crimson, white and every shade of pink. But they began to disappear, and now there are hardly any left. We could never fathom the reason why, unless it was that they found the soil that I took from the wall too rich.
We were both very disappointed about this because we admired so much the railway embankments in the district which were ablaze with valerian. The seedlings I planted in the wall never looked back, soon turned themselves into huge plants and raised enormous families I remove thousands of valerian seedlings from the garden every year and for a long time I hopefully put them in the bank, but now I realize it is a waste of time and I throw them away. Odd daffodil bulbs are now planted there, occasional clumps of tall blue scillas and the wild magenta gladiolus, G. byzantinus. They, of course, do not give colour all the year as the valerian would have done.
We tried very hard to keep the grass verges round the house nicely shaven, but again we discovered that gardens and farming don’t mix. Cows come down the road twice a day, and can you blame them if they prefer soft grass to the hard road? In damp weather they reduce the verge to a quagmire, and the tractors that park themselves on the other verge make nearly as much havoc. We still run the mower over the grass near the gate and under the wall, but it is not done very regularly as it is really not worth spending much time on it.
On another occasion Walter had an urge to improve the outlook from our dining-room window. There is a rough triangle of grass on the other side of the road, unkempt and full of nettles, and he thought it should be weeded, levelled and kept tidy. We spent quite a long time on it, and there are still a few valerian left from those I was told to plant, but again we realized our folly. That piece of ground belonged to dogs, children, farm vehicles, stray chickens and endless cats, and later to a telephone kiosk and pole. We had no right to interfere; after all we were the interlopers. Anyone who comes to live in a farming community must realize that the work of the land comes before anything else, and I blush when I think of the things we tried to do. The village belongs to the cows and the tractors and you can’t turn it into a London park.
But though we weren’t very successful in our efforts to take our garden into the road I do admire the people who do. There are certain houses I pass on my various journeys that always make me slow down in admiration. The grass is always nicely cut and the edges neatly trimmed, unlike some places which show a dishevelled face to the road, with nettles and shaggy grass, or brambles sprouting from the bottom of their boundary walls.
17. The Water Garden
When we bought the house our boundary, the ditch, was always full of water, and we bought the strip of the next orchard with the idea of making a wild garden, with water running through it. The banks on both sides were to be tamed and planted, leaving the willows just as they had been when the ditch was purely utilitarian. But again we were disappointed, because as soon as we had widened the bottom of the ditch, and had put down flat stones to make pools and waterfalls, the water disappeared. We never discovered why, because both orchards drained into the ditch, and there is never any shortage of rain in this part of the world. We could only think a new and deeper well had been dug somewhere in the neighbourhood, but gone it had, and now the only time there is water in the ditch is after unusually heavy rain.
My friends are more worried about the disappearance of the stream than I am. They seem to think it will miraculously reappear one day and I am often asked if the water has come back. The absence of water makes it easier to work in the ditch, and I spend a lot of time there. The bank facing east is now made into a series of pockets with lumps of hamstone, and here I grow my primroses and rare polyanthus. Half the opposite side is given up to
We were both very disappointed about this because we admired so much the railway embankments in the district which were ablaze with valerian. The seedlings I planted in the wall never looked back, soon turned themselves into huge plants and raised enormous families I remove thousands of valerian seedlings from the garden every year and for a long time I hopefully put them in the bank, but now I realize it is a waste of time and I throw them away. Odd daffodil bulbs are now planted there, occasional clumps of tall blue scillas and the wild magenta gladiolus, G. byzantinus. They, of course, do not give colour all the year as the valerian would have done.
We tried very hard to keep the grass verges round the house nicely shaven, but again we discovered that gardens and farming don’t mix. Cows come down the road twice a day, and can you blame them if they prefer soft grass to the hard road? In damp weather they reduce the verge to a quagmire, and the tractors that park themselves on the other verge make nearly as much havoc. We still run the mower over the grass near the gate and under the wall, but it is not done very regularly as it is really not worth spending much time on it.
On another occasion Walter had an urge to improve the outlook from our dining-room window. There is a rough triangle of grass on the other side of the road, unkempt and full of nettles, and he thought it should be weeded, levelled and kept tidy. We spent quite a long time on it, and there are still a few valerian left from those I was told to plant, but again we realized our folly. That piece of ground belonged to dogs, children, farm vehicles, stray chickens and endless cats, and later to a telephone kiosk and pole. We had no right to interfere; after all we were the interlopers. Anyone who comes to live in a farming community must realize that the work of the land comes before anything else, and I blush when I think of the things we tried to do. The village belongs to the cows and the tractors and you can’t turn it into a London park.
But though we weren’t very successful in our efforts to take our garden into the road I do admire the people who do. There are certain houses I pass on my various journeys that always make me slow down in admiration. The grass is always nicely cut and the edges neatly trimmed, unlike some places which show a dishevelled face to the road, with nettles and shaggy grass, or brambles sprouting from the bottom of their boundary walls.
17. The Water Garden
When we bought the house our boundary, the ditch, was always full of water, and we bought the strip of the next orchard with the idea of making a wild garden, with water running through it. The banks on both sides were to be tamed and planted, leaving the willows just as they had been when the ditch was purely utilitarian. But again we were disappointed, because as soon as we had widened the bottom of the ditch, and had put down flat stones to make pools and waterfalls, the water disappeared. We never discovered why, because both orchards drained into the ditch, and there is never any shortage of rain in this part of the world. We could only think a new and deeper well had been dug somewhere in the neighbourhood, but gone it had, and now the only time there is water in the ditch is after unusually heavy rain.
My friends are more worried about the disappearance of the stream than I am. They seem to think it will miraculously reappear one day and I am often asked if the water has come back. The absence of water makes it easier to work in the ditch, and I spend a lot of time there. The bank facing east is now made into a series of pockets with lumps of hamstone, and here I grow my primroses and rare polyanthus. Half the opposite side is given up to
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