Plotting With Hibernia

A full seven weeks behind schedule, and perhaps having grown tired of maintaining an icy grip on central Europe since Christmas, or perhaps settling to spread its brilliant white duvet a little further west, winter’s procession eventually arrived on our shores in late January.
To date we’d experienced one of the mildest and driest early winter periods on record, with daily temperatures 1.5 degrees above Long Term Average and cumulative rainfall a whopping 75-80% down on Long Term Average for the time of year.
Noteworthy also is that there was a full seven week hiatus between Conor’s Christmas Eve snarl and the Doris’ arrival last Saturday.

And such is winter in Ireland where we are well acquainted with such seasonal vagaries. It is not by chance that the ancient roman designation for this tiny little island tethering on Europe’s north-western edge was Hibernia, Place of winter.

In Ireland we do winter relatively well: we’ve learned to make the most of a season which starts at Samhain (Halloween), sometimes does not end till May, and at times will backslide just as we get set for the June summer bank holiday.

In Ireland winter is not so much a season as it is a state of mind, and as Hibernians perhaps we were preconditioned in our ancient conception: prenatally prepared to persist and persevere with those prolonged periods of darkness and dampness we experience annually. And as is the case with all indigenously constrained people we are genetically hardwired with the full knowledge of our ancient state even though an appreciation and understanding of that self same state is often sadly lacking.
We’ve learned to celebrate the darkness and the dampness. We’ve learned to do those interminable wet winter nights and the relentless Atlantic storm fronts; we’ve learned to do the endless days of dark slate greys and naked branches for months on end. We’ve learned the hunger and starvation of history, just as we learned the insatiable thirst for freedom and self determination.

We celebrate the dead, and we’ve learned to consider one good sunburning day in July a reasonable summer.

We do Christmas to. We do it better than most and, if truth be told, we do it longer than anyone else. This may be out of our centuries long adherence to religious rite whence we are willing to journey with startled shepherds one night only to gladly follow in the footsteps of seers and magi 12 nights later; or it may be as a result of our national addiction to the twentieth century’s developing an annual tinsel dressed splurge with all the accompanying jingly and tingly bright-lighted feel-good Ho! Ho! ho’s!; or perhaps it has more to do with our negating the cyclic oppressive and depressive darkness of winter by deciding to celebrate if for no other reason than the celebration itself; or maybe it is a national brew of all of these things.

Yes, in Ireland we know how to do winter. It’s in our genes. We are a chronic race; occasionally oppressive, periodically disordered, cytized, fibrized, haemized and chromazed and always bloody colourful. We are ancient Hibernians, and many a modern nation wouldst stake a claim to our heritage and bloodline, but it’s just not in their genes.
Winter arrived late this year. The unseasonably early grass growth is halted in its tracks. The burgeoning daffodils are slowed, and the remaining remnants of last autumn’s leaf litter is well and truly scattered at last. Temperatures are back to and below normal, whilst rainfall levels are back to and above normal.
Yesterday was our final visit to our old plot, and in winter we learn to plot. We’ve taken everything we needed and intended to take from it during the last 6 weeks and relocated it to our new plot. Our old allotment plot is finally laid bare just as we discover that our new plot is susceptible to water-logging, and we’ve come to realize that winter would be a dreary existence were it not for warm summer memories.

Winter arrived late this year and we’ve no time to hibernate. We learn. We move on.

The Monster’s New Face…

We’ve been somewhat quiet of late here on Monster In The Corner… a self-imposed reflective hiatus, busy considering and contemplating implications of recent experiences within our small allotment garden site.

We’ve reached a challenging decision that will see us once more expend a  hell of a lot of effort in pursuit of that same old dream, but, from here on in we will do so in a different location.

So without further ado  we’ve decided –like many others on our allotment site-to relocate the Monster’s award winning visage.

Life, we’ve decided, is too damn short for committee generated compost, and as has been stated in one of the Monster’s earlier dispatches, not everyone in the garden is a gardener, and from time immemorial it seems there have been serpents skulking in the grass…

et voiláThe Monster’s New Face…

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The Monster has a new face….

“Here”…just a thought by the way

There has always been a garden at the heart of things. 

Long before Biddulph Grange and Sissinghurst; long before Chelsea and Kew and Mount Usher, and long long before Bronte’s Eden-like orchard and the locked gates at Austen’s Mansfield Park there was a garden. Before the Yahwist and the Davidic court scribes conceived their enclosures of creation; and long before the Phoenician, Assyrian and  Guxianghun  traditions there was a garden.    

long before Skara Brae and the Céide Fields someone, somewhere honed their own personal space from the virgin landscape, and over time we’ve come to know this space as garden. In the Levant perhaps, along the banks of the Omo or the Yellow and Yangtze Rivers; or out on the fertile flood plains of the Nile or Danube, someone looked out from a particular view point at a particular time in history and thought, “Here”, and thus the history of the garden and gardening began.
Originally some easily accessed patch of ground, close to a water source and most likely with its own natural boundaries in which to build a shelter, tether an animal and in which to scatter grass grain and reap the rewards of the effort expended. Some patch of ground to claim and call their own;  some small safe place to allow them provide for their cares while at the same time negating the need to constantly migrate from here to elsewhere, allowing them settle for a while, and in that settlement learning to forego the constant need to hunt and forage.
Perhaps it was a sole single-minded individual along the banks of the Tigris, or a small weary group tired of perpetually wandering up and down the Euphrates that decided “Here, here is where we stop”, and in that stopping set the whole concept of fixed cultivation in motion.

