Festive greetings!

We celebrated Yule and the winter solstice yesterday with a walk to Scorhill stone circle up on Dartmoor. Pools of sunlight slanted between broken clouds, highlighting the wind-ruffled, blonde grass. Then, broaching the last hill onto 'the top of the world', we caught sight of a rainbow, with one its pots of gold inside the circle. Magical. And I wasn't carrying my camera!

So here's a frosted periwinkle, instead. Just starting to open in the wilder parts of the garden and the hedgerows, they're tough little beauties.

Hooray for longer days! Happy Christmas, bloggers!

Winter honeysuckle, honeybees and queen bumbles

A warm, mild day at last, and Lonicera fragrant-issima fills the air with a sweet honeysuckle fragrance, drawing in queen bumblebees to sup from nectaries in the base of the tubular flowers. I have exploited the five foot, arching shrub’s tough nature by planting it against a north-facing wall, in a raised bed above the porch. It flowers reliably through December and January, a wonderful source of energy for insects when indigenous plants are at their least generous.

I put mine in eight or so years ago, and with a simple hard prune after flowering and occasional compost mulch, it has thrived and required little maintenance. Since planting it, however, I’ve discovered the shrub in other gardens, growing in full sun, and, to my disgust, with twice the number of blooms. Therefore, for whatever position, so long as your soil is rich and well-drained, winter honeysuckle is a treasure I'd recommend to all.

If temperatures rise high enough in the middle of the day, honeybees are also tempted out of their hive. Not a true hibernation, they spend the winter in a tight cluster, clinging onto wax frames around the queen. They shiver their wings to generate heat, and by taking turns at the chilly exterior of the ball, a colony endures the colder months. But when sunshine hits the hive entrance, they seize the opportunity, emerging for short flights, to empty their bowels. And if they find the air sufficiently balmy, they will even consider a forage, bringing them over the lane to the honeysuckle in the garden (see image above).

The frosty spell continues, and every morning I’m grateful for the crunchy trail of frozen leaves that grants safe passage across the treacherously slippery lane. Thus far I’ve managed to reach the vegetable garden and poultry runs without skittering and skidaddling on the ice, unlike Seeka, our two-year-old Heinz, who still, first thing, erupts from the door like an energised ballistic, to be swiftly taken out by her four paws shooting off on separate missions.

I have covered the salad crops with tunnels of fleece, despite their proving amazingly hardy last winter - they are sweeter and more tender when grown under protection. In the middle of the day I open up the beds for an airing, and so long as the blankets themselves don’t stick together with frost, it is only a matter of seconds to flip them closed before dusk.

Even as I grimace at the prickly pain of thawing frozen mitts once again this morning, I can’t help but welcome the benefits of a long, cold spell. The army of slugs that has proved enemy number one throughout 2008 is at last demobilised, and fungal diseases that thrive in warm, moist conditions are halted in their tracks. Vernalisation (the winter effect), is essential to trigger spring flowering in many wild and cultivated species, from commercial sugar beet and wheat to the apples and blackcurrants in my garden. In addition, the good number of ornamentals that, confused by recent mild winters, have been flowering out of turn, should appreciate nature’s realigning to their expectations.

Nevertheless, I do hope this is not just the prelude to an exceptionally cold season, as South African dierama, Californian carpenteria and South American Acca might well not survive. Yikes, I’ve just remembered - the poor dahlias are still in the ground – it may not be a biodynamic ‘flower day’, but I must dig them up right away.

The Christmas Goose

As anyone who keeps animals outside will know, providing stock with water can be tiresome in cold weather. If, having broken thick ice on the goose bath, I find the chicken’s water is frozen solid, I check the pond to ensure the wild birds too have plenty to drink (I don’t feed the latter until the pyracantha and holly berries have been eaten, usually just before Christmas).

Traditionally at Bertie’s Cottage, the first weeks in December are overshadowed by the necessity of slaughtering many of our animals. However the ewe and lambs went to the chop months ago, and for the first year in many, there are no fat geese for the festive table – over the summer a badger broke in and gorged the whole clutch of eggs, (followed by two ducks, which rendered him so bloated, he had to forgo a trio of chickens he’d also savaged, just in case he had space). Fortunately Sam, the gander, and Gosie and Biba, his girls, looked sufficiently threatening to be spared. With luck next year they will have more success.

We chose to rest the pig field this year to stop parasites from building up, but fortunately our next door neighbours reared two Berkshire porkers, and in return for half one of our baconers last autumn, they brought us a bulging sack containing half a pig. Chops were the choice for supper (wretched Bitsa, the Jack Russell, stole the liver). I fried them till the inch of sweet fat had softened, browned and crisped along the edges, then seasoned them and flamed two tablespoons of gin around the pan. Accompanied by mashed Valor potatoes from friends just over the hill (ours are all eaten), plus veg from the garden - baked beetroot and steamed kale Cavolo nero di Toscana – the result proved so good we raised a glass to locals and seasonal food.

