garden

If You Want To Understand People, Study Hens

If you want to understand people, study hens seems perfectly reasonable advice to me, at least, it does now.

In terms of life ambitions, I have had a few. I wanted a smallholding since my early teenage years. This desire developed after my burning interest in medieval history, but before I became involved in specialist education and long before I began to write. In terms of outcomes, the smallholding lagged way behind and only became possible once we moved to somewhere with a big enough garden. Even then, my attempts to husband the land have been somewhat thwarted by the horrendous soil we have here. But chickens – yes, chickens – have headed the list of to-dos and, ten days ago, 8 feathered ladies arrived to take up residence in their new home.

I put my interest down to my DNA inherited from generations of farmers. Working the land and being close to all that is green and growing, mooing, and crowing, must somehow have become embedded in my psyche because my birthday wish-list as a fourteen year old included a book on self-sufficiency by John Seymour. I have it still, looking a bit tatty around the edges, but no less loved.

Which brings me back to chickens – or to Matilda, to be precise – the dippiest hen I have ever met. Matilda is one of two Chamois Laced Padovanas and 6 other hens from https://www.pipinchicksilkies.com/live-poultry-shop/and I’ll no doubt be writing more about her in the future. She is joined by her sister – Myrtle, two Lemon Laced Padovanas (who have yet to be named), two big Gold Laced Wyandotte girls – Big Sue and Little Sue – and the two pencilled Wyandotte bantams – the youngest of the bunch. Small the bantams might be, but they have fearsome personalities.

What do hens have to do with writing, you might ask? Everything and nothing. For one thing, they make a marvellous foil to sitting and writing, and for another, time spent in their company inspires a surprising number of  ideas for character traits. The question is, do I really want a chilly Felice Langton or a moany Joan in my flock? Thankfully, none of my ladies appear to be that way inclined, even if Big Sue does get a bit picky now and again. The upshot is: if you want to understand people, study hens.

 

 

 

 

 

CF Dunn is an award-winning novelist of history, mystery and suspense. 

She is currently writing The Tarnished Crown series, the first of which, Wheel of Fortune, is described by novelist, Elizabeth Chadwick as ‘The best Wars of the Roses novel I have ever read.’.

Now living in the South West of England, her love of history is equalled only by her delight in the natural world and the unruly sea by which she lives with her family and assorted animals in suitably rambling historic surroundings.

 

 

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WHEEL OF FORTUNE Launch Day!

Wasn’t it a brilliant day? Even several weeks after WHEEL OF FORTUNE’s book launch I’m still buzzing. The sun shone, crowds gathered, and everything ran on rails.

I’m also taking a step back and reviewing the event as a whole. My first thought is that releasing a book involves so much more than writing it and throwing a party. Yes, the lengthy process of editing and negotiations over cover design – all the itsy-bitsy aspects of producing the final version – is complex and time-consuming and I can’t thank LizCarter at Resolute Books enough for all her input and support.

The event itself was something else again, involving lots of people and moving parts especially as we weren’t launching just one book, nor even two, but two books AND a business. This required mega amounts of coordination and a first-class honours degree in organisation. Thankfully, the members of Resolute Books have this in bucket loads. 

Thanks to everyone at Resolute Books and fellow Resolute authors: Paul Trembling, Sue Russell, Ruth Leigh Writes, Edward de Chazal, and Sarah Nicholson. We were spoilt for choice with a superb selection of meats, pies and local cheeses from Framptons Of Bridport, and delicious canapés and St James cake by talented Nick Leigh.

The very gifted Jason Smith of Social Shapes organised photographs of the event (herding authors is no easy task I can tell you) and ensured it was recorded for posterity. Lovely guests  travelled from far and wide and bought many books (thank you!) and we had eight dogs to add to the joy of it all. Congratulations to Paul Trembling for his release of his chilling crime novel, LOCAL KILLER and to Resolute Books for making it a day to remember. 

 

 

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The Kitchen Garden in Review

It’s that time of year when I settle down on a wet February afternoon and plan the planting for the kitchen garden. I’ve also been reviewing last year’s successes and failures and what I might do better. So how has my kitchen garden done in the last year?

