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 It appears that the old queen has been superseded by young, vigorous successor, carrying a new set of paternal genes.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!