Viburnum farreri 'Candidissimum'

Sleet, hail, four consecutive dawns of glittering frost – winter has come early to Bertie’s Cottage. With the last of the tulips and Anenome blanda corms still to plant, I’m hoping that the sun, now climbing a cloudless blue sky, will thaw the soil before it too swiftly dips back over the horizon.

It is late for planting bulbs, but whilst narcissi should be buried before the end of October, tulips still thrive stored well into December, so long as they are kept in a cool, dark place, and are regularly checked for mould. If blue patches do start to form, dust the bulbs with powdered sulphur, an effective, natural and user-friendly fungicide.

The ornamental garden may be at its lowest ebb, but Viburnum farreri ‘Candidissimum’, is covered in clusters of white buds, that open a few at a time when temperatures allow. Happy in a north-facing position, next to a path, the tubular flowers generate a cloud of spicy scent that catches passers-by with surprise and delight. Well, generally delight – one nasally challenged friend complains at being mugged!

Red-leaved ornamentals and dieback

With the sun dipping ever earlier over the horizon, early afternoon is currently the best time to enjoy autumn’s last colours.

Cotinus ‘Grace’, ungraciously floppy in response to the fertility of my clay, is nevertheless looking stunning, magenta-pink to orange-red. Cornus ‘Midwinter Fire’ (a notoriously iffy plant that so far seems quite well) makes the ideal butter-yellow partner, with coral bark that picks up the warm tones of the cotinus.

Sadly, a red-leaved Acer japonica is suffering terribly from dieback. Previously a beautiful specimen, underplanted with cyclamen and ferns, it was a highlight of the pond garden, contrasting with the surrounding greenery, an elegant form in deep bronze, bright crimson in autumn. Shrubs and trees with leaves that are red throughout the growing season, seem to pay in vigour for their attractive colouring, and are especially prone to dieback; oak, ash, maple and birch are susceptible too. The causes are too varied to list, but specimens tend to reach relative maturity and then die back from the twigs down through the limbs, eventually killing the plant. Cutting out affected tissue below the telltale staining inside the wood is said to help, but often the cause is below the soil, and in my experience, there is nothing you can do.

Looking on the bright side, I shall dig out the floppy cotinus, and replant with a new baby red-leaved acer. If it brings as much pleasure as the last one did for a decade, even if it too eventually succumbs to dieback, it will still be well worth the cost and effort.

Biodynamic cow pat pit

Apologies to regulars for the time lapse. Since my last blog a duvet of oak leaves has floated down, a handful at a time, to blanket the ornamental garden, obscuring paths and border edges, making the cottage look as if it had sprouted naturally like a giant, misshapen mushroom.

One of the fortnight’s most memorable afternoons was spent preparing Bertie’s Cottage’s first biodynamic Cow Pat Pit (sometimes known as barrel preparation). My friend Hannah arrived with her son, Charlie, for Sunday lunch, bearing cider, chocolates and three buckets of best quality organic cow muck (Fortunately Charlie bonded instantly with my girls, united by embarrassment at their freakish mothers!)

With lots of news to catch up on, the sky was already darkening by the time we finished coffee. But undaunted, Hannah and I traipsed up to the veg garden, tipped the sloppery muck into a wheelbarrow and, adding the recommended dressings of finely crushed eggshells and basalt flour, we stirred it for an hour. The end result was much lighter in colour and fluffed up like an egg white half way to the peaky stage. The tonic or ‘preparation’ we were making is said to aid the breakdown of organic matter into stable humus (gardener’s treasure) by stimulating the energies of beneficial bacteria and microrganisms. These both require plentiful oxygen, so it felt like whipping up cowpat mousse.

After the hour’s stirring, we poured a third of the mixture into its mould - an enormous, bottomless clay pot, sunk under the soil surface almost to its brim. The six compost preparations Rudolf Steiner prescribed eighty-odd years ago were pushed in like booze-soaked amaretti into a trifle, then the process was repeated with a second layer and then a third. To finish we covered the pit with a hessian sack and a board to repel the rain, and left it to slow cook.

In six weeks time I’ll give it a stir to help maintain good oxygen levels, and by the end of winter, with luck, we’ll dig it up, dilute it extensively and apply it as a tonic to the soil of both Hannah’s new garden and our plot.

Autumn colour and the Green Roof

A still, sunny Sunday raised all our spirits. The children fetched their bikes and skateboards, excited dogs and the cat weaving chaos all around. I made the most of a ‘leaf day’, weeding raised beds of salads and kale, and Jim, anticipating a cool evening, carted logs up from the woodshed.

