Decomposing tennis ball found in the compost.
I walk across the hard edged shadows of some railings, and in the intense midsummer sun, notice the geometrical shapes of the rooftops and chimneys of the terrace cottages in Warwick Road, also projected as shadows on the cobbles.
For the last few years, I have had access to a hose close to the vegetable garden. In the hot weather, given the quick-draining soil, I am very glad of it. Patience is important. Because it is so easy to stand and spray, I can, misled by the pressure of the water, sometimes fail to give the plants the soaking they need. Too superficial a watering and the roots instead of going down where there are useful nutrients can keep to the surface where they are likely to dry out again too quickly. To ensure that I stand long enough with the hose, I count slowly to 50 when standing over each group of plants, and test the depth of the soaking with the hoe. Fifty does it.
The spray is an irrigational delusion. Because of its comforting hiss, the curving trajectories of its jets. the silver bubbles on the plant leaves and the occasional rainbow there is, as you say, a false impression that something is happening. A more pragmatic but less elegant solution is to detach the fitment and lay the open end of the hose on the ground near the plant for a few seconds. It's the sort of insistence I'd expect from that wretchedly bossy sergeant-major type who now fronts Gardener's World.
The other is to jam the end of the hose into the handle of a fork (another use for that implement), angle it accordng to your needs leave it to spray untended, and move the fork and hose as necessary.
Post a Comment