Keeping on going anyway

Well, I'm still here.

I started this blog in January as an antidote to depression and it would appear to have worked.  And today, on my way home, I popped into that well known exclusive nursery, B&Q, and got some Broad Bean seeds for sowing tomorrow - the first day of the new year.

So, I guess that means when it comes to life in a back garden I am keeping on going anyway - which reminds me of yet another Abba song.   May you have a Happy, Productive and Inspiring New Year.  Peace, Love and Harmony.

Some Meaning at the Centre

Is meaning important?  Is it important in this back garden?  Or is how more relevant?

For instance, how does all this . . . .

, , , , become this?

And how does this . . . .

. . . . become this?

And then how does all that combined give us this?

Even in December it is still giving us this:

And this:

And this summer bedding plant Pot Marigold (Calendula officinalis):

Well, better-informed people than me can answer those questions for you - at least to a fairly large extent - so I won't give you my own half-remembered half-misremembered explanation.  But what about the meaning of all this . . . and, indeed, that?

Why, for instance, did the wind blow down this part of the fence last week?

I can see the how is partly to do with the fact my neighbour did not maintain his side, but why this bit and not another?

And why did that same wind choose to blow these party balloons up into the the tree in my garden?

Some people tell me that December is winter time and yet this spring time Primrose (Primula vulgaris) has decided to come into bloom.

They tell me that December is winter time and certainly the frost has formed on the rosette of a Foxglove (Digitalis purpurea) - the same frost that will kill the rosettes of other less hardy plants.

And yet that same December winter can give light that makes the leaves glow on a supposedly deciduous shrub (Cornus - don't know the species).

Personally, I think he knows the meaning of all this but he is not telling - at least he is not telling me.

Or maybe he has the same problem as me.  For I find that sometimes I think I do know the meaning of it all but as soon as I try to put it into words it is gone.  So, I am left forever alone with whatever meaning I think I make of it all.  And you know what?  That suits me just fine - this December.

Whatever it takes?

In the middle of this continuously wet November with the storms of recent days, it is easy to look out on my back garden and see only death and decay.

In spite of my attempts to lift them regularly, the leaves have fallen so heavily that path ahead can seem unclear.  The other day I was out lifting some of them and it was a cold and, frankly, miserable job.  No sooner had I lifted them and more came down.

I looked about me and the garden seemed desolate.

My Sycamore, Acer pseudoplatinus, has been stripped of most of leaves.

My neighbour's Acer which usually cast such a dense shadow over the back of my back garden is practically bare already.












In such times, when everything seems to be dying, it is tempting to run for the cosy comfort of home.

Shut out the world - retreat into hibernation, thinking no one can harm me so long as I just keep my head down.  And if I never look out I have no need to know how bleak the winter world has become.

As I have said before, there are indeed people who would be happy for me to do that for they want this world to themselves.  They want to convince me that this is a vile, corrupt existence that only they can liberate me from - usually by killing me, chopping bits off me, or trying to get me to hate myself.  They call this godliness.

But my back garden seems to have a different kind of Godliness, for when I look at it closely I see no death or vileness or corruption.

On a pile of rotting vegetation behind the shed I see the fruiting bodies of fungi - bodies that are only a tiny hint of the vastly intricate lacework of life that has produced them.

Did you know the largest life form on earth is a fungus?

Don't take my word for it - look it up and be amazed.

The leaves have only just disappeared from the Rowan, Sorbus aucuparia, in the last few days and yet, already, the furry buds for next year's leaves are perfectly formed.

The little Irish Yew (Taxus baccata 'Fastigiata') I planted a couple of years ago has had its first baby berries this autumn.  What joy, because Yews are usually male or female but I did not know the sex of this one until now.

The oldest Yew in Scotland is male and is over 3000 years old.  This summer it has started producing berries, for, indeed, ancient Yews can change their sex.

Will God punish it for its transgender transgressions?  It grows in a churchyard too!

Fuchsia 'Brutus' is also producing berries and is still flowering in the midst of all this cold, wind and rain.

But then, originating from the foothills of the Andes maybe it is well used to dealing with the odd storm.

There is still vibrant colour on the remaining leaves of the Blueberry too, Vaccinium corymbosum 'Patriot'.