The green roof that covers that shed is a tapestry of emerald green mosses and heather-purple sedums that take it in turn to predominate according to the season and rainfall. At least seven years old now, the roof receives negligible maintenance, just a sprinkling of the biodynamic preparations and an annual top-dressing of seaweed. Occasionally I tug out an evening primrose or dandelion seedling, but there is so little nutrition available, that weeds can only reach pathetic proportions, and are unable to compete.

Tudor peas

The vegetable garden is feeding us handsomely with salads, roots and kale (the leeks are still rather small, but I don’t want to resign myself to ‘baby leeks’ until I’m certain they have stopped growing). Our dining room is always several degrees cooler than the rest of the house, and it doubles as a vegetable storage area, now well filled with squash, marrow, onions and garlic, cobnuts, apples and medlars.

Back in the summer, rather disappointed by a crop of Pea ‘Wegisser’, recommended as a mangetout variety, we left the pods to fatten and ripen on the haulms and harvested them when the cases were papery. They continued to dry in the dining room, and I just recently shelled them, soaked them overnight and simmered them for a couple of hours. They looked simply disgusting, mottled, muddy brown with little black flecks - if it wasn’t for Jim’s passion for historical recipes, I would have fed them to the geese. However, I persevered and once the peas had finally softened, I drained and mashed them, and added butter, cream, salt and black pepper. The resulting peas pudding was dirty brown and very unappetising to look at, but by common consensus, surprisingly tasty – just the job with strong-flavoured meats such as bacon or venison.

Netting the pond

In our neighbours’ field beyond the woodshed, a possy of young charolais cattle cantered down the hillside, cream against green, then cream against russet, gold and burnt orange as they made for a hedgerow of oak, hazel and bracken. Realising it won’t be long before the ground, rather than branches are strewn with leaves, I cut back the plants that grow in the shallow margins of the pond so I could net over the water surface. (Nutrients released from rotting leaves would feed algae next year, so to keep the water clear, collecting the leaf litter is well worth the effort). Dying iris leaves, withered loosestrife and long-empty primula seedheads were no loss, and the pretty cattails were still tidy enough to bring in for dried flower arrangements, but, as every year, I hated shearing off still fine goblets of carnivorous Sarracenia and the broad glaucous flags of Thalia dealbata. Fortunately I did manage to lift free a pot of Osmunda regalis, the Royal Fern, at the height of its autumnal splendour – it won’t suffer for a few weeks with its feet out of the water at this time of year.

Last outing for the beesuits

Sometimes it is only the fighters who make it through – perhaps that is why Hive 2 at Bertie’s Cottage seems in such fine fettle. The queen’s character and health dictates the temper of her colony, and as the season progressed, Queen 2 was obviously well out of sorts, since her workers resented gardeners on the veg terraces below. Normally this isn’t the case, and, unless the weather is stormy or you are wearing a perfume they dislike, bees will happily work alongside people.

I know they must feel demoralised by a second lousy summer, but this year stroppy bees have been a regular pain. I kept humming and haaing about killing Queen 2 and giving the sisters a new matriarch, but at such a critical time for the species, I couldn’t help projecting into the future, imagining honey bees all dead, and the guilt I would feel at having wilfully annihilated a hardy strain.

However, last week, as I peaceably hoed around the brassicas, a fifth ambassador in a row from that hive shot into view like a miniature missile, emitting the unmistakable high-pitched shriek of kamikaze. Within seconds she netted herself into my hair so, since Jim was away, I fled to my lovely beekeeping neighbours, hoping they’d squash her before I was stung. They parted my hair, just as I felt the poison hit. It was one assault too many – either I’d give the whole colony away with their harridan ruler, or I would kill her and unite my two hives under the other sweeter-tempered queen.

Adam, the local bee inspector is invaluable. He came over, we opened Hive 2, and as I smoked the tops of the frames to subdue the inmates, he chiselled out the frames to look for the queen and check the brood and the larder. Through his veil, his face lit up. He rhapsodised at the fecundity of the laying pattern in the brood chamber – uniform swathes of hexagonal cells, with no ‘pepperpot’ appearance (where uncapped cells amongst sealed brood reveal a dip in fertility or the presence of disease).

He then discovered a vacated queen cell (resembling an overlong acorn, with a hammered pattern as if it were metal). It appears that the old queen has been superseded by young, vigorous successor, carrying a new set of paternal genes. In honeybees, the drone’s character regulates the offspring’s temper. With luck my new queen’s father came from our neighbour David’s hive, another ‘black’, local strain, but more friendly.

We won’t find out what she is like till next spring. The bees, within combs stuffed with ivy honey and sugar syrup, are clustered together, vibrating quietly to ward off the chill. Last job of the year, I must nail up a mouse guard of perforated zinc to ensure the hives are not invaded whilst the bees are inactive.

