I have the best of both worlds. Yesterday, before "the great storm," I dug up the last of my main crop potatoes, and dried them off in front of the Aga. I grew Picasso as my maincrop, and although each plant only produced 3-4 potatoes, they were whoppers.  

The dog fell asleep guarding them, exhausted by wind and rain. Alas, his efforts were in vain. I swapped half of them for some fragrant quinces. Mr. P is not happy, since he loves potatoes, but I am delighted, since quinces are hard to come by. Quince jelly will follow. Apply here if interested! 

Always the way
It's always the way... one minute you've never noticed a plant before, and if someone pointed it out, you wouldn't know what it was, or what it was called. The next minute, you notice it everywhere, and if you're a budding horticulturalist, you can't help giving yourself a proud pat on the back that you actually know what it is!

Pondering plants 
This happened to me several times in a few days recently. I was enjoying lunch at Worton Organic Gardens recently: smoked fish chowder for me, pizza for Mr P and our friends, finished with several slices of delicious apple pie with cream. We were lucky enough to be sitting in our own 'enclosed room,' artfully decorated with pots filled with blue Salvia 'Indigo Spires' and white, purple blotched Gladiolus murielae (Abyssinian gladiolus). 


Gladiolus as annuals
After lunch, David Blake, one of the owners, told me that he treated these Gladiolus like annuals. David is something of a salvia specialist: when he lived in Holland, he had managed the national collection of salvias. He was concerned about the quality of some salvias nowadays, but thought the soft fronds and dazzling blues of Salvia 'Indigo Spires' worth growing. It's certainly different from many of the salvias more commonly available for sale; the long stems are soft, frond-like, and airy, but still support the flowers well, unlike other salvias such as Salvia nemorosa 'Schwellenburg', which can droop then collapse under the weight of the flower heads. 

The revelation for me was the beauty gained from treating gladioli, in particular, as decorative planting for patios. Mine usually languish in the back of the borders, often suffering from insufficient water and insufficient staking. But in pots, they can more easily be reached to stake and water them. In return, for the effort of potting and caring for them, they reward you by providing graceful arching flowers to soften your hard landscaping. Two tall terracotta planters that I inherited from the previous owner have stood empty for some time now... Next spring, I will be filling them with gladiolus corns.

A willow-leaved pear tree? Nonsense!
On my evening walk around the village, I noticed that my neighbour's garden was planted with Gladiolus murielae. Why had I not noticed this before? 

Meanwhile, back at home, the tree surgeon paid me a visit, and helped me rescue an apple tree in the wild garden, which was completely dominated by a cluster of trees, one of which, he said, was a pear. 

A pear tree? Nonsense. Surely it was a willow? After all, it had dull-grey, willow-shaped leaves, and as far as I knew, had never borne any fruit. I wondered at him, as did my lunching friends. Cut it down, they advised, so that you can let in the light, and save the apple tree.

But a few days later, on my RHS horticulture course, my tutor pointed out the same tree. What was it? Could it be a pear tree, I asked hesitantly? Yes, it could: in fact, it was Pyrus salificifolia 'Pendula,' part of the Roseceae family. It bears fruit in the autumn, and scented white flowers in the spring. And it was the same 'willow' that I had considered cutting down to rescue my apple tree.

Now, of course, I notice Pyrus salificifolia 'Pendula' everywhere. I now think it rather an interesting tree, worthy of a little love and attention. When I went to admire it again this week, I noticed it had fruited, as if to reward my new-found interest. I am sure both pear and apple tree can co-exist, as they have, after all, for the past decade or two, without my interference.

Onwards to further horticultural knowledge!

Yesterday I finally picked the pumpkin patch. From four plants, 23 pumpkins, all now lined up neatly on a tray in the greenhouse to cure. 

The most prolific were the Winter Squash Uchiki Kuri, followed by the Butternut Squash Hunter and Harrier F1 Hybrid. 

Picking these fat possums was probably my most rewarding moments in the garden this year. It's been so long waiting for them to grow and ripen. Then, in a few minutes, an autumn harvest worth savouring. Made my day. 

Almost the first night we moved here, we heard owls screeching. In the autumn, they like to call to one another after darkness has fallen. I soon grew accustomed to falling asleep to their eerie screams.

One night, not so long ago, we had friends with a young child to stay. Just before midnight I was woken by the sound of their son crying. I lay awake in bed, not wanting to interfere... but really, weren't my friends going to get up and look after their little one? He sounded really unhappy.

Eventually, worried that something was wrong, I tip-toed down the corridor and listened at his door. All was silent... perhaps the poor dear had fallen asleep again. Back to bed for me.

A few minutes later I heard his cries resume. Once again, I listened; once again, I could not hear the parents getting up; once again, I tip-toed down the corridor, only to find that he had settled. Odd. Then, all of a sudden, I heard an owl screaming. Fooled by a bird! I couldn't help chuckling. Back to bed I went once more, this time with a pillow over my head. Soon the owl quietened, and I managed to fall back to sleep.

You can imagine my reaction when I woke again later that night to the sound of the owl screeching. I lay in bed, thinking dark thoughts about the local wildlife. This time, though, I was surprised to hear my friends getting up and trying to soothe their little one. Had the owl fooled them too? No. The owl's screeching had awakened their son, and now bird and baby were united in their cries, indistinguishable from one another.

Peace, my feathered friends, oh peace...