Long Mizzle Garden

Alreet m' glossy dahlias,   Well I've been eagerly waiting for them to all pop out so I can give you a proper update on this year's Dahlia patch....Do you have your preferred tipple ready??? The sun is shining and I've started early on a classy Buck's Piss, with plenty of ice cubes to crunch when no one's looking. Back in March, the idea was to plant a small cut flower patch inspired by the Mexican artist Frida Kahlo (original post here -  Flowers for Frida ).   Frida vase (a birthday pressie from Ol' Glass Eyed Mumrah) The small rooted cuttings that arrived in the post (from Halls of Heddon) all grew strongly and I just had to then battle with the slugs and snails. Twice they were completely gnawed down to the ground. I persisted and luckily they re-sprouted.     Yet again, my overwintered tubers were not a complete success. A couple of tubers didn't sprout at all and ended up rotting. Sadly, this meant loosing my favourite  'Totally Tangerine'....

 Hello m' wishing ribbons,   My Cornish bird neighbour told me no one used to dare trespass on the old Enys Estate for fear of being shot. One cold December, whilst walking round the edge of the woods, heavily pregnant and skint, she pulled off a thick pine branch, seeing its potential as an alternate Christmas tree. This she attempted to drag back home, but would drop it each time she heard a car approaching.  When her midwife passed by chance and repeatedly insisted to give her a lift, she felt she had no option other than openly admit the woody heist. At this point, I can't remember whether the midwife helped with the smuggled operation or looked the other way. The former would make for a funnier story: the image of a midwife in old fashioned uniform and a heavily pregnant woman shadily bundling half a pine tree into a tiny car.  Luckily, these days the Enys Estate opens its gates and warmly welcomes us naughty commoner folk. The gardens are said to be the oldest ...

 Hello m' whistling kettles, It has been many years since I've been down to the precise point where Restronguet Creek becomes the seaward Carrick Roads. The thatched roofed pub and its jetty are still there, busy with beer, ice cream and tourists. The swans are still there on the shaley beach, nipping at the fresh water outlet, gurgling it down by extending their necks. The million pound houses are still there, in prime position. Their boundary signs seem to have got somewhat angrier : 'Private land', 'Do Not Enter', 'Closed Circuit Television in Operation'.. but further along the path... is something altogether more interesting than the ostentatious lawns and oversized cars...   A little more off the beaten track... Hidden behind a wild hedge, wooded and steeply tumbling down to the creek.. glimpses of a wonderful barge boat garden.  Thank goodness for signs of good old fashioned bohemian living -   Even the garden gate sign seems nicer somehow - 'O...