Gardening

One of the things that journalists seem to enjoy these days is writing a headline for an extreme weather event. But they don't stop there. No matter whether it is a dry spell, heavy rain or a strong wind these things are invariably placed in the context of the way the world climate is changing from what we consider 'normal' to something else. A weather event that in the past we might have thought of simply as a rare phenomenon is then thrown back at us by the news media who will bombard us with images of floods in India, drought in Africa, melting glaciers in Greenland (easily done because of the way our world is forever connected through the internet) and all this happens so quickly that our own perception of the weather event changes.

As I write this, for the last week or so our country has been sitting under a static high pressure system which has brought us light winds, dull dreary days with little or no direct sunshine but no rain, none at all. This is unusual. In all the time we have been living in Scotland we cannot recall anything like this occurring. The 'normal' pattern where we live is for constant change, a few days of wind, rain coming and going, sunshine off and on, a world where the next day will always be different. What outdoor jobs you can't do today can be done the next or the one after. Multiple days of identical weather are rare but this particular high pressure system hovered over us all week, the barometer needle stuck in one position. The absence of wind meant that it felt quite warm outside and as a result we attacked the garden with everything we had, forks, spades, rakes and strimmers. Nothing was safe. The end result was a compost bonanza for each of our raised beds, the creation of a couple more, and most exciting of all, we built a toad house!

For anyone that might be confused by this you should note that the toad way of life involves waddling about on land just as much as splashing about in water. They like cool damp places with water somewhere within reach and in winter they will seek out such a dark place under a pile of stones, somewhere they know they will be safe from anything that might see them as a good meal. Generally they do not tend to waddle about in daylight so the fact that we have not seen any since we dug the pond in our garden does not necessarily mean they are not around. So just in case one should feel inclined to visit we have provided a home, free of charge. A pile of rocks covered by some turfs which will grow into a shapely roof. The only question is whether we need a sign over the entrance explaining what it is for.

Moving on and reading up on garden chores appropriate for autumn we learn that this is the right time to be turning over the compost that we have in our unsightly plastic bins. The process first involves digging out the material that is at the bottom since this is where the fully rotted stuff is normally found. The rest is 'partly cooked' and will need more time to decompose so this is transferred to an empty bin to start another season of rotting. One of my favourite tools is a compost stirrer, a device that spins on the end of a drill and bores into the compost, mixing the pile vertically and letting air into the lower layers. This is supposed to accelerate the decomposition process and as such I find it quite satisfying.

Which brings us very neatly to the 'Hugelkultur' experiment.

This is a mad idea that came to us via some random social media post. It is (allegedly) a way of creating a vegetable planting bed using layers of material all lying on top of some bits of old wood. The idea is that the roots from what is planted on top will dive down and feed on what is released from the wood underneath as it rots away. Our version still awaits some planting and we scattered sawdust on it to make it look like a Christmas cake, not part of the recommendations.

Elsewhere we decided that the garden needed some trees. I should perhaps explain that our garden slopes down quite steeply from the back fence towards the house and the presence of old tree stumps close to the back boundary tells us that some quite large trees once grew here, maybe before the house itself was built. There is also some exposed rock which, we have discovered, is solid bedrock that extends beneath the top third of our land as well as beneath the house. In the light of this you could say we are lucky to have anything in which to grow our own plants. But we have, and it turns out that the soil we have is dark and rich. It is also invariably moist as the underlying rock only allows rainwater to filter slowly away through its cracks and crevices. The patches of heather and the thick moss covering so much of the garden are other indicators that it was once a woodland so planting trees of our own seemed like a logical step. One side of the garden is particularly damp, runoff always ensuring our pond is never short of water and this overflows into an area where reeds and damp loving grasses thrive. Our choice of tree here is the alder, generally found growing with water close by. Elsewhere in the garden we dig holes for two aspen trees, hoping they will survive long enough to display their fluttering leaves for us. It was whilst digging the holes for these that we discovered the extent of the solid rock which lies less than a spade depth below ground level, prompting us to choose a spot just beyond the line of bedrock.

Our trees arrived by post having been ordered online (the modern way) and arrived in a slim cardboard box. Each one consisted of a single stalk rising from a tiny bundle of roots, hardly meeting the definition of 'tree'. The aspen stems each had just a single leaf right at the tip although the alder proudly displayed several healthy looking green ones along its thin stalk, the word 'trunk' hardly seeming appropriate, but we planted them in the ground then immediately wrapped the delicate things in insulating foam tubes to keep them safe. Given our climate here they are unlikely ever to need watering but they will need protection from the deer that wander into the garden from time to time. It will be several years before these tiny twigs have grown tall enough to be beyond their reach.

