JEARRARD'S HERBAL
9th July 2023
Tulbaghia 'Bob Brown' .
Summer started thinly, the point of the wedge of heat pushed inexorably into spring. A crisp, clean incision that left the garden crisp if not clean.
There are fatigued leaves scattered across the ground. These aren't the fallen leaves of autumn arrived early, these leaves are just tired and sunburnt.
Lacking the energy to cling on, they have tumbled.
Fortunately the drought seems to have broken, not with a deluge or a crash of thunder, but with an unreliable murkiness. There had been a few drops here and there
and enough cloud to soften the heat. Finally it softened the ground in an afternoon of drizzle. This is also how the drought ended last year, not with a bang but a
watery whimper. It is tempting to spot a pattern, but there aren't any patterns in the weather, only in the humans.
Sheltering in the greenhouse are some grey and overcast Tulbaghia to match the season. I'm not sure why I like these colours in Tulbaghia but they make the lilac
and mauve shades look like dejected pupils studying to retake examinations they have failed. I think of T. 'Bob Brown' as a green flower, but it is really grey.
It is a puff of evening mist on a long stem.
9th July 2023
Cornus 'Norman Haddon' .
Cornus 'Norman Haddon' is made of stern, shrubby stuff. Untroubled by the heat, it burst into lime-green flower a couple of weeks ago and seems to soften the light
in that corner of the garden. It looks out from the border onto a scene of summer destruction. I have cut the small meadow that is home to my winter daffodils.
The hay has fallen in heavy rolls, smothering the ragged grass. I have a feeling that something will have to be done, but I'm not sure what. I could kick it around for a while,
but I'm not sure what it would achieve. I might leave it to rest for another week and hope that there is enough
drought left to dry it out. Perhaps I could ride over it again with the mower and chop the hay into smaller pieces. In an ideal world I would rake it up and compost it
but that is a lot of work. I doubt the cool green light of the Cornus would be sufficiently refreshing.
In the end I will probably pretend that it isn't there, and hope it goes away by itself. The cool Cornus has started to blush.
9th July 2023
Puya assurgens .
We all garden with alternate realities. They can't always be reconciled, it is as well to understand the limits of certainty. At present my hay looks very substantial
but perhaps that will change. If I cut the meadow a few more times it may simply fade away like squirty cream on a summer scone. Tea and scones
might be enough to change my perspective.
From one point of view I plant the garden as boldly as I can, allowing for the timid moments when practicality gives feet of clay to the soaring dreams.
Some garden clearance a couple of years ago gave me space beneath a tall pine tree to plant some adventurous xerophytes. A number of large Agave were moved
out of the Agave house and planted. They were followed by a couple of Puya. They have fared better than I had expected. Only one Agave died in the winter
and Puya assurgens has flowered with the brash appearance of fragile vulnerability. It's an act, it knows it is too aggressively thorny to be approached.
Another point of view might remember the June day when I was finally stabbed in the shin by an Agave for the last time. They were thrown out of the Agave
house with a curse while it was still possible to get them through the door. Not that the door's dimensions were key, I would have cut the Agave to pieces quite cheerfully.
I tossed a coin. They were planted under the pine tree rather than composted.
I am very pleased with the result, it is a triumph of courageous planting, a magnificent choice of alternate reality.
9th July 2023
Acis autumnalis .
Laurie Anderson wrote "We've got four big clocks (and they're all ticking)". It's a sound that disappears in a domestic context, a punctuated line that seems to have
inexorable purpose when all we ever experience is the pointless present. There are ticks that have passed and ticks to come but the experience of now is always silent.
Silent but for the sleepless nights when the clock in the sitting room downstairs howls like a restless wild animal. I don't get those nights any more, deafness and fatigue
are the mixed blessings of advancing age.
I felt relaxed as the azaleas in the garden faded. In my mind, they are the last gasp of breathless spring. The everlasting present of summer slips silently into the space.
The garden calms and relaxes in the warmth of evening. Before there is time to grab a glass of wine, and watch the insect-hawking bats lure darkness from the sky,
autumn appears in the distance. The greenhouse has been quiet all week. The wind has dropped, and the rain hasn't. Both have filled the silent present. The first flower on
Acis autumnalis marks another change, there are Cyclamen on the distant horizon.
I've got one small Acis, and its ticking.