Ranunculus, sweet pea ‘Emily’, Nigella Persian Jewels, Olivia Rose Austin, sweet pea ‘Spring Sunshine Burgundy’, Common Foxglove, Nigella Persian Jewels, Clary Sage, more Nigella.
If colour comes back to the garden in April, then it’s May that sees the return of the scent.
The first sweet cloud as I walk past the bed at the end of the gîte, the heady notes of the wisteria, thrown into each room as the vine tries to climb through every window, and the bright floral scent of the elderflowers at the mouth of the woods, their pollen dusting everything as we pick them to make cordial. Then comes the musky, citrusy perfume of the roses as they slowly open in the sunshine, light and gentle at first, almost tentative, but then as every flower uncurls, their scent sweeps into every corner.
By the end of the month, the very first of the lime blossoms burst, and we walk into pockets of fresh, honey-scented air on every trip into the garden, not cloying and sweet but a clean, soapy smell that makes me stretch out my arms and smile wide. Wherever I am, wherever I go, I want there to be lime trees. Forever now, when I smell that smell, I will be transported back to summers here; it will always be a memory trigger for me.
I have stretched my arms out and smiled wide a lot this May. It’s been a beautiful month; sunny days, warm nights, and just enough rain to keep everywhere looking green. Spring has turned to summer, the days easing and warming, the birds still singing loudly each morning, but with a slower rhythm, chatting and calling to one another as they fly industriously back and forth to their nests.
As I walk quietly through the woods, I hear the cacophony of baby birds screeching for their bite of the worm, hear too the shrieking call of the baby tawny owl to its mother. I find it one day, newly fledged, grey and downy, sitting on the floor of one of the avenues. I’m followed by my usual entourage of cats and the dog, who is already giving it a good sniff. I pull him back by the collar and call Tim, the cats circling behind me, too distracted for now by each other to notice the owl.
In the tree above me, I can hear his mother calling. She swoops across the path in front of us, scowling furiously. Her little one hops and flaps his already wide wings, lifting slightly from the ground, moving further away from us. He flaps again as I hold my ground, keeping Monty back, too, willing the cats to keep ignoring everything but themselves. By the time Tim arrives with gloves to try and help, the little owl has managed to flap, hop, flap, hop himself away to the bushes to hide. I usher my tribe of cats and dog past his hideout amongst the leaves, luring them all inside with treats in the hopes that they’ll stay away long enough for his flying lesson to continue and his parents to come to the rescue.
The boar have been brazen this spring, making their way further and further up the drive towards the house, digging great troughs into the verges to get to the tastiest roots, snuffling through the meadows but mercifully not yet making their way onto the lawns. Perhaps they feel that the moles are doing a fine enough job at disturbing Rufus’ neatly mown stripes. He grumbles constantly as new piles of finely tilled earth arrive in his grass overnight.
The deer too are making the most of the long meadow grasses and the end of the hunting season, wandering through the woods, rubbing their antlers on my baby fruit trees, bounding across the meadows and leaping across the drive, startled by us on our early morning walks. I have been fortunate so far, in that the deer seem to stop at the orchard and come no nearer to my cutting garden. I really hope it stays that way, it would be a shame to have to fence it off.
There’s a sudden shift in the middle of the month; once the hawthorn blossom has faded and the Saints de Glace have passed, every little plant seems to fill out, leaves broadening, stems thickening, everything is suddenly too big for its pot, growing upwards and outwards by inches every day. I go from waiting patiently for the weather to be safely warm enough to plant everything out, to feeling like I’m already behind. I water furiously, trying desperately to keep each little plant happy until it’s its turn to go into the ground.
Of course, if the plants are growing, then the weeds are too, scrambling across beds that should be full of flowers. I weed as I plant out, pulling out potentilla, couch grass, and the dreaded field bindweed, making space and clearing ground for first the snapdragons and scabious, then the phlox and the ammi. I hesitate on the cosmos and zinnias, taking my time to harden them off, potting them on instead into bigger pots with fresh soil to buy myself sometime.
Some of the dahlias are huge now, others are still getting going. I harden off the biggest ones first, moving them out into the sunshine and wind, first during the day and then, after a week or so, during the night too. It’s a workout each day, hefting 180 or so pots in and out the greenhouse. I’m pleased when they can all stay outside, when I only have to check the pots for hungry slugs and snails each day instead.
By the end of the month, I can plant them all out, nestling them into their beds, scattering a few handfuls of slow-release feed onto the soil. I check each plant as I take it from its pot, looking to see if tiny, bright green side shoots are appearing where I pinched out main growing tip. In another month, maybe six weeks the first flowers should start to appear.
Just as I feel like I’m starting to catch up, the first flush of roses begins to fade, petals loosening and scattering to the ground. I’m sad to see them go; they’ve been so beautiful, so happy with the warm days and gentle showers. Worth all the work that goes into pruning them and caring for them all winter long. Now begins the huge job of deadheading and feeding to bring out more flowers later in the summer; all but the Constance Spry will flower again. She’s had her moment to shine and will put all her energy into growing long, thorny stems for me to wrestle with next winter. I should probably hate her, but I can’t; she’s too lovely while she’s here.
Garden jobs for June
Deadhead the roses, and the roses and the roses – it’s going to take a while.
Feed each rose after dead-heading and keep an eye out for black spot. I pull off any leaves that are turning yellow and try to open up the centre of each plant to allow for good air flow – pruning out any new growth that’s growing inwards.
Plant out the zinnias and keep my fingers crossed that they grow – next year I might try direct sowing them because I find them quite diva-ish – ditto the larkspur, which (whisper it) seems finally to be growing from the seeds I threw onto the bed in a fit of frustration in early spring.
Live-head as much as possible – by this I mean cut as many flowers from the cutting garden to use in the house to save myself time deadheading them all when they go over later.
Finish the cutting bed fences and stretch net over to support the dahlias as they grow.
Finish the garden workshop – it’s getting there!
All images Copyright Rebecca Jones.
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