Potatoes: the best crop yet – loads of good-sized, quality potatoes free from blight and the dreaded wire worm. 

I planted Maris Piper again – one set in a new raised metal bed, the other in the kitchen beds as normal.
The galvanised planter had fresh soil to avoid wire worm. The kitchen border had the same soil (I always rotate my crops) but, like the previous two years, I went over every square inch of ground with a narrow trowel, removing any wire worms. The robin became my constant companion and we are now on first-name terms. 

Despite the drought, the potatoes grew well and I harvested them quite early. Perhaps this was why they avoided blight?

The only down side of an early harvest is that the tatties have not stored as well as I hoped. They have all spouted despite being kept in optimum conditions. Perhaps it was just too warm an autumn for them?

Onions: my utterly reliable Stuttgart Giants utterly failed. Or at least they should be renamed Stuttgart Minis as they are no larger than a shallot. However, they have kept well and I am indeed using them as shallots so not all is lost. I put it down to the very dry weather last year and move on.

Leeks: ditto as onions. A miserable crop that bolted as soon as the temperatures rose. No sign of rust, though, which is a plus. This year I’m moving them to the big square raised border and see how they do there.

Garlic: not at all bad. I wanted to avoid garlic rust so planted out a few tubs and distributed them around the garden. The resulting bulbs weren’t huge, but they were plentiful and have kept well. They did get a bit of rust, but I was able to harvest them before it could spread.

This year, I planted some out (along with a few spare onions) in November and, despite the torrential rain, they have put on good growth and seem quite pleased with themselves. Time will tell if planting them out in the very wet West was a good idea or not.

Broad beans: last year I planted them the previous autumn in pots, in the greenhouse. By February 2022 they were in full flower. I potted them on and then planted them out a few weeks later. In effect, it meant handling them three times, so three times more work. However, they shot up and flowered their little hearts out. Unfortunately, few of those flowers set (plenty on bees on them) and then the blackfly attacked. We did get a crop, but I don’t think all the extra bother gained us anything at all. This year I planted the beans directly in the ground in November. Every one germinated and were about four inches out of the ground when the December cold snap hit.
I didn’t bother checking them for a couple of weeks. Christmas was coming and I wanted to press on with the latest book project. I needn’t have worried about the fate of the little plants as they laughed off the cold and are still there, looking chirpy.

Tomatoes: the best ever harvest. Every year I have planted cherry tomato types in special pots, tending them with extreme care. And every year, despite large crops, they have been hit by blight and I’ve lost a good third of the harvest. This year, I had a few ‘elbows’ when pinching out the plants, plus a random beef tomato plant, which I bought cheaply at the local garden centre. I thrust the whole lot into a raised bed around a newly planted white beam tree where they flourished, producing big, fat healthy tomatoes. And no blight. Perhaps it was (not) a good year for blight?

Chard: I’ve never grown ruby chard before and probably won’t bother again. It’s still going strong but no one in the family seems particularly keen on eating it.

Sprouting broccoli: beloved by aphids, it was a bind washing the little blighters off the sprouty bits. Nor did the plants produce enough to justify the space they took. 

Butternut squash: mixed results. One plant produced ENORMOUS fruits, while the others were undersized. They’ve all kept well, though.

Courgettes: Not bad all things considered. The season was short, but that was no bad thing.

 

A mixed year, then. I am ever reminded that our ancestors relied on the food they grew and went hungry when crops failed. Tending my little plot I feel the connection to the earth acutely and celebrate the little wins knowing I cannot predict what next year might bring. There is a long story of  Man’s relationship with the soil stretching back before Antiquity, and we recall just a little of it every time we plant a seed in hope of a harvest.

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Soggy Bottoms: Protecting Plants in Winter

The sun has made a welcome appearence and beckons to me. Plants are similarly beguiled and the first signs of spring are there in the green shoots beneath overhanging hedges. It’s that time of year when an unexpected frost can nip tender plants. As a result, I’ve been out and about protecting the most susceptible. Those that don’t need the shelter of the greenhouse – such as pelargoniums and over-wintered physalis – might still fall foul if we have a really sharp spell of cold weather.