Fleece tunnels and rust on leeks

Freezing north easterlies and driving rain have put paid to gardening for a few days. I’m just thankful to have missed out on the cloudbursts of hail and snow that have wrecked havoc elsewhere in the country.

At Bertie’s Cottage there are twice as many salad beds as last year, at least ten varieties I grew from seed, plus a winter collection from www.delfland.co.uk. The recently planted plugs are hardy, but growing slowly in the cold, so a bit of protection should help bring them on. However, rows of well-grown butterheads, planned for salads up till Christmas, would hate to be battered by ice. Forewarned by www.metcheck.com, I set off for the industrial estate to equip myself with the materials to erect fleece tunnels.

Iron-grey clouds emptied frequent downpours and the first hail for months made me shiver with its unerring aim inside my collar. A bright spell followed, and with urgency quickening, I begged for help. Iona, in a teenage flop, was not to be persuaded (not even by money), but Lucy and Jim proved stalwart, and within two hours of hammering and wrapping ourselves and the cat in reams of fleece, four sturdy tunnels were erected.

I was torn with indecision over a bed of undersized leeks (planted too late). They won’t grow if it’s cold, but rust threatens if ventilation is not adequate. A horsetail wash (BD508) seventeen days ago had kept them immaculate, but I knew a fleece tunnel would increase the risk of an outbreak. So we covered them, and opened up through the day yesterday, but this morning, after only two nights under fleece, bright orange stains marred two dozen or so blue-green leaves. I cut out the affected tissue, will leave the bed uncovered, and spray again with horsetail (BD508) on the first sunny morning.

Cercis canadensis 'Forest Pansy'

Cercis canadensis ‘Forest Pansy’ is a fittingly beautiful name for my all-time favourite large shrub. A cousin of the Judas Tree (commonly planted on southern French highways), Forest Pansy also produces pink flowers in spring, from far back on into the bare branches. It is late into leaf, so partners spring-flowering bulbs well, then it opens large purple hearts that hold through the summer and turn fiery hues in October. Plant it in a sheltered, sunny spot, to the west of where you walk, for an autumnal spectacle akin to stained glass.

Lady Godiva - modest, but well-endowed

I spent the weekend putting the veg garden to bed for the winter, pulling down old bean haulms and salvaging the last of the ornamental gourds that dangled forlornly amongst tattered foliage on the arbour. Twisting off the last few cobs, I founded a new compost heap with sweetcorn stalks, and anticipated how fertile that patch of soil will be next summer.

With regret I tugged out nasturtiums’ trailing growth – tropical wreaths of red, orange and yellow blooms that have cheered me for months. At least the pinks and purples of asters still colour the bank behind, and a handful of calendula splash orange through blue-green brassicas. It’s a pared-down look, but so tidy, and most of the beds are still full, with roots, at least fifteen different salad crops, cauliflowers, leeks and pak choi that I like simply steamed, with butter, salt and pepper – a flavour where chard meets artichoke.

Lady Godiva proved to be both modest and well-endowed. Chosen for its huskless seeds, a month ago we harvested three whopping squashes and a small fruit, but as I was clearing up, I tugged on a stem to find it anchored to a twelve kilo beauty, hidden in the beetle bank.

Harvest Moon

In anticipation of Tuesday’s full moon, I consulted my lunar calendar and learnt that the moon is also approaching Perigee, when it comes closest to the Earth in its egg-shaped orbit. The combination promises high levels of moisture at the surface of the soil and a likely outbreak of fungus, especially since the air is warm and little wind is forecast.

I worried for my leeks, susceptible to rust, but then remembered how well the biodynamic preparation 508 (horsetail tea) had protected garlic earlier in the year - our organic next-door-neighbours’ crop suffered much worse than ours. So I brewed up silica-rich Equisetum arvense, steeped it for 24 hours, then strained and diluted the tea. Next I stirred it for twenty minutes and then liberally washed the leaves of the leeks, also Chinese cabbage that is prone to leaf spot and a tray of salad seedlings that might be tempted to damp off and rot.

Rather than looking out for symptoms of disease and then treating them, biodynamics relies on a gardener’s observation of natural rhythms, to anticipate likely problems and combat them through prevention rather than cure. Ideally I should have had the tea concentrate waiting in the fridge, and would have applied it to the plants two or three days before the full moon. I trust thirty-odd hours proves sufficient.

Chickens in the orchard

Dark already! I went out to shut the chickens, and found the world enveloped in thick fog. What a surprise - the air wasn’t cold – over the ‘summer’ months it seems I’d forgotten the existence of fog. But autumn is building up to a crescendo, leaves swirl from the trees with every gust of wind, and the gorgeous russet of the oaks through the valley deepens every day.

