Rosa Steppanova
SOME gardening dilemmas solve themselves as the seasons change while others become bigger and bigger headaches as time passes.
Aralia cashmeriana is one of those larger than life herbaceous perennials that are, because of their magnificent proportions, often classed as shrubs. It has huge fingered leaves on stout stalks that, from a slow start at the end of April, rapidly grow into a perfect green dome, decked by white lace-cap flowers in the autumn.
Not long after that the whole thing collapses into a large grey sprawl. The leaves disintegrate while the stems, held together by bundles of strong parallel fibres, hang around forever - if one lets them.
While the plant is in full leaf all vegetation beneath it is killed off by a lack of light, which leaves a sizeable patch of bare soil for near on five months every year. When planting it next to an old lamb house, where it towers impressively all summer, I hadn't taken this into account.
Lonicera pileata, the Chinese shrubby honeysuckle, Hedera helix 'Hibernica', a vigorous, dark-leaved ivy, even the handsome but dreadfully invasive Lamium galeobdolon, all featured, at one time or another, on my list of suitably shade-tolerant carpeters, and all were dismissed as unsuitable. The former, growing in dense shade, would look like a plucked chicken at the end of the growing season, while the other two are far too invasive for the space available.
But that bare spot wouldn't let me rest, and during the brief fine spell last month I gathered up several trays of mini daffs and a deep purple cultivar of Crocus tommasinianus to plant around the aralia's root stock. It was no use. The yellow and purple against brown soil made my stomach lurch and the bulbs sat there, in their trays, until Mothers' Day.
And here, dear reader, you are about to become party to a shameful secret. For the past five or six years I have been a member of the SSSTC or Shetland Seasonal Shrinking Trouser Club, to give it its full name. It is shameful because these days none of us with a single ounce of self-respect or self-discipline are allowed to let our trousers shrink - even just a little.
As March came in like the proverbial lion last Saturday, it witnessed Lea Gardens' return to form after a long winter break. The effort (many hands make light work) continued the following day and we literally managed to move, if not mountains, then the next best thing: two impressive lengths of greenheart, one of the heaviest and hardest woods on the planet, culled from the Guyanan Chlorocardium tree. Originally used as part of a pier, then rescued from death by landfill, they are now destined to hold back the soil in a terraced bank.
There was just one problem: how to get them from one side of the garden to the other. Half an hour later, and with the help of four human beings, two lengths of rope, one wheelbarrow, and one sack trolley, they were positioned precisely where I wanted them. And that was only the start. It never ceases to amaze me what can be achieved in a day or two with a few extra shoulders to the wheel.
Roses were pruned, plantings enlarged, mature shrubs moved, willows coppiced, rotting wooden structures replaced by new, rubbish gathered and bagged, horse manure spread. I could go on.
Rather than exhausting, I have always found hard physical work enjoyable and greatly energizing. But in order for it to be enjoyable, it must serve a purpose. With the best will in the world, I can't see myself running on a treadmill, I want tangible results. My labours need to bear fruit.
That first real working weekend certainly did, and also made me realise just how much exercise the gardens gives me, and how comparatively little I get during the winter. This, I'm sure, holds true for most Shetland gardeners. Physical exertion is always followed, and sometimes accompanied, by increased cerebral dexterity. Problems simply solve themselves, as one garden job leads to another.
March is usually classed as too early for pruning roses but who cares when the sun shines and the sky is blue, even if this day between weathers is followed by a blizzard or two?
Rosa 'Bourbon Queen' is a martyr to black spot and has already enjoyed one stay of execution. A hard pruning, followed by a thick mulch above her roots did the trick for two or three years but now the disease has come back with a vengeance. The queen, a shrub rose rather than a climber or rambler, is a formidable creature that has reached out, from her well over two metres high byre wall, onto the roof and into the hayloft.
With plants taking such a long time to grow to a reasonable size, it always strikes me as such a shame to cut them back really hard, but in this case it is a final chance. If we get a reasonable summer, there might even be the chance of a few late flowers, large, heavy, pink, and sweetly scented
At the base of the rose a few single snowdrop bulbs had thickened into sizeable clumps. They were in full flower but in the way of the black-spot smothering horse manure mulch.
As soon as I had lifted them they presented me with the cure for the problem mentioned above. From now on I'll turn a blind eye to the bald patch in question, then, from January onwards I shall enjoy it as the snowdrops expand and start to cover all bare soil. I might even add some of those purple crocuses for good measure.
If you're a member of the SSSTC, don't let it get you down. We all need a little additional girth to keep us warm during the winter. As spring approaches and you spend more and more time pottering about in your garden you'll find, just as I have done, that your shrunk trousers start to magically expand once more.
* The black and white cat we'd taken to be Mr. Gentleman turned out to be a much older animal, wearing a somewhat moth-eaten coat. Despite his advanced years he looked regal, was well fed and well groomed but had obviously fallen on hard times.
By now we were surrounded by several dozen cats, all politely begging - Italian cats are very well behaved - for a morsel of Parma ham. But there's no such thing as a free snack, even for street-wise felines.
James pulled a photograph from the breast pocket of his trench coat and, showing the portrait of Mr. Gentleman to the assembled cats, asked if they had seen him. All but one shook their heads. A young ginger female with a tail like an apricot feather boa said she'd not long arrived from the Grosetto cat community, and recalled seeing a cat rather like him. We gave everybody a sliver of ham, whished them all a happy new year ( bon anno), and good luck (tante augurie), then headed into the night, south, towards Grosetto.
Our hopes were dashed as soon as we arrived shortly after midnight. Amongst the gatti randagi of the province was none that even remotely resembled Mr. G but, pinned just below the cat community board was a drawing of somebody who looked strangely familiar. The cruel curl of those thin lips, the small and sharply pointed teeth were unmistakable. Underneath the hastily sketched but accurate portrait of High Maintenance Husband the following warning had been scratched in strong, bold claw marks: "Beware this human, he is a prominent member of an international cat-to-fur-rugs ring. Never accept food offered by him."
And here, dear reader, on this very cliff, we have to leave the story hanging for the time being.
