Wrapping It Up

 

Well, as you may be able to tell, it was a bit windy, but it didn’t rain so the dreaded flood didn’t materialise. The punters came thick and - well, fast isn’t quite the word, more like steadily – through the morning, completely disappeared all through the afternoon, then had a bit of a surge right at the end. Still, I sold nearly all the fresh stuff, which would have been wasted had it not sold (although if it goes on the compost heap, is it ever really waste?), and the dried wreaths which didn’t sell will store till next year - or even be cunningly re-jigged for Valentine’s Day.

The brave musicians sat blinking in the acrid smoke from Phil the Mill’s over-zealous brazier lighting, reassuring me that it didn’t matter that they had no audience because they needed the practice anyway (bless!) and Jo from Bath Organic Blooms heroically turned up with chocolate macaroons and encouragement.

All in all I am pleased with my first real day’s trading. It’s not a very accurate gauge of how well a flower shop would do as there weren’t really any flowers (well, except the pots of  narcissi, I suppose) but it has given me a good idea of what sort of things sell and what don’t. The hanging foliage and mistletoe balls were very popular, but the topiary balls, although they attracted a lot of compliments, didn’t sell – a bit of a relief in a way, as they were a real faff and I ended up hating doing them. I wish I’d done more pots of scented narcissi and I could easily have sold more pine-cone firelighters – all good lessons for next year.

Apart from the obvious benefit of earning a bit of cash at Christmas, and the not-to-be-underestimated advantage of not having time to worry about the usual Christmas preparations until the 22nd, it really  fired me with enthusiasm for the coming season. The winter – a real crunchy, cold winter for once – is flying by. The hellebores are out and, despite the severe frosts, the rhubarb is pushing through. Spring is tangibly close, a feeling reinforced by evenings spent poring over seed catalogues and gazing wistfully at pictures of the field in full flower, trying to remember the feel of the sun on my bare shoulders.

The next test will be trying to produce enough flowers to stock the shop by March. Bring it on!

All Over The Shop

 

A while ago I spent a few sunny days painting up this old garage, not far from the flower plot, to use as a space to sell my flowers. I keep going to use the word “shop” – not so much delusions of grandeur as an awareness that “come and visit me at the leaky old garage with a tendency to flood and no heat, power or water” isn’t quite as enticing so, in my mind at least, “shop” it will remain.

The idea is to open it on Saturdays only to sell my flowers, plants from a friend’s nursery and wooden, gardeny goods made by the guys at the sawmill which owns the garage. It has parking, a decent amount of passing traffic and is on the edge of a lovely – and stylish – village, so I’m hoping that it will pull in a more focused group of customers than the market stalls do. The biggest advantage, though, has to be that I can leave the flowers there overnight and put together bunches on site, in a “come and see the local artisan at work” kind of way, rather than staying up till gone midnight the night before, watching the water I’m sloshing about gradually ruining my polished living-room floorboards.

Having attracted a fair few enquiries from dog-walking passers-by, I decided not to wait till spring to open,  and have boldly (rashly?) announced we’ll be opening on the Saturday before Christmas. So now, of course, I have to produce something to sell…

To that end, last weekend I did a brilliant course at a willow farm up on the Levels (can’t recommend it enough – www.musgrovewillows.co.uk) and all week have been weaving rings and stars for wreaths and decorations. The front-room floor is hidden beneath a carpet of fir cones, baubles (not strictly adhering to the local theme, but I figured recycling stuff I bought years ago makes it OK), ribbons and twiggy bits, and the back room is full of bird boxes and planters.

However, being a grower, I feel I ought to offer at least a few fresh things. Hanging mistletoe and festive foliage balls I am confident of – I did a couple for friends last year.  Mossed wreaths I can play with till I get them right. Topiary balls to stand outside your front door, though, are a new idea for me, and one I thought would be relatively straightforward.

Hmm. Of the three I’ve tried so far, the first one was the least successful. The foliage ball slid straight down the trunk and broke in two. The second one got further – a cunning piece of dowelling stopped any downward slippage, and the ball, if I say so myself, looked great. Until I tried to move it and the trunk snapped clean in two!  The third, though, has made it! And it even withstood the wind last night! Now, how much to charge?