Bang, bang, pop, pop! The pheasant season has opened, and between guns, careless drivers and stripy Old Brock’s midnight prowlings, the most gormless of the birds are soon picked off. Before long Mr Fox will come sniffing around the poultry, even during the day. The geese, protected by their threatening gander, Sam, should be safe enough out in the daytime, but at this time of year we move the chickens onto their winter quarters, within the fortification of a six-foot deer fence.

The top two terraces within the enclosure are planted with fruit trees - apple, pear, cherry, plum and quince. Rested over the summer to reinvigorate the grass and interrupt the lifecycle of parasites (the geese spent last winter there), the pasture had grown long. After harvesting the fruit, we strimmed the ‘flats’, leaving the banks wild and tussocky, as nature reserves (beyond cutting brambles and removing the seeds of docks and hogweed, these areas are never touched). A transformation, from scruffy and unkempt, the orchard instantly looked loved and tended. I raked up the grassy debris and carted it off to layer with straw – the resulting compost will be great to mulch veg beds next spring, and I don’t have to worry about depleting the orchard’s fertility as chicken droppings will amply replace the loss.

It took four of us to wheel the house up the hill and through the gate, rousing high excitement amongst the birds. The geese, hopeful at first, then honked disgust at not being permitted into their favourite paddock, and the chickens were delighted at the feast of tasty bugs and herbs, but then bemused as dusk gathered and they couldn’t return to their accustomed roost. Of course a house identical to theirs was in the new paddock, but it didn’t tally with their geographical coordinates, therefore it couldn’t possibly be home.

Despairing at such incredible lack of sense, I consoled myself that at least chickens cope with moving better than bees, whose hive can only be shifted less than three feet or more than three miles without major loss of life – at least chickens are easily retrained. I’d just wait until dark, find where in misery they had chosen to sleep, scoop them up and reposition them on the perch inside the house. Within a couple of nights they’ll know where to go.

Ratatouille

The chickens are laying well, at least two eggs a day from four hens. And the vegetable garden is still very productive - sweetcorn, chard, the first pak choi, and lots of different salad leaves, but the courgettes have now finished, and beans are slowing down with shorter days and chilly nights. I gave up on the aubergines and peppers ripening further in the greenhouse, so harvested them, but due to the lousy summer, only a single bell pepper had turned red, and along with the entire crop of tiny aubergines, they provided sufficient material for just one tasty ratatouille.

Pigeon and 'Hen of the woods'

One of this country bumpkin’s greatest pleasures when visiting big cities is to enjoy cultural diversity, especially tasting it (I don’t think you can eat Japanese, Indonesian, Hungarian or West Indian food within a hundred mile radius of Bertie’s Cottage). Borough Market was a foodie’s paradise, but the most delicious mouthfuls I ate all week were on returning home, when Jim produced a supper of pan-fried pigeon breast, rare and succulent, nestling on a slice of our own Large Black bacon and a crouton. With a fresh green salad it was sumptuous, and made me glad that (before I’d left for London!), I had picked up the dead, but still warm pigeon, obviously hit by a car in a lane near my house.

The other exciting wild food I found was a ‘hen of the woods’ mushroom, weighing in at over three-quarters of a pound. After exhaustively checking in Roger Phillip’s mushroom book, and then on the internet, we discovered it is a great delicacy in Japan, and although not common in England, is well worth eating. There was a warning that although definitely not toxic, some people experience an allergic reaction on eating it, so we tried a tiny portion each twenty-four hours before tucking in to the delicious ‘hen’.

A trip to London

Last Saturday, as always on returning from a city, I heaved a huge sigh of relief as I turned into the tiny, winding lane that is the home stretch. The forty hour round trip to London had been a success – the highlight, Biodynamic Food Fortnight’s opening at Borough Market was well worth the effort, with interesting lectures, a chance to meet inspiring characters and taste the flavour of food that is produced to specification rather than price.

Rothko at the Tate Modern was fantastic too, and just as I started the trip home, I walked over the Millennium Bridge to see a tug(?) towing two rafts of containers up the river. I was a student in London, and still visit occasionally, but I’ve never seen that before. How cool - 46 containers, and only one engine!

On the subject of transport, unlike this visit where I had needed a capacious boot, I am glad that my next trip will be by train, since it is cheaper, quicker, greener, more comfortable, and I will be delighted to avoid the frighteningly aggressive drivers who hoot when you hesitate for the merest nano-second. I can’t help reflecting on the other side of the coin - Londoners holidaying in Devon, who creep fearfully along the lanes hoping that if they meet another vehicle they will not be compelled to reverse back to the last passing place, a quarter of a mile up the hill, and round several bends. In this neck of the woods, driving involves communication and courtesy – there is no threat in a moment’s eye-contact with a stranger, in a smile, or a hand held up in thanks! And the culture of cooperation and consideration that is built makes travelling a much happier experience.