Meanwhile, down on the ground amidst the fallen leaves, the foliage of next year's self-seeded floriferous wonders have formed rosettes that will provide a sure foundation: Foxglove (Digitalis purpurea); Columbine (Aquilegia vulgaris) and Feverfew (Tanacetum parthenium).

Also appreciating some cover from autumn leaves is the Hart's Tongue Fern, Asplenium scolopendrium.  Looking into its heart, here, you may be able to make out amongst the mould the beginnings of next year's fronds.  Ferns arrived on this planet before flowers and are around 400 million years old.

Continents, vast numbers of species of life, and even BBC TV's "Last of the Summer Wine" have come and gone in that time.

Still the rain falls and in my back garden I try to collect some from the roof of my shed - I think I need a few more buckets.

The netting is not to stop anyone getting water - it is purely to prevent young birds in the spring from falling in and drowning.

Yes, it can be a dangerous world out there sometimes.

But dangerous or not, my back garden just gets on with life.  In darkest December and January this flower bud will open and spread an almost intoxicating scent around the garden.  This is Viburnum x bodnantense and is a winter star.

Believe what you wish.  Kill who you wish if you must.

The God that lives in my back garden kills no one and no thing.  Even in the darkest of days, this God puts out a bright, perfumed light of life.


And I shall do whatever it takes to ensure I never lose sight of that light: the light that no human being, however loud or bloody, can ever extinguish.

(For some reason I am unable to post the video I want, which is Sinead Lohan singing 'Whatever it takes.' So, the link to it is below)
Whatever it takes

Last Rose of Summer

I don't know the name of this rose.  I don't know its age or where it came from.  Not being very clever with roses I can't even tell you what type of rose it is.  I do know that it was here when I came nearly 3 years ago and that it is carrying this single bloom just now as we head towards November.

It's probably not a rose I would have chosen, but when I look at it on a rather dreich autumn day it looks beautiful to me and, certainly, I have no intention of replacing it with anything else.

I also did not choose another plant that is still in bloom.  I bought it, I planted it, and I have since increased it by cuttings, but it was never my intention to have a white decorative type.  I thought I had bought a colourful single bloom called "Braveheart" that would mark Scotland's winning of independence in 2014.  Well, Scotland got no Independence and I got no Braveheart,  Instead, I got the unknown bloom below.

And for Rose and Dahlia I am deeply grateful, as indeed I am for all the life in this back garden.

Daylight Is Good At Arriving At The Right Time (or Don't Be Afraid of the Dark)

In the October of this life in a back garden is it compulsory to become despondent?  Is it inevitable that we lament the passing of spring and summer joys we shall never see again?  Is it our fate to regret the opportunities missed and rue our failures?  Do we see only the encroaching darkness of winter approaching and see everything coming to a cold, empty end in December?  Some would have you believe that is all there is to see.

However, in this back garden while all things must pass, nothing ever really ends.  Some might say that is just a point of view.

But here is the reality.  Last autumn leaves fell from the trees, were collected, chopped, put in pile in a cage and left to do their thing.  And over the past year, as flowers go over, shrubs are cut back and perennials die back all this stuff is put in the compost bins and with the occasional turn is left for the worms and microbes to have a feast.

And now I have bags of Leaf Mould and Garden Compost - sieved to make it manageable and the bits left over put on the bottom of the bin to start the process again.  This glorious stuff, produce of the garden, will now be returned to garden - nourishing the soil, maintaining its structure, promoting the fungi that keep the whole garden alive and magically helping with both drainage and moisture retention.

All things must pass and nothing ends.

At this time of year, we even get some easily visible evidence of the fungal wonders that are going on underground all year round.

Having lifted the old strawberry plants and potted up the runners, this patch can take a new crop to accompany the Monarda and Verbena bonariensis.  I've planted six Hollyhocks (Alcea rosea) that I have grown from seed in the hope they will give me magnificent spires of flowers next year.  A mulch of garden compost should give them a fighting chance as should the copper collars around their feet.  I have never grown Hollyhocks before - so there is something new happening here, this October.

Just in case you were worried about the strawberry plants - here they are in their own little cosy nursery.  They shall grow up next year and give a crop the year after that.

In what way is this the end of things?

What of the glories of spring and summer?


