all horribly overpriced – even the mouldy, fleabitten mothridden examples. I shall resume the hunt in Yorkshire, it’s cheaper!

The new bed sent me on a mission for bedlinen, which had far more satisfactory results. Two very nice kingsize duvet covers for a fiver! Charity shop of course…. For anyone who shudders in disgust at the thought of secondhand bedlinen… neither hotels nor hospitals buy a new set for every patient or guest…..

Another star buy was the 1930’s style armchair, €25 in another charity shop

, or the cute little lighthouse nightlight for €3

, or the pair of sofas on eBay for 99p…..

the pink ones on the left....

This could become an addiction!

The next room under consideration is the downstairs bedroom.

Now that the spuds have been removed. As I live near the sea I quite fancy a nautical theme. While visiting my aunt I saw my Grandfather’s sea chest for the first time. Since then I long to have one, but research on eBay has demonstrated that I will probably never be able to afford one (it wouldn’t be the same anyway). I have made a selection of rope mats and monkey’s fist’s (don’t ask!). I visited a hammock shop in Amsterdam and I’m now kicking myself that I didn’t buy a hammock seat. I did find a becket block though, €3! Ok, it’s missing it’s sheave and pin, but I’m sure I can find one…

One thing I’m really struggling with is the lighting. It isn’t that I haven’t got the stuff I want, I picked up some really lovely vintage pieces. What I haven’t managed to do is persuade Himself to come over and sort the lighting out. DIY holds no terrors for me (although I find painting unbelievably tedious) but I draw the line at wiring. If I want stuff to go ‘bang’ I will purchase fireworks. Himself is a fully fledged electronics engineer, with responsibility for preventing extremely expensive (and occasionally dangerous) things from going ‘bang’. A bit of domestic wiring shouldn’t present much of a challenge eh?

I did find a piece of driftwood on the beach, and a couple of whisky cases in Himself's garage. This is the result,