So, To Sum Up…

 

So, it’s the end of Year 1 - time to look back and assess.

Well, I haven’t made much money. But then I haven’t really tried. I’m working full time (Still! Grr!) so I haven’t really needed to, but then neither have I had the time or energy to. So that’s next year’s target – to tackle the selling seriously.

What I have done this year is learn. Masses! I’ve learnt that the scabious will flower and flower and flower as long as you keep picking, but that the bees love to linger on the underside of the flowers so expect to be stung while you’re doing so; that the antirrhinums grow tall and straight with just the merest support but that the California poppies are useless unless propped up right from the start; that just because Sarah Raven recommends something it doesn’t mean I’ll like it and, similarly, that just because I hate something doesn’t mean the customers won’t love it. I’ve learnt that I don’t need a whole row of everything but that I do need to make sure that I have a good variety of flowers every single week and, most valuable lesson of all, that I need twice the time I originally thought I’d need for absolutely everything I do.

I’ve got the basic infrastructure in place and the “shop” is almost ready (watch this space). This winter will be about getting the polytunnel up and functional (more barrowing of soil!) and then it begins for real. The more floristry stuff I do, as opposed to purely growing, the more I suspect that things will end up moving in that direction – which can only be good as that is where the money, if there is any, is.

The frost last week killed off the last brave annuals. The amaranthus have gone all Elizabeth Barrett Browning and are swooning pathetically over the paths. I thought of putting a picture of the devastation on the blog but then thought this picture of scabious in the shiny bucket would make me happier. Hope it does you too.

Here’s to Year 2. Can’t wait!

Out With The Old, In With The New

Despite this late, and oh-so-welcome, dry spell, the season is showing definite signs of winding down. With lots of the flowers – the marigolds, the scabious, the sunflowers, the nigella – I stopped picking a while ago to let them go to seed, but even those that I’ve continued to pick are not producing the same quality flowers they did. The birds are going to bed earlier, it suddenly gets cold when the sun starts to sink, and I am getting enormous pleasure out of clearing the beds and planting out next year’s newbies. I’ve got a new exercise book and this year I’m going to keep it neat!

The number of plants which have self-seeded is encouraging. The soil seems perfect for that as, although it retains moisture well, it also tends to have a dry, crumbly layer on the top, and that combined with the warmth of the sun means seeds germinate quickly rather than sitting around in wet soil and rotting.

The downside to all this new growth is that I have had to curb my anal hoeing (hoeing in an anally retentive way, that is, as opposed to any kind of hoe-up-the-bum stuff), which means the rows I have cleared are not quite as new-term neat as I would like. But there is still tremendous pleasure to be gained from top dressing the rows with more compost, planting out my biennials and then banging some sturdy wooden stakes in -ready for some decent support this year as opposed to last year’s lamentable bamboo cane set-up.

So far I’ve put out Brompton stocks, sweet rocket, wallflowers and Sweet Williams. I’m also intending to transplant the foxgloves from the garden, but I think I’ll keep the Iceland poppies in pots under cover, and I’m also keeping spares of everything I put out in case they don’t make the winter. It’s decisions like this, about what to grow where, that I find myself dithering over. The field is pretty exposed and really wet in places and I’ve always grown in the luxury of sheltered town gardens. Planting things out in those conditions makes me nervous, like sending a child off to big school. I want to believe they’ll be fine – but what if they’re not?!

As well as the biennials, there are the hardy annuals. I’ve sown a whole load directly at the field and the cold frame and potting shed are full of seedlings which, again, I will have to decide whether to plant out or keep cosseted in pots at home.

And then there’s the bulbs! Only a few hundred more to get planted…

Roll up! Roll up! Not YOU!

