“Me and My Job” Horticulture Week Magazine

This was first published in Horticulture Week Magazine on June 12th 2009. To see this article with ‘wooly hat’ photo click here.

 

How did you get started? Ambling through Inverness one day, admiring the shrubs in the park, a lamppost hit me on the side of the head. Painful. I expect we’ve all done that.

As a full-time gardener in the Highlands of Scotland I don’t encounter lampposts all that often, but I do encounter extremities of weather. Despite this, you have to get on with the job.

What does your typical day involve? One day last February (early morning) I put the cackling ducks out – they spend the night in the kitchen on account of the sly fox that killed the unsuspecting hens – fed the bleating goats and finally, fatally, tied my boot laces just as the dog beside me shook his head in a most vigorous manner, resulting in a sequence of rapid slaps across my face with his ears. Not really what you want first thing in the morning, is it?

One early morning in May began with a crow hammering on the kitchen window with its beak – just the sort of antisocial behavior that encourages running around the garden in garden boots and boxer shorts flourishing a newly bought Irish spade, shouting “Oi, oi, oi” at the rising sun. So that was followed by a spot of cultivation at Mrs Mac’s vegetable plot in Dornoch and some pruning of Leylandii in Tain. So, there are no typical days, really.

What is the best part of your job? I meet many fascinating characters, none more so than “Bingo”, an ex-RAF man who likes nothing better than burning weeds with a flame thrower. Between us we have created a minimalist garden landscape with some memorable features that reflect his passion for power tools.

What does the future hold? I’m never too sure what even the next moment might hold.

‘Rural Ramblings’ from Scotland (Another ‘Rural Ramble’ for June)

Here you will find the latest Rural Rambling Article by ‘Rambling Bloke’, first published in the Ross-shire Journal on June 26th 2009. 

‘Rural Rambling’ (Another Ramble for June 2009)

One day “now will be years ago” (D.Owens), time rolls by and as you get older the past vividly reminds you of the speed at which the future becomes the present. And now for a chewy chicken tale with a hint of Barney Rubble, over-sized croquet mallets and Vivaldi. And why not? I am told that there is a chicken in Ross-shire called after me, or the Gaelic equivalent anyway: Padraig. I’m honoured, for it’s not everyday that someone calls a chicken after you. I promised the responsible party that I would reciprocate in kind next time we got a goat. The choice of pet names, of course, is always interesting. We have a dog called Molly, the same name as my mother-in-law which can result in some confusion when she comes to stay, and some years ago one of the children suggested Gobbolino as the name for a new puppy, a character from a mythical tale first published in 1943 by Ursula Williams (still in print, ask your kids). On the face of it a fine if not unusual name. But then the prospect of shouting the shortened version of Gobb or Gobbi in a public place negated against this particular choice, though possibly the Gaelic equivalent, whatever that might be, might be more socially acceptable. We were at a Gaelic evening of song and dance not long ago at Bogbain Farm actually, which is just outside Inverness (to the left of the A9 as you head south), and the most innovative of the musicians that evening (though not singing in Gaelic) was a singer-songwriter called Dean Owens from Leith who strummed a fine tune. One of his lyrics “now will be years ago” struck me as a phrase I would have loved to have penned myself. He took the occasional swig from a hip flask between songs (could have been Highland Spring water for all I know) and still his voice retained clarity throughout, which is not something that can be said for some of today’s songs that tend to replace the first sound with a ‘ch’ more often than not. “There’s nothing I’d rather chew (do) than be with chew (you)” and so on and so forth. Is that a hearing thing, I wonder, something to chew with my age or just a lyrical phase that musicians of today go through? Have a listen yourself, Moray Firth Radio, Tich McChewey, see what you think. It’s certainly an innovative idea. I listen more to the chewy kind of music myself rather than the classical, but there is a large garden I frequent on a regular basis where a certain notable of the district furnishes me with filter coffee and a blast of Vivaldi or Haydn through the conservatory window as I tend to his heather beds and shrubberies. It was here, actually, just a week or so ago that he loaned me an antiquated wooden Mell or Mallet for bashing in posts (to support his sweet peas) which was at least four times the size of a modern one and, indeed, possibly something that Fred Flintstone or Barney Rubble would use to play croquet if they decided to have a bash at that sort of thing. Can you visualize it? On this antiquated theme, having recently hit fifty (not cricket runs or croquet strikes but years), referring to modern day music as chewy and with hair sprouting from my ears like the best organic veg (don’t bother to visualize that) I have become a serious contender for antiquity status myself and, Good Lord, I do believe I am turning into my Grand-Father which, of course, is how it should be.

(First published in the Ross-shire Journal 26/6/09)

‘Rural Ramblings’ from Scotland (A ‘Rural Ramble’ for June)

Here you will find the latest Rural Rambling Article by ‘Rambling Bloke’, first published in the Ross-shire Journal on June 5th 2009. 