The semi-hardy plants fall into three main categories: those that hate having soggy bottoms (and who doesn’t?) and crowns, those that loath dry winds and frost, and those that despise both. Open-structured stems especially fall prey to sub-zero temperatures, the moisture freezing and expanding until the stems are reduced to a brown, rotting mass.

 

In areas of the UK where a prologned frost can be expected most winters, it is traditional to lift softies like dahlias, but here is the balmy South West we can push our luck and leave the tubers in the ground. I’ve tried both ways, but prefer to leave the tubers undisturbed if I can. The east border is pretty much sheltered from the worst weather and what the walls can’t provide in terms of shelter, Salvia Hot Lips does the rest. On the south side of the house, though, the short border gets blasted by wind and rain straight off the sea. Here the dahlias need more than Salvia Amistad offers and I provide them with a thick coat of Strulch or other mulching material to protect them from the twin monsters of wet and cold. This seems to do the trick. I say that in the hope that we are not faced with another Beast From The East (although snow is a surprisingly good insulator).

 

I can’t mulch our tree ferns (Dicksonia antartica), but Eric and Ericson (see what I did there?) are on a raised terrace area and exposed to drying winds. They have been with us for decades and  I used to cosset them with swathes of old towels covered with black bin liners until temperatures rose to a more acceptable 15 C. However, this made them more prone to rot in their lovely knobbly crowns, so an alternative method had to be employed. This proved to be an age-old method of using sacking stuffed with straw, allowing the wooly crowns to breath while providing an insulating layer.

 

It’s a method used extensively throughout the medieval period and is still used today. Now a cage of chicken wire restrains the straw over which sacking covers all. In the more distant past, open woven structures of willow or hazel might form a cone slipped over a frost-tender plant and this filled with straw. Vases or planters, too large to be moved from the open garden, could be wrapped in sacking to prevent frost shattering the fragile clay and to protect the contents.  Smaller pots were often placed against a wall to gain the double benefit of shelter from icy winds and the release of stored warmth from the sun. If snow  threatened, staves – bound together to make a crude trellis – could be propped at an angle like a lean-to and covered with sacking or sheaves of rushes as a make-shift roof.

Even now – when plastic umbrellas sprout over arid-loving plants in Abbotsbury Subtropical Gardens like glossy mushrooms  – the tried and tested methods prevail. Increasingly, I forego the use of plastics in favour of straw, the latter lending greater insulation than chilly plastic and the dubious benefits of horticultural fleece.  As long as enough air can circulate around the crowns or necks, there is little risk of rot. And, if laid as a mulch, straw will protect the roots and keep the soil relatively  warm. Come spring, worms will have integrated some of the material into the soil and the rest can be added to the compost heap. Both will add valuable nutrients to be taken up by new growth. Yet it is only by mid summer that I will discover whether my risky strategy has paid off when the dahlias begin to bloom.

 

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Rear Window: A Room With A View

From the rear window I can see the world outside changing. I’ve been laid up for the last five weeks with a plate holding my fibula together and my broken ankle pinned. It’s the last time I’ll be litter-picking on the coastal footpath for a while. Since that interesting episode in early March, winter has drifted into spring. In a normal year I would flow with it, planting and sowing according to the week and the weather, but my recent accident has taken me down another road. 

So, here I am, watching the tips of branches swell into tiny leaves of vivid green and glowing burgundy. Early prunus blossom has given way to blackthorn egg-white froth, and soon the ballerina-pink, double-flowered ornamental cherries will steal the show. Beyond the garden, I can see the Dorset hills greening under the persistent sun where, not long ago, brown-ribbed earth sported dots of white seagulls.

Snow, rain or milk-mist, the ever-changing landscape is a reminder of life’s fragile persistence. For me, writing without reference to the natural world would be to ignore the foundation of our existence. Whether now or a thousand years ago, the patterns of the seasons are tracked by our senses. Without conscious thought, tendrils of nature wind their way onto the page to anchor fiction in reality. Where would I rather be if being there meant not pausing to look, absorb, breathe? Here I am, trapped by circumstance, but free to see.

Illuminated by the roving sun or silhouetted by the moon, the scene encapsulated by my window never ceases to capture my imagination and my heart.

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