Did another stall on Saturday. It was one of those rainy, blustery days when you nip out quick for essentials then dash back in to eat chocolate in front of the telly – not the best day to try to sell flowers, not when you’re competing with the first day of the Premiership and a blistering Olympics. Things were quiet (although the man on the meat stall behind me was so busy he’d no doubt taken a grand before I’d even set up). The first hour was like one of those painful teenage discos when no-one asks you to dance. I sat there like a lemon, meekly smiling at every passer-by, telling myself that it was fine and in no way a reflection of my popularity, that I wasn’t really here to sell anyway, just doing it for the practice.

Gradually people did start to trickle over, but I think my attempts at looking too cool to care if I sold anything were a tad too convincing – they were just coming over for a chat. One thing about flowers – nearly everyone who passes smiles. Some point out a particular flower and mutter to their companions how beautiful it is. Some dare to make eye contact and tell me how lovely the flowers look. Some stop and plan their wedding bouquets before telling me they’re not getting married for another couple of years. The gardeners stop to chat, wondering how big my cutting patch is, where I get my seed, whether the green amaranthus is  different to the red or just at an earlier stage. Some go through every flower – What is it? How long will it last? Does it self-seed – before departing ten minutes later with a cheery wave and an “Oh, no! I never buy flowers – got a garden full of my own!” 

But the worst are the pensioners. They’ve lived in the town all their lives,  know everybody, are out to chat  and are completely oblivious to the fact that there are OTHER PEOPLE IN THE WORLD! They stand RIGHT in front of the stall, blissfully unaware they are a) blocking the path, b) completely obliterating my stall and c) stopping anyone valiant enough to get past the first two obstacles from getting anywhere near the flowers.

Still, they soon got the message when I decided the canopy needed emptying of the rainwater that had built up…

Gardening at last

 

After a manic last weekend (preparation for market down to nine hours and profits up 20 quid on last month – who says I can’t make a living out of this?!) this week I’ve spent some blissful afternoons at the field hoeing and dead-heading and generally tidying up. There’s still a bit of the rabbit fencing to finish off but it can wait till the weekend: the fact that the newly blooming gladioli were starting to tilt over at alarming angles made me realise that a bit of what I think of as ‘real gardening’ couldn’t.

Getting the infrastructure of the project sorted has meant that I’ve done precious little of what I imagined I’d spend the bulk of my time doing, but this week, with the sun beating down, the flowers in bloom and the butterflies flitting about I suddenly felt that I’d reached a turning point. I’m no longer chasing my tail and can enjoy it. This weekend the deckchair will be coming to the field with me!

 

 

Things Are A-Growing!

It’s weird – I’ve been so hung up on my fight with the pests and the feeling that the entire cast of British fauna has been sitting over the brow of the hlll, sniggering smugly as they wait for the gate to bang behind me, that I’ve forgotten to appreciate the fact that those plants they’ve deigned to leave growing are actually doing rather well.

Normally. of course, I would take it for granted that things were growing well. I’m a gardener – have been for years. I know what I’m doing. But, what with the no-dig thing being a bit of an experiment, I am childishly surprised! It’s a lovely feeling - reminiscent of the first time I snapped open a pea pod I’d grown and crammed it in my mouth, thrilled by its sweetness. Or the first time I said “Of course” to an idle enquiry as to whether I’d grown the sweet peas on the kitchen table myself.

There are only nine of them left, but the sunflower plants are romping away on stonking-great stems thicker than the stakes supposed to be supporting them. The love-in-a-mist is upright and abundant, the hispanica form of the plant more robust than the more common type, perfect for cutting. The scabious were a mixed seed mix – always a risk for those of us who hate “peach”  – but are heavy with buds of crimson and pink and blue. And the snapdragons throw up bud after bud after bud, no matter how battered they are by the incredible gales this globally-warmed July challenges us growers* with. 

The verbascum, a new plant to me (as is, in fact, the idea of growing perennials from seed at all), is chucking up flowers of pink and white, and the nicotiana lime green, although still quite short, is flowering – like it’s too excited to wait until it’s tall enough.