Ornamentals in October, before the first frosts

Perhaps it’s because the first hard frost will finish off many of the flowers, that October’s beauty is so poignant. Right now the Cottage Garden is a riot of colour (if a tad too scruffy to photograph). The impact of herbaceous plants’ second flowering should not be underrated - magenta geraniums, soft pink chives, indigo Campanula persicifolia and clear blue perennial cornflower combine well with indefatigable penstemons, fuchsia and Viola cornuta, plus the late season stalwarts – pink, red and white schizostylis and azure aconitums, electric pink nerines and japanese anemones whose sophisticated blooms bely their tough nature (single white ‘Honorine Jobert’ has to be my favourite)

Foliage is beginning to turn, and the Exotic Garden lives up to its name. The purple summer leaves of a japanese acer are colouring up to crimson, and my favourite sumach, Rhus glabra ‘Laciniata’ is a fiery blaze of coral and gold. Melianthus major contrasts with glaucous blue foliage (‘major’ is spot on this year, as with all the moisture it has grown taller than me) and the hardy banana, Musa basjoo, has swiftly replaced its pale green banners that were shredded to Nepalese prayer flags by the equinoctial gales.

Enjoying the beauty of these now big players, I remind myself that the whole border, nearly ten years old, is in need of a radical rethink. Already there’s a gaping hole where Acacia dealbata used to reside. It was a favourite for years - a real good doer, with feathery evergreen foliage, a reliable covering of yellow pompoms in February and March, and a nature obliging enough to tolerate being hard pruned each April (to keep it under ten foot, foiling its ambitions to grow into a tree). How could my heartless, fickle nature turn so cruelly against its particular hue of yellow? But it did, and since it contributed nothing to the local ecosystem (I never saw a single bee visiting its flowers) - off with its head, up with its roots – hopefully the neighbouring olive tree will enjoy the extra light and air, and the too major melianthus, underplanted with tulips, can move into the gap.

Rosa glauca and its cousins in the hedgerow

It’s a great year for rosehips. Some of the garden varieties always seem to hip well – I particularly love the foil Rosa glauca’s blue leaves make for the scarlet berries, (and I’m making a note to order Rosa moyesii ‘Geranium’ as I don’t have one and its flagon-shaped hips are the most ornamental of all).

The wild dog roses are heaving with berries, none of us can remember so many before, and whilst the recent cold nights must be intensifying their flavour and therapeutic qualities, they are still not absolutely ripe, so we’ll wait a week or two before setting out with our baskets to harvest them en famille.

Crab apple brandy and chocolate crab jellies

I recently bought two litres of gin, thinking I was being unusually well-organised in preparation for an abundance of sloes. Abundance? Talk about counting my chickens! After the past two years’ generous production, the blackthorns (typically for their family, prunus) have simultaneously gone on strike - and there’s barely a sloe to be found in the valley.

However, we shan’t forgo a fruity winter warmer, as Jim turned up a recipe for crab-apple brandy. We duly stuffed a jar full of quartered crabs, (Malus ‘Dartmouth’, with large red fruit), filled up the spaces with cheepo brandy, and after leaving the contents to steep for a week, strained the liquid, and gave it a taste. The recipe suggested adding brown sugar, but neither of us felt it needed any sweetener. Nothing short of delicious, and beautifully amber-coloured, our ‘cider brandy’ does have one drawback - its smoothness belies formidable strength.

And then what to do with the boozy, crab quarters? Reluctant to waste such potential on the compost heap (and worried that pigs or chickens might do themselves mischief), I resolved to simmer them with a drop of added water, mash them and hang them overnight, dripping through muslin into a pan.

Disappointed the next morning by the paltry pool of liquid, I squeezed the bag with all my might – never mind if the jelly turned cloudy. Still somewhat under-whelmed by a mere single jar’s worth, I boiled it with sugar, and in no time at all it was actually setting in the pan. I poured the gloop out into a bowl, and always up for an experiment, squeezed in half an orange and stirred.

Once my jelly had cooled, the flavour was a triumph - wild-tasting apple, overlaced with orange, as fruitiness subsided, brandy took its place. The texture however was slightly too rubbery, not quite as firm as raw jelly cubes, but too solid to spread on toast.

Carried away now (I love to play in the kitchen – shame washing up isn’t such fun), I took plain Green and Black chocolate, and set it to melt over a pan of hot water. I then cut the jelly into rough oblongs, and when the chocolate was ready, dipped them and put them to harden on a greaseproof paper-lined tray.

What can I say? The slightly bitter chocolate shell cracks, and the tender sweetness of the jelly melts in your mouth… I can’t begin to do justice with words - just suffice to say that next Sunday has been earmarked for a second batch on a sinfully large-scale.

