Opening the curtains to the glorious vision of my cherry blossom tree, back again to bewitch me if only for a few weeks, days rarely start better.
Japan’s unofficial national flower – the cherry blossom (or sakura) – is said to express life as beautiful, if often short.
The transience of the blossoms – the extreme beauty and quick death – has often been associated with mortality; for this reason, cherry blossoms are richly symbolic.
The tree is said to be native to the Himalayas but seems to grow just as well in Idle, Bradford. In ancient times people were said to sit under the trees eating and drinking sake.
In Japan they have flower viewing parties; in Idle, one sad old man sits in his sun chair, freezing his nuts off, content with the beauty above, clutching a cold one and a bag of salt & vinegar crisps, viewing the circling pigeons with suspicion.
In Washington DC, over 3,000 trees reach peak bloom and the National Park Service monitors their progress obsessively. Billy next door moans like hell as the debris from my tree conveniently trashes his manicured lawn.
For me the blossom signifies the real start of the gardening season. As someone who as a child could not grow a dandelion, this is my awakening from winter hibernation and the evil temptations of The Scruffy.
Amazingly, my crap polycarbonate greenhouse has survived another winter, at one point not merely losing a few panels but being lifted clean from it’s moorings, only to be rescued by enough cable ties to moor a hot air balloon.
This year Wilson Snr has supplied an automatic window vent opener, a dandy piece of kit that is supposed to open the window on hot days.
So far, it remains in it’s box unable to open said box and defeating Snr’s lifetime in engineering. Of course I have nothing to offer to resolve this situation other than the hope that the annual Daily Express led promises of a heatwave fail to materialise.
Many of us keen gardeners have been tentatively sowing a few seeds, more in hope than wild expectation, trying to get a fast start and have some shoots of promise before the onset of our television gurus, who we watch in wide-eyed awe.
Whilst not as well known as BBC 2’s Gardener’s World, I prefer a little known programme on foreign television. Beechgrove Garden is screened on BBC 2 Scotland and more accurately reflects our Northern climes than Monty’s Southern paradise.
Plus, we get old Jim who I swear I have never seen anybody so excited at the prospect of a new greenhouse in this series’ opener; perhaps being a Scot it’s because he has not had to pay for it?
This man knows his tatties even if it seems he cannot bend down now to plant them. Maybe that silly little Sturgeon woman might want something to do after the election?
If the wicked witch gets her evil way in a few weeks, everything will be free in Scotland and Monty’s Long Meadows estate will house Trident.
Gardening though is the antithesis of politics; there are no quick fixes and easy promises to soothe the amateur. Season after season of toil to get soil conditioned, follow year after year of unsurprising failures to grow the latest trendy veg.
Tools are important too and everybody should have a dibber.
We are urged to “feel the soil” seeking out warmth and moisture; probe too deeply though and cat shit is the most likely source of heat and moisture so the dibber is a must.
Perhaps the greatest virtue of all though is patience for you need this in buckets. Growing crops is like a teenage romance; so full of heady expectations yet crushing blows year after year; you need to stay in the game to prosper and enjoy the fruits.
Some five or six years after I jumped out of bed one sunny Sunday morning to decide to dig up my entire back garden, leaving the then Mrs W wondering if it was all her fault, the obsession grows stronger year by year.
I have my own special advisor these days – good enough for the politicians then why not me – in Master Ken, Chiz’s Dad and resident wit at the local Eccleshill Horticultural Society.
Phone calls are expertly handled by the Master’s wife and Grasshopper is never refused the best advice on the market.
When Saturday comes, men will bid farewell to wives and children, setting off for battle once more on faraway fields, bats slung over shoulders, balls neatly shone.
Similarly, I will make sure my “babies” are fed and watered and the non-automatic vent is fully opened before I bid a teary farewell too, knowing I will be back similarly watered many hours later to sit for bedtime stories.
Peter Graham
On the eve of the new season we learnt of the sad passing of a true gentleman and outstanding local cricketer. A bowler so deadly accurate most batsmen were simply tortured to death.
I only ever batted against him once, late in his career, which was just as well as I could not lay bat on ball even then.
For many years Pete’s sports shop PC Sports has also been the place to get your cricket gear, safe in the knowledge that you also got a warm welcome, great advice and knowledge too.
Quite simply a lovely bloke to have known.
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