So having accomplished the extremely modest gardening feat of planting a few herbs in a little corner of the yard at the Manse in Queensborough, I am now a bona fide gardening fiend. Big plans! Most of which I am sure I will not be able to execute (at least until I acquire a lot more garden wisdom and experience than I currently have); but it’s fun to dream.
Next up: wild roses. Raymond and I bought a packet of wild-rose seeds during our visit last weekend to the Old Hastings Mercantile in Ormsby, a fantastic store that sells absolutely everything (or so it seems) – and that I will be telling you a lot more about in tomorrow’s post. I adore roses, but have long considered the job of managing cultivated rosebushes – a very fine art – as something way beyond my ken. But I kind of think (though what do I know?) that wild roses don’t require much attention at all, and that is my kind of plant.
I have decided the wild roses should go in the spot toward the rear of the Manse where the plastic compost bin was, until very recently. That compost bin was just an annoyance, having been poorly managed before our arrival at the Manse – and I’m not blaming anybody here; I know from personal experience that doing compost properly is a bit of an art and (pace, environmentalists) quite possibly more trouble than it’s worth. When we got there it was filled with stuff that was definitely not good compost. (Note to former users of that bin: plastic bags do not go into the compost bin.) Anyway, one recent weekend I took that sucker apart and disposed of the contents, and now we have a great sunny spot for a wild-rose bush.
And then there’s the rear of the house. This evening I was thinking out loud about what we might plant there, and mentioned hollyhocks, which I quite like because they’re tall and pretty. But as I was blithering on to Raymond about the prospect of hollyhocks, I also mentioned that when I was a very small child at the Manse, growing against that sunny back wall were some very healthy blackberry bushes. (Long since gone, doubtless because my father, the woodlot manager/United Church minister, turned that space into a woodpile.) And Raymond said, interestingly and sensibly: why not have blackberry bushes again? And/or raspberry bushes?
And you know what? Why not?
So I think we have a plan. Wild-rose bushes against the south wall of the house; blackberry bushes – and maybe raspberries too – again the west wall.
It almost sounds like I know what I’m doing on the gardening front. Which, I hasten to add, I do not. But did I mention that it’s fun to dream?