A puffball called Bitsa

Looking up from planting japanese onion sets, I am intrigued to notice a giant puffball growing out from the compost heap – (very strange indeed, as I’ve previously found them in summer in open pasture – but I guess there’s no accounting for the seasons these days). Finishing my task, and hoeing the root crops (the moon fronts an earth sign in the sidereal zodiac), it’s an hour or two before I further investigate. As I approach I’m pleased to see the fungus looks fresh and white. Jim will be chuffed, we shall fry it for supper with lambs liver and bacon.

Then to my surprise and consternation it shudders, and I hear a muffled, but highly excited growl. No puffball at all, it’s just little Bitsa, our Jack Russell captive to the scent of a rat. There she stays right up until nightfall, occasionally twitching and yelping at the promise of murder. Unfortunately however she is not to be satisfied – how strange the rat doesn't come out to say hello!

One of my favourite combinations for this time of year, Rose ‘Iceberg’ a real good-doer that flowers from June until Christmas, climbs through Acer tschonoskii subs. koreanum, the first tree to herald the autumn by turning coral red. (Due to their tricky position in the garden, and my lack of expertise, I haven’t been able to take a good photo showing both the roses and coloured leaves, but Jim liked this one and thought I should include it).
The acer has great character as well as beauty. What at first appears to be a single specimen is then revealed as a trio of three, planted only eighteen inches apart. In February I’m always surprised at their temerity in unfurling young leaves before most other deciduous species’ buds have even swelled, and whilst leaf drop occurs correspondingly early, the red bark on the new wood makes an attractive feature of the bare branches whilst they are dormant.

Coming to the end of my second season gardening for the most part biodynamically, I find I’m observing nature’s rhythms far more closely. It will take a third year before the preparations have taken full effect and my plot’s conversion from organic to biodynamic will be complete, but recently I have started to sense that it’s well on the way, that the soil is becoming healthier, its life force getting stronger.

I knew the theory that for the speedy germination of seeds, they should be sown shortly before a full moon, but last Wednesday, not quite two days after a full moon, I couldn’t fail but be convinced. A raised bed mulched three weeks previously with homemade compost had turned from dark brown to green overnight. Weed seeds, insufficiently cooked so they had survived the composting process (the heap was too small and built too slowly) had obviously held out for optimal conditions, then germinated simultaneously, carpeting the bed in thousands of pairs of diminutive leaves. It could not have been due to an earlier lack of soil moisture - hardly a problem this year, you’ll agree! Whilst appreciating that my composting skills hold room for improvement (I’ve high hopes for the last three heaps that I’ve built and are 'cooking'), I was delighted to witness at close hand the surge of vitality, and taking my hoe, stirred the new life back into the soil, ready to nourish oriental greens that I want to grow instead.

The veg garden is keeping us well fed with sweetcorn, french and runner beans, salad leaves aplenty and the odd courgette (the green ones are good, but a yellow-fruiting variety, delicious in previous years, tastes watery and slightly bitter). Cucumbers in the greenhouse are doing well, but we harvested the tomatoes as blight was getting the better of them. A meal of spicy fried green tomatoes resulted (okay, but not delicious) and those that didn’t have a hope of ripening before they rotted went into chutney, that needs time to mellow, but tastes very promising.

A successful family forage resulted in a heaped basket of blackberries (so late this year). They became a crucial ingredient for the two most mouth-watering dishes of the week: venison in bramble sauce, and blackberry and raspberry pancakes.

Inch-thick venison steaks (from a road kill found recently by a friend) were fried swiftly on a high heat so they remained pink inside, then the juice from sieved blackberries – it’s worth the effort of removing the pips – was poured in for the last minute. The steaks were turned to pick up an even coating, and the juices deglazed the pan, mopping up every last bit of flavour. With boiled harlequin potatoes and steamed green beans, they made a super-healthy and lip-smackingly good meal.

The only rival for ‘dish of the week’ was the pancakes, slightly less virtuous due to lashings of double cream. Keeping up with the autumn raspberries is a challenge - they are amazingly prolific, and the children in particular require a ‘twist’ if they are to continue to appreciate the good flavour. But who wouldn’t go weak at the knees for a freshly-cooked pancake, stuffed with raspberries and blackberries that had been rolled in crabapple jelly (melted over heat with a tablespoon of boiling water), and whipped cream to smooth out excessive acidity? Yum!

You can’t beat an Indian summer for pure pleasure. Blue sky puts a smile on all but the most miserable curmudgeon’s chops, and the warm sun invites you to bask like a lizard, but, should you wish to work outdoors instead, it lacks the intense heat that can wipe you out on a high summer’s day.

My honeybees are loving it but, despite a good number of species still blooming in the garden, and ivy flowering in the wild, it is too late in the season for them to collect sufficient nectar for their winter needs. I fed them generously with sugar syrup last week, but unlike previous years when I have added ten percent by volume of honey, this year I could only give them syrup with a few drops of chamomile tea to make it more digestible.