Of course, learning from each other being one of the great human attributes it was not too long before others made gardens of their own, and doing so in close proximity created the first expansive human communities. As life in settled places progressed, these early gardens provided a semblance of security and protection for those early communities. The activity in these early gardens had another added benefit, it helped improve mortality rates; not by much, but life expectancy in these new founded communities was most definitely extended. Of course longer lives meant bigger communities, and with this came the need to meet the demands of those growing communities.  And so the gardens needed to get bigger and bigger, and in this expansion those early gardeners begat bigger households and communities, thus the tribe and the clan, thus territories, thus nations and kingdoms and empires; and somewhere  in the midst of all this pioneering development and enlargement that other human attribute avarice, decided it wanted what everyone else had created, including their gardens, and thus their kingdoms and their empires, and the rest as they say, is a history of sorts.
Gardens, as anyone who ever laboured in one will tell you, are damned hard work. There is always something that needs doing in a garden: there’s always a bed to weed out or a sod to turn; always spent blooms that need deadheading and fallen leaves to rake up, not forgetting the need to clip and prune and plant and stake, plus the tying up and layering down, and the bulbs, and the seeds and the seasonal bedding etc.etc. There is always something to do in a garden. No matter where in the world you may live, whether in northern or southern hemisphere and despite long held time hounoured and foundational views on seasonal constraints, our experience here on The Monster In The Corner is that the gardening year begins on January 1st and ends on the last day of December. And whilst the recorded history of human development in all things social, cultural and philosophical is quite often placed in a garden or outdoor enclosure setting, there can be no denying that the history writer’s imagined theatre in which to set stage for the sinister goings-on of their cast of characters, is no match for the everyday reality that allows every gardener get his or her hands dirty in the actual cultivation of personal hopes and dreams…
The first empires can trace their origins back to those original small-holdings and gardens established many millennia ago by our foraging and wandering ancestors, those small bracts of soil and turf in far-flung fields that were cultivated to meet the immediate need of small groups of our forebears who were willing to get their hands dirty.
Today’s suburban gardens and allotment plots still offer a very small peek back into the world of those very first gardeners and in many ways things have not changed as much as we may think, even for us in our 21st century city dwellings.
Beyond the environmental and the sustainable and the eco-friendly; beyond the need to go Green and to buy local and to eliminate food miles; beyond the need to reduce, reuse and recycle, and way beyond the ever increasing carbon footprint and rising greenhouse gas levels there exist small lots and patches of land, little plots and allotment gardens tirelessly tended by gardeners who dedicate themselves to cultivating fresh dreams in our modern and ever sprawling urban expanses, and who, perhaps, in constancy with their gardens are unwittingly establishing new micro empires on which our ever expanding and concrete constrained communities may, someday, ultimately depend.

Just a thought by the way…just a thought.

Halloween 2016 The Monster's Display... compliments @janpaulkelly
Halloween 2016
The Monster’s Display…
compliments @janpaulkelly

A Season’s Whirl: while we were away…

The great barred spiral spins away,
a grain of sand circles the sun,
seasons whirl while summer drowns,
then dew-drop mornings; autumn’s begun…JK ©

 

Summer in Ireland may have been a washout for the most part this year, but we here on plot 49 were lucky enough to be able to travel to Canada for a holiday, and as such made no postings for a while. So, here’s a pictorial record  of some of what we did while in Canada with some of the developments on the Monster in the Corner while we were away…

Rumbling the Bumblebees...
Rumbling the Bumblebees…on plot 49
Oakes Garden Niagara City
Oakes Garden Niagara City
Urban planting Toronto
Urban planting Toronto
Ornamental Squash: Bought in Malcisine last August, ripening in Dublin this August...
Ornamental Squash:
Bought in Malcisine, Italy last August, ripening on the Monster in the Corner this August…

 

Cosmos, Cupid's darts and Sedum...
Cosmos, Cupid’s darts and Sedum on plot 49
St James' Cathedral Church Toronto
St James’ Cathedral Church Toronto

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Late Sunflowers: a bit bedraggled but over 10 foot at last...
Late Sunflowers: a bit bedraggled but over 10 foot at last…
curing the onions and shallots: using the car-boot window to effect..
curing the last of the onions and shallots:
using the car-boot window to effect..
Toronto..container planting in The Allen Garden
Toronto..container planting in The Allen Garden
urban planting in the town of Naigara-on-the-Lake...
urban planting in the town of Naigara-on-the-Lake…
Allen Garden Glasshouse Toronto
Allen Garden Glasshouse Toronto