‘Rural Rambling’ (June 2009)

A man on his hands and knees sifted through fallen pine needles in the garden, a sweep net protruding from his back pocket and a magnifying glass in hand, quite clearly a man searching for bugs (‘bug man’) although I didn’t know this at the time, not to begin with anyway, as I’d never met the man before in my life. So what was he doing in our garden? Well, it was like this, you see, his wife and mine, work colleagues, friends, dropped by for a chat, cup of tea, carrot cake, that sort of thing, brought husband along, and children too, mustn’t forget them, and very pleasant folk they were too. Now our garden isn’t much of a garden really, no, more accurate to describe it as a large woody place with damp areas, fine for the midges but not fine for anything much else apart from heathers, conifers and a variety of uninteresting looking sedges (unless sedges is your thing). Boggy land, that’s what we have, and lots of it, though undoubtedly a wonderful habitat for bugs of the microscopic kind and clearly fascinating if you happen to be an entomologist dropping by for a cup of tea. I watched with mounting curiosity as Mr ‘Entomologist’ (he looked a bit like the actor, Charles Dance, to be honest) glided smoothly through the heather, his sweep net swishing energetically back and forth, side to side, stopping regularly to inspect the contents. He carried bug detecting equipment with him at all times, you see, ready to leap into action whenever necessary. No deranged individual with strange habits, this guy, no, far from it, but a highly respected scientist equipped with a hand-held satellite navigation system to pinpoint and record the exact position of any rare or exotic bugs he might come across. Fascinating. During an interval in tea and cake consumption we gathered by the pond to view pond skaters, toads, dragon flies and similar beasties (sweep net now replaced by ‘pond net’), all of which I could see at any time of course, only now they were revealed through the eyes of an enthusiastic entomologist who’s obvious excitement was hard to contain as he flitted from spot to spot uttering strange whooping noises. Fantastic! There were dragon flies in abundance by the pond, creatures hitherto viewed suspiciously by me as ‘wasp-like flying carrots’ to be avoided at all costs (to run away from in fact) although on this occasion I stood still and, for a fleeting moment or two, before my eyes they metamorphosed from ‘flying carrots’ into ‘insects of beauty’, though I must admit not quite beautiful enough to get too close to and prevent me from losing my dignity by running away if they invaded my personal space. Just before ‘Bug Man’ departed he noted the exact location of a rare species of insect (using satellite technology of the hand-held variety) and announced in no uncertain terms that we were lucky to possess such “good quality bog”. And with this startling revelation ringing in our ears they were gone, returning home via a bug-infested wood stump – spotted earlier in Scotsburn – that clearly merited further investigations. So next time you’re out and about the ‘bog lands’ of Ross-shire and see a deranged-looking individual who looks a bit like Charles Dance prancing through heather and sedge, take note for he may not be deranged at all but simply an enthusiastic entomologist out for a jaunt with his family, a sweep net in one hand and the latest techno-wizardry in the other. As for us, we see our garden in a different light now. It may not be the neatest garden in the world, but – my word, good heavens – we’ve certainly got “good quality bog” and not many people can say that, now can they?

(First published in the Ross-shire Journal 5/6/09)

‘Rural Ramblings’ from Scotland (A ‘Rural Ramble’ for May)

Here you will find the latest Rural Rambling Article by ‘Rambling Bloke’, first published in the Ross-shire Journal on May 8th 2009. 

‘Rural Rambling’ (May 2009)

We are being woken early in the morning by a crow hammering on the kitchen window. This has happened before, of course, and I recall writing in the newspaper at the time that this was just the sort of anti-social behavior that encourages running around the garden in the dawning morning in garden boots and boxer shorts flourishing a ‘newly bought, still in it’s box, ready to install the following morning fluorescent light tube’ shouting ‘oy, oy, oy’ at the rising sun. I have matured since then, of course, the fluorescent light tube is now safely installed in the kitchen and it’s still a bit too cold for running around the garden in boxer shorts at this time of year, not to mention the start of the midge season. A new approach is required, maybe a CD hanging in front of the kitchen window to distract it, a Phil Cunningham or Anna Massie perhaps? That might do the trick?

Anyway, moving on to other matters, my Granny looks like the back end of a goat (tha coltas ton goibhre air mo ghranaidh) is how I intended to begin this piece. On reflection, however, this is not strictly true: the back-end of the goat reminds me of my Granny (tha ton na goibhre a cur nam chuimhne air mo ghranaidh) would be closer to the mark.

This is what came to mind when we first got a goat. They both had the same sort of walk, you see, when viewed from behind anyway, and although it’s not a complimentary thing to be saying about anyone’s Granny, Gwyneth, my Welsh Granny, wouldn’t have minded in the least. Departed as she is from this world for many years now, I’m sure she’d have a good chuckle if she could read this today for she always did have a keen sense of humour. That’s Gwyneth for you, my Welsh granny from Swansea.