A more positive result of the wash-out summer, many species that would normally have finished flowering in the ornamental garden are still going strong. So agapanthus, usually waving bunches of fat, green seed pods by now, are still bright blue and beautiful, and Lavender ‘Hidcote’, surprisingly chirpy considering the wet year, still weaves a purple ribbon along the edge of the lawn.

Yet the Michaelmas daisies, autumn stalwarts, are out. I used to hate them, but now wonder why, as Aster x frikartii ‘Monch’ is so resoundingly cheerful - good purple-blue petals ray out from golden centres. Its show lasts for many weeks, it is mildew resistant and unlike many of its brethren, it doesn’t even need staking.

And Amaryllis belladonna knows that autumn is here, extending strong stems two foot tall before opening glamorous, pink lily trumpets. A South African bulb, very particular in its requirements, I had assumed that the wet year would put it off flowering, but it seems to like the microclimate at the base of a south-facing wall under the overhang of the thatch, and appears to be so busy celebrating the demise of a passion flower that used to encroach on its space, it obviously forgot to notice the damp squab.

Despite our very different individual passions, every member of the O’Brien family thoroughly enjoys a good walk. This morning, after each picking a basket and pulling on our wellies, trying to avoid being sent flying by a whirl of over-excited dogs, we set out to see what the hedgerows had to offer. The blackberries are few and tart (the worst year in memory) and the rowans have already been gobbled by the birds, but the hawthorn berries are so plentiful that the bushes are tinted red from right across the valley. With high spirits borne of sunshine, a bright blue sky, and the picking power of a whole family, it didn’t take long to gather a couple of pounds. I’ll stew them tonight, and like yesterday’s crabapples, hang the resulting mush to drip through muslin into a pan overnight, and make jelly in the morning.

The biodynamic lunar calendar recommends working with flowering plants this weekend, but we prioritised harvesting, as Jim and the children were around to give me a hand. A nine-year-old specimen of rosy crabapple ‘Dartmouth’ now produces so much fruit that removing two basketfuls has hardly affected the beauty of its display. One of the highlights of the autumn garden, (and the spring too, with its glorious blossom), I can’t think of a more attractive small tree for any garden.

However, I particularly like planting apples here as the entire valley used to be orchard. Bertie’s Cottage, converted only twenty-five years ago, was originally a barn with a cider press at its heart. The last two cider apple trees in the valley are in our field, and still fruit well – much appreciated by free-ranging pigs, geese and chickens (and yes, one day we do hope to make our own cider).

A cob nut tree, planted eight years ago in the chicken run has, to my amazement and delight, escaped the attentions of the squirrel population for the first time ever. Maybe the wretched little critters heard tell of our newfound passion – Friday night’s delicacy was a ragout of venison ribs, a chicken carcass originally intended for stock, and a squirrel that Jim skinned and butchered for the pot. Simmering away with a carrot, onion, bayleaf and peppercorns, it already smelt good, but by the time I’d thrown in a small handful of dried porcini (cep) mushrooms and a glass of red wine, I could tell we were in for a treat. After an hour and a half the meat was tender and falling apart, so whilst I picked out the bones, I let a dollop of cream enrichen and thicken the sauce. The result - pure bliss – an unbelievably concentrated flavour! With steamed greens and Red Duke of York potatoes from the garden, it was a memorable meal, enjoyed by us all. I really would urge anyone who lives in rural parts to give squirrel a go, but can’t say I’d be tempted by one from Hyde Park!

This blog will be a diary of what’s going on at Bertie’s Cottage: what we’re up to on the smallholding; what’s looking good or needing attention in the ornamental garden; what we’re eating; and beyond the gate, anything of interest that catches my attention in the small patch of Mid Devon that we call home.

The end of summer is usually a sad time, but after this year’s washout, we’re celebrating the arrival of autumn, especially today, since it sounds as if an unusually shower-free weekend is the start of a dryish spell – an Indian summer at last!

The garden is alive with bumblebees – I found four different species at one time on the stunning blue flowers of Caryopteris x clandonensis ‘Heavenly Blue’. A three-foot tall, sun-loving shrub, with silvery leaves, its colour combines well with pink spikes of Physostegia virginiana (the obedient plant) and blonde plumes of Stipa gigantea (golden oats grass).
The veg garden continues to feed us with courgettes, sweetcorn and the bean tribe – runners that are always reliable, french beans that do less well in a wet year, and dwarf french beans, the most iffy of all, that - conveniently for slugs - fruit close to the ground. Raised beds with crops for the winter are filling up – leeks, brassicas, oriental greens and winter salads, beetroot that need to be pulled before the first frost, and parsnips and Jerusalem artichokes that are best left in the ground.

Here I go!

This is my first (ever) blog entry. More later...