Language

First of all, a bit of translation. The language I grew up with, English, uses the noun 'job' to describe two different things. One is an occupation or career, the sort of thing one would do routinely by working for an employer in exchange for a reward, usually in the form of money. The word has another meaning when used to describe a task or a single piece of work such as repairing a tap, digging a hole in the garden or wallpapering the bedroom. I now realise, however, that if the language I had grown up with had been American English then I might use another word in place of my second meaning. That word is 'project'. The first time I heard the word used in this way I was confused, largely because to me a project was something rather different, something bigger, something planned and considered in advance which might take days or weeks to complete. Designing and building a house would be considered a 'project' and this would involve a series of smaller 'jobs' using a variety of different skills.

Why is this important? To begin with it illustrates the way that our spoken language can become adapted in different ways without necessarily becoming totally misunderstood. But take the word 'cool'. Again I have been brought up to understand that this describes the temperature of an environment or an object. It is a relative term with no precise value attached to it, but it is a word that my parents would only ever have used in this context. Today, however, this same word has another meaning altogether, one that is again relative and rather imprecise but at the same time it has acquired a positive aspect. It can describe people, an experience, even a job or a project and it has nothing to do with the temperature at all. Some people might even describe a visit to the sauna as 'cool'.

In the absence of a relevant photo to accompany this blog I give you a random picture with no relevance to the topic.

Since we decided to make Scotland our home (a life changing event that took place more than fifteen years ago) we have adapted our own spoken language based upon the way the English language is spoken by those around us. [In some ways it feels wrong to call it the 'English' language but I shall stick with this name for the moment.] There are two main ways in which we have changed our own speech. Firstly there are words used everyday that can only be described as 'Scots'; words like dreich, blether, brae and canny that possibly have their origins in Gaelic or Norse. More subtle, however, is the way the language is spoken, the emphasis placed upon particular syllables in a way that is different to that of the English I grew up with. Many place names in Scotland have been 'anglicised' or roughly translated from the original Gaelic so that the road signs can be pronounced by visitors from south of the border. When one needs to ask a local for directions to these places one must be able to pronounce them properly to be understood and in many instances this is simply a matter of placing the emphasis on the right syllable. One example of this is a village not far from us called 'Kilberry'. Most English speakers would emphasise the first syllable, making it sound like a type of fruit. In fact it is the anglicised spelling of the Gaelic name Cill Bheiridh, the meaning of the first part of this name means 'chapel' or 'church'. Like many other Scottish place names, the emphasis comes on the penultimate syllable. Another example is the village of Ardrishaig where the first syllable, 'Ard' refers to a headland or promontory and the rest is a bramble bush. The emphasis on the 'drish' syllable is rarely heard when the name is spoken by visitors from England.

The longer we are here and exposed to the language spoken by those born and raised here the more our own speech is influenced by the local dialect. Most people tend to retain the accents we grew up with, usually acquired whilst at school, but different words do slip into our speech, particularly when we are in conversation with someone local, and we do not resist this when it happens. In fact we think it is pretty cool! For example when speaking to a Scot we will say "We stay in Tarbert", meaning that this is the village where we live. What we don't hear spoken much, however, is the Gaelic language. Fluent speakers are rare in our locality, an outcome of the history of the Kintyre peninsular going back to a time when speaking the language was actually banned. This is gradually changing as today there is a strong movement seeking to bring it back and the BBC Alba channel is broadcast entirely in Gaelic.

We met a couple recently whose command of spoken English was very poor as they had recently arrived from Odessa, escapees from the Russian invasion of Ukraine. Without the benefit of Google's translation app our conversation with them would have been something of a challenge but we each had phones held ready and by speaking a phrase into this we could stimulate the phone to make the translation so we could understand each other. This, combined with nods and smiles, gestures common to us all, meant we could communicate quite easily, although perhaps a little slower than usual.

A recent visit to the city of Glasgow, a three hour bus ride away from home, highlighted another feature associated with the way we communicate. In our home village and indeed across most of rural Scotland, when approaching someone on the street it is normal practice to make eye contact just before passing by. This will normally trigger a greeting of some sort, a quick 'Hi' perhaps or even 'How are you doing', a short greeting being the minimum one might expect from a stranger. If it is someone we know then a pause for a conversation (a 'blether' to the Scots) is likely. When the initial eye contact does not happen it usually means you have just passed a tourist. In Glasgow, however, eye contact is avoided by most passers by, perhaps for good reasons although for us visitors this is strange and unwelcoming behaviour that makes us feel uncomfortable, unsafe even. The rush and bustle of city life is something we happily avoid as much as we can anyway but there are occasions when we just cannot avoid travelling there. Our bus passes might give us free travel and the journey around mountains and through glens might be something most would happily pay for but it is not something we undertake gladly. Nothing would persuade us today to live in a city environment.

