Helen’s Blog

The (now-ex) primulas

Two days ago, early in the morning I was carefully walking along the edge of the pond (precious primulas in full sail to my left, water to my right) in order to haul out some of the mass of oxygenating weed that was threatening to engulf the pump.

I had just wandered outside, having completed the ‘weekly tips’ section of my Telegraph column, in which I  including advice on the need to keep pond weed in check at this time of year.

I was inappropriately wearing slippers (as you do) and yes, I slipped.

I think this is what happened:

My right shin scccccraaaaped down the brick edge of the pond and into the water.  When my slippered foot hit the sludge on the bottom of the pond, it skidded sideways, and as I struggled to recover my balance, I thwacked the inside of my right knee against the edge of the pond, and into the small protruding overflow pipe that sticks out of the brickwork into the water (supplying constant moisture to primula bed).

The result of a split second of stupidity:

My right shin, from ankle bone to knee is totally bruised and grazed –  hot, throbbing and bright scarlet. The entire ankle and calf have swollen to what looks like twice their size.  I have a 5″ diameter dark purple mottled bruise (a haematoma, the nurse called it) on the soft bit on the inside of my knee and a similar large purple patch on the bony bit under my kneecap.

I am now wearing an elastic tubigrip  bandage from the arch of my foot to above my knee. I am on penicillin and heavy duty anti-inflammatory/painkilling drugs and had to have a tetanus jab as a precaution.  I am not supposed to drive till things improve,  and am told to keep my right foot above the level of my heart whenever possible, which ought to be most of the time.  And until the heat and swelling on my leg starts to subside, I should if possible strap an ice pack to it made out of a tea towel and a bag of frozen peas.

I am told it might be some weeks before the swelling goes down and my leg returns to normal, during which time the colour from the healing bruise will gardually drain down to my foot.  Attractive.

Oh yes, and  – just a small additional bit of sadness to the outcome:  quite a lot of the primula stems bit the dust, too.

All this because I slipped – well, actually only one leg of me slipped – into a  small garden pond barely 18″ deep.

Fellow early-morning slipper-wearing pond-lovers, of which I suspect there are legion, consider yourself warned.

For my part, I am tempted to only undertake weed-removal duties in future if wearing full protective gear including flippers and a snorkel, although I consider installing a life belt by the pond a step too far.

I am always surprised to find myself in small gardens with no chairs or seats apart from the obligatory dining ones by the house.  You walk up them… and you walk back.  And that’s it.  Absolutely nowhere for quiet contemplation.

Admittedly, my garden has an overabundance of seats, many of them elderly rustic chestnut things, relics from my former spacious garden.

Some of them are tucked away under trees where little else will grow,  areas that would otherwise be somewhat unsightly.  A bench or chair so placed kills two birds with one stone – providing a something pleasing to look at from elsewhere in the garden, and somewhere on which to perch while enjoying looking the good bits of it.

The avian references are apt, as it happens.  I have just been scrubbing a year’s worth of guano off my chairs and benches in preparation for my open afternoon tomorrow and subsequent other visitors.  It simply wouldn’t do for the assorted bottoms of Wadhurst and its environs to go home with bird-poo embellishments.

So, now the garden visiting season is in full swing, and by way of encouragement to others who perhaps have gardens where seating is a bit thin on the ground – or indeed, tricky areas under trees that need a bit of dressing up – I will include here a selection of pictures that should go under the heading of ‘Seats that are rarely sat on most for of the year’  since I have to admit that the moment I sit on them myself, I immediately see something that needs propping up or deadheading.

So off I go again.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

…between 2 pm and 6 pm on Sunday June 5, as part of the Wadhurst Open Gardens 2011 weekend.  Other lovely gardens of all shapes and sizes are open as well, of course, during both the Saturday and Sunday afternoons.  Tickets cost £5 from Carillon Cottage (the parish office near the post office bang in the middle of Wadhurst High Street).  I am keeping my fingers crossed for good weather –  and less of the ghastly wind that has been rocking things around for the past week.

Ken's Exochorda (click to enlarge)

I have been having a bit of fun with my Telegraph page (a gardening agony column) recently. 

Totally fed up with readers sending me endless pictures of crisply dying bay trees (sometimes without even any accompanying question), expecting clairvoyancy on the subject of their teetering-on-the-brink hydrangeas and whingeing about myriad buds dropping off camellias and about primrose-vandalising sparrows, I blew a fuse (partially extinguished pre-publication by my Tact Inspector, Telegraph Gardening‘s editor Joanna Fortnam).

  Read the rest of this entry »

Last year I picked my own veg… (Photo by Ruth Francis; click to enlarge)

I am generally a very unbloggy blogger –  I don’t normally share random immediate thoughts, although perhaps The One Show bit and my Charles Darwin post were a bit off  the usually fairly carefully thought-out rails.

However, I would just like to share with readers the fact that despite the hideous work-enforced neglect of my allotment this summer, I have just  eaten the most magnificent supper most of which came from my plot.

What did I eat?  Chicken (regrettably I can’t lay claim to that), cooked with onions and garlic  and tarragon (from my plot) and a dash or white wine (regrettably I don’t own a vineyard either)   with lovely chubby chard stems (the leaves were a bit coarse and holey), french beans and butter (regrettably no cow, either) with more garlic  and magnificent Charlotte spuds, carefully groomed to avoid the odd unfortunate tunnel,  cooked with mint and then steeped in a parsley/butter goo (I really must think about getting a cow…).  Totally delish.  And followed by the first of my  autumn raspberries.

But none of this would have been possible without my fantiastic friends who have  been down to the neglected desert and picked things for me. This post is for them.

Over and out.