So, all in all, I’d say the no-dig thing works. It’s still a pain in the arse if you want to put anything in the ground ( I am in the process of replacing all the bamboo cane supports with wooden stakes. The former fall over if you so much as hang a T-shirt on them because the ground was too hard to sink them in more than a couple of inches, whereas wooden stakes can be banged in at least six inches with a hammer) and the latest turf-removing, anti-rabbit project is a nightmare that could have been avoided had the ground been ploughed, But, on the plus side, there are relatively few weeds (a blessing I become acutely appreciative of every time I visit my couch-grass infested allotment), the slugs, touch wood, don’t seem interested and, most importantly, things are a-growing!

First few months’ results? I’d say six out of ten. But this time next year, it’ll be 11!

 

 French Marigolds

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The love-in-a-mist – Nigella hispanica ‘Midnight Blue’.

* I AM a grower! I have an account with Mole Valley Farmers, don’tcha know.

Who’d A Thunk It?

Despite the crows, despite the rabbits, despite the aching back, the sodden ground, the slugs and the seemingly relentless wind, I have managed to grow enough flowers to do my first farmers’ market. Admittedly most of the flowers were from the garden and allotment rather than the field specifically cultivated for the project, and there was a fair amount of foliage and “terribly tasteful” wrapping to bulk things out, but I did it! The feedback was great – many people stopped to compliment the stall and chat even if they didn’t buy  (that old ruse!) – which really makes a difference. In fact the moment earlier that morning, at 1am in fact, when I realised I’d been working solidly for 20 hours without a break and decided that I’d done floristry, that I’d learnt all I needed, that I really didn’t need to pursue it any further, that my day job wasn’t actually that bad (based largely on the fact that it allows me to sit down), became a distant memory, dismissed with a rustle of rafia and tissue.

Am already panicking about next month.

 

 

 

 

I’m Gonna Get That Wabbit!

     Now the bloody netting’s been munched through!

                       

La Cage Aux Folles

OK, free day, good weather. Time to finally get the netting on the “fruit cage” sorted. Is going to be fab!

I will need:

More netting than you’ve ever seen before. Check.

Hammer and nails. Check.

Step ladder. Check.

OK, am sorted and, remember, invincible. Check.

First task – spread 600 metres of netting over field to try to cut it into five equal lengths. Time-consuming but not too annoying and things are looking good. Bundle up first 20-metre (ish) strip of netting, remove bits of dried sheep shit caught in it and climb step ladder to drape it over the middle strut. Climb back down ladder to unhook numerous areas where netting has become caught on bamboo canes. Climb back up ladder. Realise I don’t know if the netting is hanging evenly either side of the wood. Gather up netting and climb back down ladder.

Spread netting out again and do lots of seven-league-boot-”this must be about a metre”-stylee pacing to try to estimate the centre of each strip. Tie string at centre points. Gather up first strip again and climb up ladder no-handed. Jump off ladder sideways as one leg of step ladder sinks into the compost. Land on bum. Resuscitate sat-on plant and reposition ladder. Jiggle up and down on the first rung to make sure it’s secure and climb up again. Position netting roughly in place. Climb back down ladder to unhook netting from rough edges of the cheap wood which was all I could afford for the cage frame. Remember, I am invincible – hot, sweaty and more than a tad pissed off, but invincible.

Climb up ladder and bang in nails sort of anywhere as don’t really care any more. Balance hammer on top of ladder and climb down to admire work. Hmm – not bad. Move ladder to next position. Sit for five mins in baking sun nursing gash on head where hammer fell off ladder and embedded itself in scalp. Check mobile has reception in case am struck by combination of sun stroke and concussion alone in remote field.  (“Hello, which service do you require?” “Grrgh-kkccuuuuck-aargh-gh-gh-g…” Thank God I had my mobile on me.)

Bundle up next strip and climb up ladder to position it. Bang in first nail. Drop hammer. Climb down ladder. Bend down to pick up hammer. Retrieve eyeball from top of bamboo cane. Climb back up ladder. Drop only nail left in my pocket. Climb down ladder. Climb up ladder. Climb down ladder. Climb up. Climb down. Up. Down. Up. Down…

Repeat ad darkness. Sulk.

OK, so I’ll be invincible tomorrow.