Observe and Interact (4-9th May)

This week’s weather

Harsh and trying extremes. I heard myself grumbling like the gardeners of my childhood memories. I remember wondering why you would complain about a lack of rain, or really hot days. Well, now I know. Despite two rather pathetic rainfalls, the soil remains dry and hard as Humphrey’s dog biscuits. The two days we had cloud cover were actually a relief and allowed to get some work done in the office and lay off watering the garden for a day.

The tunnel reached 35 degrees on two days, and dropped to 2 degrees one morning. Outdoors I lost a couple of annuals I’d planted out rather hopefully and my peas seem to have disappeared into themselves – they have become frail, white skeletons – which I assume is to do with the extremes of temperature. We had two frosts this week and snow is forecast, for goodness sake.

One morning we woke to some pretty dramatic light outside. Layers of mist were rising up off the moor, creating extraordinary light effects as the sun rose. I rushed up to Watchknowe (the hilltop behind our house) to watch the spectacle. The entire Rule valley was submerged in a milky sea, and only the very top of Ruberslaw was left, floating like a ten-gallon hat in the sky. I would have stayed but sudden icy air and a menacing tidal wave of fog pushing up from Fulton Tower chased me back down the hill. It must have been genuinely scary to encounter that kind of weather back in the day. I bet folk weren’t daft enough to be wandering round the moor in dense fog with only a flask of tea for protection.

In the Garden

Mad growth in the tunnel urged me to transplant most of the chard, lettuces, brassicas, sweet peas and flowers I had in trays. The tunnel is getting far too hot for a lot of things and is causing spinach and other greens to bolt. Unfortunately, according to the weather forecast, the extremes outdoors are going to be no more favorable. Sorry, plants. You can either fry or freeze.

I’m beginning to get the feeling that up here on the moor it doesn’t do any good to be planting outside before mid-May. I could definitely be a bit more clever with my use of the polytunnel (though, who am I kidding. I’m bound to be just as impatient next year as I always am).

Planting out the beds suddenly made the garden look more complete and got me itching to start planning the proper, actual veg garden. But the eminently sensible advice from all directions is ‘wait a full year before you do anything’. There’s so much I want to change about the layout and content of this garden but now is the time to ‘observe and interact’, rather than plan, design and implement.

The importance of sitting around

Something I’ve observed from other permacultural or well established gardens, is that you need plenty of inviting spots from which to enjoy the garden. Having lots of lovely places to sit, loll, read, or wander, means you get to know the place from multiple perspectives over time. Putting some chairs, tables and a bench out the lawn has given us a good start, and we now have vital intel on where the sunny spots are for morning coffee, lunch, and evening aperitivo.

This week we added to this observational infrastructure by mowing a path through the paddock. What was once just an intimidating, messy sea of long grass and weeds, has become a nice place to walk Humphrey before mealtimes. It should be at least a year until we do anything of note out in the paddock. I want to transform it into a rich, forest garden that fades into a mini wildflower meadow, full of intriguing pathways and hidden sit-spots. But first we just have to get to know it. Making the pathway means I can begin to imagine where stands of trees might be, lower layers of wildflowers and fruit bushes… I also spotted a lizard and a depressingly high number of rabbits.

We also had a (very small and controlled, on account of the dryness) bonfire out there this week under a full moon. This had a dual purpose of helping us get rid of yet more blackgrass, and also gave us an excuse to drink whisky under the stars. Job done.

Seasonal sights and sounds

We’ve been getting up earlier as sunrise creeps towards 5am, and the smell of morning air is phenomenal (particularly after we’ve mown the lawn). It’s so hard to describe that late spring perfume, but it’s unmistakable. Every breath feels heavy with the scent of life; green and floral, earthy and herbal. With this scent comes the arrival of lots of wildflowers – ladies’ smock, speedwell, forget-me-not, celandines, dandelions, daisies and campion – all appearing round the house and along the road. Empty corners of the garden are now full of comfrey (I must learn how to make compost tea) and a huge patch of rhubarb which we’ve been cutting for breakfast.

It’s also got very noisy lately. We have pretty impressive numbers of burbling housemartins feeding chicks under our eaves. The dunnocks who used their nests over the winter are outraged and being very vocal about it. To add to the general cacophony the moor is currently hosting a large, horrifically flatulent flock of ‘easy-care’ sheep who are lambing all over the hill. They seem to lose their lambs an awful lot and wail dramatically. One distressed mama seemed not to draw breath for an entire day, making a particularly unwelcome soundtrack to one of Jim’s podcasts.

Overall, not a bad week up here on the moor. Jim and I continue to go through phases of Covid-malaise, but I’ve spoken with friends in far more trying circumstances than us, and we know how fortunate we are to be where we are. Who knows what lies ahead for any of us. We could certainly spend a lot of time and energy worrying about our future careers; whether people will ever again want to gather to listen to music or enjoy food together, but it’s important to resist that particular downwards spiral. As with planning a garden, we have to take this time to carefully observe so we can adapt and move forward appropriately. There may be many currently unimaginable opportunities and avenues to explore. Lets just wait and see.