The flowers of this Allium hollandicum 'Purple Sensation' have done their stuff and produced the seed - some of which I have sown and some of which I have left to self-seed.  The foliage died back in its own time, refreshing the bulb which will bloom again next year.  And in my view, what remains still looks beautiful in the low autumn light.

The empty seed pods of Honesty (Lunaria annua) look pretty spectacular to me too - indeed this is the main reason I have grown them and why I have collected a load of their seed to start their biennial cycle again.

However, summer has not finished with me yet.  This is Dahlia 'Bishop of Llandaff' - a little restrained but nonetheless delightful to me.

Dahlia 'Sunshine' keeps smiling too.  Tonight looks like it may be frosty and maybe this will be blackened tomorrow, but then I shall be free to lift the tuber and nurture it through the winter to start back into growth next February,

I've begun lifting the Zonal Geraniums (Pelargonium) and my hope is that I shall be able to take cuttings from these in spring next year - something else I have never done before: this life is so full of new experiences.  The hanging plant is some Honesty I am drying for use as a winter decoration in the house reflected in the window.  Outside the potting shed you can see still flowering are Fuchsia (unknown variety) and Gayfeather, Liatris spicata.

Looking from the potting shed I can still see dots of colour leaves of the Hawthorn beginning to pepper the path - leaves that will return to the garden next autumn.

The orange Spanish Poppies (Papaver rupifragum) have been flowering continuously since the beginning of May.  How's that for good value - and hey they just seem to follow me around wherever I go.

Cyclamen hederifolium started flowering a few weeks ago and its mottled ivy-shaped foliage is now beginning to emerge and that will carry this plant through until it returns to sleep next spring.

So, it may be October but the path ahead certainly does not look dark to me.  It is filled with hope and anticipation. It is a place where life is dependent upon death and where both states are transitory - all things must pass and nothing ends.

This is how the summer ends

This is how the summer ends - with blues - and with purples - at least, it does in this back garden.

At long last, Dahlias and Monardas are blooming, but the Oxeye Daisies and the back grass have been cut down, and those spider webs on the swing are exposed again.

And although the summer is ending, the trees are still green: the trees that make my garden, essentially, a little clearing in the woods.

Don't believe me?  Then look and see.

The multi-stemmed Sycamore (Acer pseudoplatinus) canopy to the West.

The tangled canopy of Hawthorn (Crataegus monogyna) which stands to the North.

The regular canopy of the Scots Pine (Pinus sylvestris) to the South and, behind that, another Acer to the East.

Meanwhile the three trees in one are yet to decide who is going to dominate which aspect yet.

The forest does bring forth forest fruits at this time of year in the shape of blackberries or brambles.

A new blackbird in a new herb garden in a new container all given to me by colleagues at work - betraying my real name.  In the clearing they should do well.

Over by what might loosely be described as a patio in the clearing the Fairies' Thimbles (Campanula cochleariifolia 'Blue Baby') has been flowering all summer.  They are now forming rather attractive seedheads too, sitting nicely above the glaucous foliage of the New Zealand Burr (Acaena buchananii).

Others, I have had to wait patiently for - the Abyssinian Gladiolus (Gladiolus murielae) - has been very shy of flowering for me but those which have now opened are sweetly spectacular blooms to my eye and well worth waiting for.

I'm less sure if the Gayfeather (Liatris spicata) was worth waiting for - maybe these and the Gladioli are not the best plants for a woodland clearing in a cold Scottish summer?  Although it does look quite striking against the White Sage (Salvia apiana) - just not quite on the scale I had envisioned.

The Toad Lily (Tricyrtis formosana), on the other hand, is always worth the wait.  It is only bulking up slowly here, but may prove to be all the more resilient for it.  This is a gem in my eye.

The first of the Cyclamen are also appearing now - this one being Cyclamen hederifolium which after the flowers puts up beautifully decorated foliage that will last through winter into spring.

So, if this is how the summer ends then I have to say I quite like it.  There is a tranquility somehow - or is it just that I am a little more tranquil?  The summer is over, with all its expectations and the pressures that brings.  The pressures?  They are pressures of my own making, pressures from the expectations I have chosen to have.  No one has forced this upon me.


And in the autumn Autumn I choose to go with the flow of the season and that brings a certain peace.

This is how the summer ends.