poppy – Tiny Potager

I grow ever more fond of watching night fall in the garden. After the bustle of the day and distant traffic noises, a quietness descends at around 8 o’ clock as the late summer evening draws in.

Although I find the geraniums beautiful in the daytime, they now look so dramatic against a background of shadowy foliage, in the “miniature woodland” area of our tiny potager.

Still catching the last rays of light is this pretty self-seeded wildflower, towering next to the stream, that I believe must be a loosestrife. Living at the top of a hill, it is rare for there not to be a breeze rippling through our garden. I love to watch the constant sway of tall plants on spiked stems and the bees that weave and dart around them.

A light rain starts to fall, however at this time of year I do not have to rush back inside for a coat. It is a delicate, refreshing shower, not a downpour. At the first sign of soothing water, a snail emerges to make the most of it.

Soon after the rain stops it has already faded from the stone walkways, yet remains clinging to the plants. The poppy seed heads, which hover over the stream, bob and dip. The droplets slide down stems, into the running water below.

I slowly walk the paths whilst reading about the life and times of a woodland. I have been enjoying this book little-by-little since New Year’s Day. There is an entry for every date of the year and tonight’s July observation seems very apt.

“How enjoyable the land is, when the sun has sunk below the rim of the known world, when other people have gone to bed, and there are stars over the dark, still oaks.”
“The Wood: The Life and Times of Cockshutt Wood” by JoHn Lewis-stempel

The light dims a little more; I return my book to the kitchen and grab a favourite woollen jumper.

We have lost a few young apples to the rough storms throughout late June, yet the hardier fruits hold fast, looking eminently tempting.

The raindrops stick in place on the water resistant bamboo leaves. I move the plant stem gently; the droplets descend slowly, in an orderly queue.

The bees make their final forage until morning. I took a liking to this little hard worker, heavily laden, pollen stuck to his fur.

The moon is framed by the branches of the silver birch tree. The woollen jumper’s sleeves are perfect for pulling down over my hands as the temperature drops. My husband makes me a cup of hot tea and together we walk the garden and quietly reflect back on our day.

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We are still keeping up with the early starts. Bright light streams in around the tiny gaps in the shutters; getting up is not so hard when the sun is waiting to greet you.

In the garden, the bees arrive dozily, a few at a time, meandering amongst the lavender flowers. Soon, there are countless numbers, the tempo increases and the combined buzzing is audible from the other side of the garden. Nature’s own rush hour.

Share in our morning ritual and enjoy this slow-motion capture of the first bumble bee of the day on the lavender flowers.

By the French doors, a single sprig of self-seeded verbena catches the breeze. I have tried buying verbena plants from the garden centre before and they have never taken. During the lockdown, I have been a lot more appreciative of “weeds” and their potential as free flowers. I have been allowing them to grow and, like a lucky dip, seeing what I have got. I’m so happy with this latest arrival.

Tucked into an old mossy log that forms part of the edging to our stream, a strange silvery leafed “weed” appeared this April. It looked a little like sage at first, then grew taller and taller, the leaves became scallop-edged and multiple large buds drooped heavily towards the ground. By then, we had already guessed it was a poppy, but could never have imagine how beautiful it would be.

On my kitchen windowsill, I thought I was only nursing newly sprouted courgette seedlings, safely away from the greedy snails. However, little bell-like mushrooms appeared overnight; there must have been some spores in the organic compost. The tiny fungi only survive into the afternoon before withering, though for the next few days, every morning I find another trio.

When my order of bird netting arrives by post, I plant the courgettes into the old onion bed, with gravel around the stem, copper mesh and the netting stretched above. So far, so good.

The rose has been persuaded to attach to the arbour and now, clinging on securely, it is climbing at speed. Fresh buds are appearing daily. My little daughter, who always likes to run around the garden before her breakfast, enthusiastically points out any new ones, happily calling “flower!”

As soon we see the honey-scented white blossoms appear amongst the vegetable plants, it is time for our first ever potato harvest. Unlike most of the vegetables we grow in our potager, the potatoes give no hint to the size of their crop, hidden so completely beneath the soil. Even onions give you a bit of a glimpse of how things are going.

My son chitted these seed potatoes throughout Lent and, keeping with horticultural tradition, dug the trenches for them on Good Friday and kept them watered them throughout the draught. I really wanted them to be a success for him. Happily, he is able to pull the plants out whole from the loose no-dig soil and as he triumphantly raises them aloft, the bounty of new potatoes hang beneath on tiny white stems like little baubles.

We ate this first batch within an hour of unearthing them, simply boiled and served with a little butter. They were delicious; soft and melting. It was one of those times I have wished for our own acre of land, meaning we would never need to buy shop-bought potatoes again.

Newly emptied terracotta pots now await my next round of seedlings.

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Tag: poppy

Potager Garden: The secret life of the evening garden

Potager Garden: Unexpected arrivals, bees in motion and the first potato harvest