One final thought on the language issue. We both recently called in at the local village hall to have our flu 'jags' and these seem to have caused some unpleasant side effects - sneezing, runny noses, aches in unexpected places. All part of modern life, of course.

Normality

After our 'Hebridean Adventure' the routine of 'normal' life hits home leaving us with mixed feelings. We settle back into daily routines: walking to the shops, hanging out the washing, following the news, watching Phil, a local pheasant, strutting around in the garden and Rob, our friendly robin eating at our feeder, watching TV (not something we missed at all). All these things being part of the experience of life in a house as opposed to a campervan. The rain continues, off and on, and the garden soaks it up. Then the wind changes direction and it suddenly feels cooler, like autumn, which of course it is. The Equinox comes and goes and we light the stove to keep ourselves warm.

Our bikes seem to have survived everything the Hebrides threw at them and at the first opportunity we take them for a spin along the Crinan Canal, one of our favourite rides due to the absence of anything remotely like a hill. But then we are sidetracked and turn off along the road to Tayvallich, a seven mile detour to the coast. Here we do encounter some ups and downs but a little electric power easily copes with this and eventually we get to sit on a bench and admire the view across the Sound of Jura whilst eating our sandwiches. Riding back the way we came, this time with the wind at our backs, brings us to the top of our favourite hill and a long descent on a stretch of smooth, recently laid tarmac. We descend at terrific speed with the wind in our hair. Nothing overtakes us here but we are soon back beside the Crinan Canal riding at normal speed again. We end the round trip, riding around thirty miles in total, and recognise that this might be our last ride for a while with autumn now upon us.

Then a few days later the rain really starts.

The back garden is awash, each of the pathways we have created to allow us to walk through our dense, untamed vegetation now holds standing water, a testament to the correctness of our garden strategy. The long grass and heather that grows across most of the garden simply absorbs the rain, capturing it until it can soak away slowly in its own time. The pathways across the garden hold the water because the soil is compressed and the water cannot soak in so well.

One storm blows away eastwards giving us a lull and a dry spell before the next one is due.

And this is a big one called 'Amy'. Warnings are published days in advance - winds gusting over one hundred miles an hour and heavy rainfall coming onto already drenched ground.

The day starts quietly, dry with not a breath of wind. This lasts until around ten in the morning when a light rain begins to fall. By midday the wind has arrived, steadily building and throwing the rain against our windows. It arrives from a south-easterly direction but the forecasters promise that this will spin around rapidly, eventually ending up as a northwesterly blast. Our house sits high above the village giving us a spectacular view but at the same time exposing us to whatever the weather chooses to throw at us. We sit and watch, trying not to be too alarmed at the noise of the rain hammering down. Going out is not recommended and we see social media posts with pictures of flooding locally. The rain is already having an impact but this is only the start. We can expect much more wind and this means trees getting blown over, blocking some of our roads. Our local ferry has come back into the harbour, services cancelled for the day, and local businesses are shutting their doors too, trying to discourage people from going out.

We have a log store full of bits of rhododendron wood, mostly hacked from the bushes growing just beyond our garden fence, all branches which were cut up and stored over six months ago so it is reasonably dry. Our multi fuel stove makes short work of this, keeping us warm at the same time, which is a bonus, particularly when the electric power goes off. Suddenly we are plunged into a world where nothing works, no mobile signal, no lights, no cooker or kettle to make a cup of tea. Out come the candles and our portable camping gas stove. Power comes back on briefly then some time after midnight we lose it again and it remains off for most of the next day. In the morning we realise that we don't know the time (electric clock) and being unable to communicate we cannot know how far the power cut extends. We later discover that this power cut only affected our village although there were plenty of others around Scotland in a similar position.

As the day progresses the squalls come on suddenly; a blast of wind and rain hammering noisily against our windows, then it passes over to let the sun pop out briefly. The deer wandering about in our road seemed largely unconcerned and was probably happy to have the road to himself for once. Just before three in the afternoon we are switched back on again. Somewhere, someone has been working hard to fix whatever was broken in the storm, quite a challenge as the gusts have not abated at all.

As it turns out the timing of the electric power returning was perfect as we needed some light for our band's evening performance in the harbour marquee, a remarkable structure that manages to survive anything the weather can throw at it.

We were booked to play some tunes to entertain the local beach cleaners, a regular event here where groups of volunteers go out and and pick up litter from one or other of our local beaches. This being the last such event of the season the cleaners were rewarded with some free food and entertainment. We even managed to get them dancing a couple of times, not bad considering they had just finished their fish suppers.

So this is normal life. As ever the weather dictates so much of what we do at home on a day to day basis just as much as when we are away on holiday.