October bowls in on a wave of flamboyant colour and dazzling skies. The garden has a new lease of life after steady rainfall, and my hopes rise that young trees in the new borders may not be lost. Roses are covered in buds again, the phlox is trying to flower, the asters are proving their worth in their second month of bloom, and my precious viburnum is in brand new leaf and flower, with the scorched truncated growth of August still visible. Days are hovering around 14/15’, while nights are down to 2/3’ recently, with the resulting flush of burnt sugar colours spreading across the county’s woods and hedges.
Autumn means planning for spring, so I rush to fill the east border beds with narcissi, crocus and chionodoxa bulbs, keen to provide early food for pollinators next February/March, as well as filling early season gaps still there after last year’s initial round of summer planting. I avoid the traditional daffodil types: too big and too yellow for the cooler colours of this scheme. I would happily have acres of the small white narcissi with their exquisite perfume, and the crocus are now always ordered in purples and lilac- whites after discovering the pheasants’ assaults on the bright yellow specimens last year. Bulbs are by far the easiest option for any planting scheme: stick them in, forget about them, and you can have (almost) year round colour. You just have to remember where you planted them to avoid the classic trap of slicing through your precious specimens later in the year as you dig in seedlings, perennials and other rooted types.
The raised beds, left scorched and dusty by our absence during the heatwave are now springing back, with rogue potatoes missed in last season’s harvest sprouting anew, and tomatoes also enjoying a very late season renaissance. Cherry tomatoes ripening outdoors halfway to November - who would have thought. The carrots prosper, as always, sitting happily in their bed until Christmas, that tall ferny foliage as attractive as asparagus fronds in the breeze. In an attempt to counterbalance too many reproachfully empty beds, I sow winter salads, a good mix of hardy kales and more resilient types like chard and oak leaf lettuce which will grow even as the light and temperature levels drop, and provide some fresh greenery in the dark months. We have discerning pigeons around these parts, who love nothing better than a gourmet salad selection, so I have draped the beds in question with some old fairy lights. These appear to be doing the trick as a deterrent, and in addition creating sparkly special effects each evening as well.
The joker in the potager pack are the Jerusalem artichokes. I have a very distinct memory of visiting RHS Hyde Hall ten years ago, and marvelling at a vast wall of green in their vegetable garden. It turned out to be a stand of Jerusalem artichokes, a vegetable loved and loathed in equal measure in this country, but regardless of whether you eat the crop or not, stunning for its ability to exceed two metres height, with a very elegant form. Despite dire warnings from friends, I had to try growing them. Also known as sunchoke, or topinambour across the Channel, the attractive purple and white tubers contain high levels of inulin, a very gassy non-digestible carbohydrate that is fermented by gut bacteria. It has such potent flatulence powers that professional chefs and gardeners have nicknamed it the fartichoke. The plant has not begun to die back yet, so we will have to wait to gauge its gut impact, though I suspect that some caraway or fennel in the cooking process would work wonders to help that inulin on its way.
Another season, another year when I have not made crab apple jelly. My mother would be outraged. Each autumn, our kitchen was slung with muslin bags of pink mush, the tiny, mouth puckeringly sour apples releasing the scent and juice which then became the gleaming coral jelly. When my parents finally downsized, my mum was undeterred by the absence of an orchard, and would simply scream at us to stop if we passed a roadside apple tree spilling its bounty on the verge. Near-death traffic incidents notwithstanding - there was a favourite tree on a very busy road near Chester - those gleaming jewel jars stood testimony to her love for the old recipes passed down through generations of hedgerow foragers. Rose hip syrup and elder jelly were also produced, though I do remember even Mum being defeated by rowan - it may ward off evil, but those orange berries are as tough as old boots and after a day’s simmering with no apparent change in their consistency, the huge jam pot of berries went on the compost. For now, this year, we make do with the Bramley apples, a bumper crop again, but so delicious that basket after basket is brought in, the unbruised ones to be stored, carefully wrapped, in the dark and cool, the slightly marked ones to be cooked immediately and frozen.
Comments