For forty days…

Saint Swithin’s Day, if thou dost rain

For forty days it shall remain.

Saint Swithin’s day, if thou be fair

For forty days ’twill rain nae mair.

trad

A quick count finds that we’ve now come to the end of those forty days. How did St Swithin’s prediction do? Well, on 15th July it rained for some of the day – and for the last forty days it has, indeed, rained on some of the days! A prediction like that can’t go wrong, really, can it?

But to the point.

Rain on St Swithin’s day is supposed to ‘christen the apples’ – though my bet is this particular piece of lore pre-dates Christianity by quite some time.

They don’t seem to have done too badly.

Neither do these:

Our pears don’t seem to want to be out-done, either. This is the same pear-tree which, all those years ago during ‘The Year-Long Lunch Break’ – my first ever blog – was the beneficiary of ‘the Sporting Chance School of Gardening‘, also known as my tendency not to bother digging up a plant and chucking it on the off-chance that it might come good. That was over ten years ago. This is now:

The tomato plants, from Lockdown times, are giving us our first toms ever. I think the secret is to have them near enough to the back door that you can water them in your slippers, and pick them as soon as they are ripe!

Finally here are some pretty calendulas. Just because.

The Plot: Late summer

Late summer – that is, from about now – has a scent all its own. I’ve no idea why, but it always makes me think of Scotland. The heatwave is over; everything has its energy and is no longer thirsty. There’s petrichor – the smell of rain on dry earth – but even that isn’t the whole of it. There’s pine, grass; a spot of night. Where we live, the first day of August brings the first proper night that isn’t just Astronomical Twilight.

And the Plot, bless it, begins to Produce.

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Last year I bought beans in a Hungarian market. Like an idiot I put them in the fridge rather than do the correct thing and hang them up to dry. They went manky but I couldn’t bear to sling them so I planted them anyway (this is what’s known, in our house, as the Sporting Chance School of Gardening). And some came good! Here they are, in all their puce-speckled glory. They’ve been joined by some half-a-dozen more now, which are all being kept to sow for a proper crop next year.

And now, meet our first potato:

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Yes that’s a life-size hand, and quite a large one (mine).

Here’s the first celeriac we’ve ever sucessfully grown:

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And finally, here’s one of the 20 or so Kale plants which, when in their tiny pots, I thought had all been eaten by slugs, but planted the little sticks out anyway:

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Our plot is surrounded by brambles. They’re a nuisance to keep in check but this year they’ve given us nearly three kilos of blackberries. Just the right quantity for a batch of dark red wine…

The plot thickens

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It’s that time of year when the garden and the Allotment are dressed in their best.

The Chard is taking over the world:

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The cherry tree went completely bananas:

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We’ve even had our first walnut (For a 5 year old tree at our latitude, that’s quite something!)

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Currnts and gooseberries – this year’s and last – will combine in a new departure for the homw-brew:

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And finally a follow-up to the mystery seeds in 17th May’s post – a Neural Miner has begun to show:

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