Many years ago when she was staying with us a cow walked through the mixed hedging and into our back garden simply because it wanted to. No hedge was going to stop this particular breed of cow. What breed was it? I don’t know, but undoubtedly a big breed, I recall, and a stubborn breed at that. ’Back end of the Goat’ Granny marched from the house shouting “Shoo, shoo, shoo…” at the top of her voice whilst the clumsy big beastie trampled rose beds, shrub beds and anything else in its path worth dismantling. There was considerable damage. Granny, of course, was undaunted.  She pushed at the cow’s rear end and continued with her “Shoo, shoo, shooing…” despite the fact that the beastie took not a blind bit of notice. The final outcome to this episode (if I recall correctly) involved a farmer with a stick, Granny enacting a unique tribal war dance of Welsh extraction and a second gap appearing in the hedge as the cow left just as incompetently as it had arrived. Fantastic. What an enduring image to hold onto from years ago – my Granny, the Welsh Warrior!

When writing for the newspaper, of course, it is important to impart a clear message that has relevance for contemporary times, so here’s mine:

If your granny reminds you of the back end of a goat -  or the back end of a goat reminds you of your granny – then you had better have a very good reason for it, for otherwise you could be in serious trouble!

So there you are. Finally, I must thank Tomas from Skye for his Gaelic ‘back end of the goat’ translations. Others might have quietly ignored such a request, Tomas didn’t.

(First published in the Ross-shire Journal 8/5/09) 

 

‘Rural Ramblings’ from Scotland (A ‘Rural Ramble’ for April)

 Rural Rambling Article by ‘Rambling Bloke’, first published in the Ross-shire Journal on April 10th 2009. I hope you enjoy it.

 

‘Rural Rambling’ (April 2009)

 

Inverness Airport guarantees you a healthy walk if you park your car in the long stay car park.  Prestwick Airport, on the other hand, doesn’t (there’s a bus), although it does have a large fruit mural in the departure lounge – apples, bananas, grapes, that sort of thing – so obviously both airports take the health of their passengers very seriously.

Prestwick, of course, wasn’t always so fruit orientated. A couple of years ago I was waiting in the departure lounge for a flight to Bournemouth International Airport (in reality a collection of antiquated sheds) and found Prestwick to be refreshingly continental. Apart from an irritating man on his mobile phone ordering forty tonnes of Aberdeen Angus for a supermarket chain, an agricultural couple discussing the merits of sheep on the electoral roll and a poster on the wall advertising the Ceilidh Minogue band (what a cracking name!) playing a Gig in Auchtermuckty, the place had a decidedly french flavour with just a hint of the Ayr sea air.

I had a coffee from the “Bar de Voyageur”, an egg mayonnaise sandwich from “Delice de France” and consumed them under the watchful eye of a plaque (now replaced by a large banana) that announced I was sitting in a space designated as “Charles de Gaulle Place”. I could almost smell the whiff of Gauloises, you know, from a mirage of French onion sellers as they crooned a Charles Aznavour song.

Anyway, returning to Prestwick last year I was disappointed to discover that it had lost it’s French ambience and had metamorphosed into a putrid mishmash of oranges and yellows, some neon signs, fruit murals of course, and the usual ‘shortbread and old gift shop’ that you find anywhere. Disappointing.

My destination on that occasion was Dublin Airport, possibly similar in décor to Prestwick, I can’t recall, but I do recall having a blether with the taxi driver. “What’s that?” I asked in all innocence as we passed Dublin’s towering spire on the way into the city. “The Millennium Spire,” he said, “replaced Nelson’s column, blew it up in ’66, his head survived, under lock and key in the museum now.” And that was the end of that historical conversation. We had a good weekend in Dublin. A tour of the Guinness Tower, a wander about Trinity College where my Grand-Father studied many years ago and a pint in the ‘Hairy Lemon’ to mention but a few of the highlights. Air travel is so convenient these days, is it not? We also had a long weekend in La Rochelle last year. The airport there doesn’t have a departure lounge, you know, so there’s little danger of your senses being assaulted by large fruits, you simply wait outside to be summoned for your flight, admire the view (runway and fields) and hope it doesn’t rain. Undoubtedly the best departure lounge that isn’t a departure lounge I’ve ever had the pleasure to wait in.

Here in the Highlands, of course, we are fortunate to have Inverness Airport which has a certain quaint eccentricity about it, although accessing the departure lounge can be just as rigorous as any other airport in the country. Have you noticed how every third person must remove their shoes, or is that just an observational coincidence?  Interestingly enough, having been through shoe removal, frisking, metal detection and a luggage search, most of us would be content to sit quietly and await boarding. My father, on the other hand, who visited recently and went through all the above security procedures (obviously a suspicious-looking eighty-two year old) promptly decided to head back to the main foyer to find a particular newspaper, unfazed by the possibility of going through the whole process again. Good for him. The pull of newsprint was just too strong. If we all did this there would be chaos, of course, so I suspect it doesn’t happen very often. What newspaper was it? The Ross-shire Journal perhaps? I must ask him.

 

 

(First published in the Ross-shire Journal 10/4/09)