What is it good for, questioned Frankie all those years ago. And as I ponder war on rabbits, the inevitable response echoes. There may be no winning this one. Last year there was a sense of smugness settling over us as the new beds, overflowing with flowers and veg, basked untouched by bunnies. This winter, there was some irritation over despoiling of the precious hoggin grit path, but again, a satisfying sense that with an acre of undisturbed meadow grasses plus a wood inside our boundary, and three thousand acres of prime Herefordshire countryside just the other side of our fence, our bobtail friends had more than enough to keep them going. How wrong I was. For ten days now, they have sustained a ferocious campaign on the blackcurrant bushes, the garlic chives, and also the salvias in the demi-lune beds. Just those three types of plant, ignoring tulips, artichokes, geraniums, roses, red currants and raspberries. Down to the roots, repeatedly.
Extravagant mounds of earth piled up behind them on the grass or surrounding plants. Droppings left nonchalantly on those mounds of earth as their calling cards. I thought I had the perfect solution last week, when I noticed that the huge pile of wood chip from last year’s tree felling, destined to be used as mulch, was blossoming with golden fungi, its white mycelial tracery threading deep down into the pile.
Having received assurance that this was perfectly normal for chipped trees, and definitely not honey fungus, I proceeded to scoop up the stickiest, rankest portions from the mound and barrow them to the combat zone, creating Iron Age hill forts of stickily webbed chips around the currants, and their underplanting of chives. Perhaps that was understood as a provocation, or perhaps they were just high as kites on the mushrooms, but either way I walked out the next morning to woodchip scattered on the adjoining lawn and new holes around the currants. Time for the big guns. Time for Silent Roar. Purchased on a longshot piece of advice to deter deer from browsing young fruit trees, I had a box unused, and forgotten about. This could be the solution.
The smell, for those of you unfamiliar with essence of lion (as the pack assures us this is) is like the worst public toilet smell, concentrated. Eyes watering, I scattered the foul-smelling crispy honeycomb nuggets and retreated for the evening. The following day the scent of the Serengeti seemed encouraging until I got closer and saw more holes - new holes - holes with Silent Roar in them. I sat near the raised beds disconsolately appraising my options, when I noticed some very unrabbity pawprints in the hoggin.
And to make a print in sandstone grit requires some weight - weight of the black and white striped variety we reckon. The plot thickens, but are the badgers in cahoots with the rabbits?
Feeling like I needed to step away from the formal beds for a while, I wandered into the wood. I was admiring the primroses when I realised that some of the wood anemones I had planted two years ago had come out. They are exquisite but very slow to establish, and as far as we could see, there were none here when we arrived in 2019. Named for the Anemoi, Greek gods of the winds, anemone nemorosa also goes by the name windflower for its nodding habit in the breeze. A species of ancient woodlands, requiring dappled light to thrive, to see a carpet of these flowers is one of the great joys of spring, and while we are a long way off carpets, to see the first few coming through here gives me hope that a colony will establish.
Nearby there is a big clump of white violets, viola odorata, tiny flowers edged in purple, those hairstreak lines of lilac on each petal, their scent unmistakeable. These violets can be white or purple, and like the anemones, are happiest in light shade at a woodland edge or hedge margins. Used through the centuries for their perfume, I never thought that highly scented appeal transferred well to taste: whether Swizzels Parma Violets in their crackly cellophane wrapper, or Prestat’s violet creams, there is just something odd for me about eating something so flowery. Their beauty however is indisputable.
Ransoms on the other hand, I could eat every day. Allium ursinum, wild garlic, is another stalwart of temperate woodland in spring, but here could only be found in two small patches on the very edges of the wood. This year, the “squids” which Neil and I planted last year are all showing their broad green leaves, and the older established patches have also grown now that they finally have more light.
The rough guide for planting - if arum lilies (lords and ladies) are growing there, then ransoms will be happy - is thus far holding true, even in ground which might seem too well trodden or congested. Unlike its domesticated cousin, you cannot eat the bulbs of wild garlic (too bitter) but both leaves and the starry white flowers are edible, and will make a marvellous pesto, stir through for new potatoes, or if you have enough, filling for eggy things like omelettes or quiches. Plants will spread quickly if they are happy, but I think more will be put in this autumn.
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