One of the most mournful utterances you will hear from a gardener is: ‘I had one, but it died.’ Next up is, ‘I had one, but it doesn’t flower any more.’ This is the case, alas, with me and Iris unguicularis. I still have them, in a well-drained, south-facing spot, but they don’t flower any more. I have never divided them, so that may be the problem, but I will have to wait until midsummer before trying it. On the plus side, in spite of their allegedly being susceptible to slugs and snails, they are one of the very few plants in my garden that don’t get chomped. Continue reading
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There are various reasons (excuses), some flimsier than others, for the long delay since I last put quill to vellum. First, there was the
Unexpected (by me!) technical problems have necessitated putting a couple of blogs-in-preparation on the back burner, and output of verbiage in November has in any case taken second place to output of hedgehogs (105 and rising …) – do
Not the words you necessarily want to hear on Hallowe’en, but I must just put in a plug for my stall at the (Cambridge)
The Alpine House @CUBotanicgarden is pretty stunning at the moment, what with the cyclamen, autumn crocus and colchicums – do go and have a look! Among all the incredibly photogenic flowers, I came across Colchicum cupani, which compelled me finally to get around to looking up the Franciscan friar whose name is immortalised in the variety of sweet pea I attempt (with varying degrees of success) to grow every summer.
An appurtenance of any self-respecting apothecary’s shop was, it seems, a pill-tile. Made of pottery, and sometime lavishly decorated like that other essential, the pharmacy jar, it provided a flat, smooth surface on which to roll pills. The
I’m guessing that if you were to ask 100 random people to name an historical (as opposed to contemporary) female painter, some at least would answer ‘
If Francesco Morosini is remembered worldwide today, it is probably for the collateral damage caused when a stray Venetian cannon ball hit the gunpowder store which the Turks had so thoughtfully placed in the Parthenon during the siege of Athens. In Venice, however, he is up there with
I first saw a real live peacock when I was quite young, in Victoria Park in the city where I was brought up. An area of grass and trees very close to the railway station, and therefore – in the early 1950s –very sooty, it contained, as well as swings and a slide, some small cages containing various ducks and other fowl. In one of them was a solitary and miserable-looking peacock, who, on one never-to-be forgotten day, had his tail open (there was barely enough room in the cage). After that, I would rush to the cage as soon as I arrived to see if he was doing it again, but no luck – and alas, quite soon, the cage was mysteriously empty.