A View From (Just By) The Greenhouse; A Mini Postcard, A Lament

I saw the squirrel before it saw me. It loped towards me by the verge before turning into the yard and setting off up the path, where it was met by Burt and the B&M department. Rather than take the chance of being mistaken for a rat and quickly despatched with a shovel to the back of the head, it took refuge in the shed, but not for long! We (B&M dept.) managed to shoot a short video (the pics a still) as it left the shed, climbed a gatepost & leapt into the greengage tree, before making good it’s escape along the old greenhouse roof. Given the paucity of noteworthy events here in the rural hinterland, this short interlude from a rarely seen neighbour kept us occupied in conversation for at least ten minutes before things turned to more important matters, like “are you watering this mornin’, or am I”? Country life…..innit?

As much as I try to make sure this doesn’t happen, it happens. I tie trusses up to leaves, or sometimes manoeuvre a leaf into position underneath a truss to give it added support. I also, on occasion, cut back smaller fruits, to lessen the possibility of the weight of the fruits snapping or fully detaching the truss from the plant. Some plants manage the weight quite well, others don’t but I never get all the ones at risk until it’s too late (it can happen quite quickly). Any road up, I’m trying to ripen this bunch by keeping them in a paper sack accompanied by a banana skin. Some say it’s an old wives tail, we’ll see.

We decided, after consulting “The Smallholders Encyclopaedia”, to lift the onions and dry them out for a week or so on the longer greenhouse table. My loyal reader may remember that we planted thirty two each of red and white sets, so taking into account the eight I lifted in anticipation of the show, and given some of the atrocious weather we’ve had, a final haul of forty six very nice onions isn’t too shabby an outcome. We had contemplated tying them into strings (a la cour de la route Francais), but, being the rough and lazy gardener that I am, I think we’re going to buy half a dozen pairs of cheap tights and knot individual onions into the legs (in the manner of the lazy Englishman). You know it makes sense.

It was impossible to resist taking a decent handful of these lovely black grapes for a little snack. Both vines heavy are heavy with bunches, although the younger one (on the western side of the house) is ripening more slowly and they’re as sweet, tangy and juicy as they ever were, if not more so. Thank you, Klimate Katastrophe, for this little burst of heat and sunshine at the tail end of the season.  I imagine it’s the kind of weather winemakers dream of, while bought and paid for “scientists” and greedy, corrupt politicians continue to try to convince us that a little bit of summer sunshine means we’re all going to spontaneously combust, unless we become hermits in our own homes, waiting for the Met Office to sound the all clear. What a vapid load of old bollox.

I was equally pleasantly surprised and fuming when I eventually took the butterfly netting off the bean and cabbage patch, not that what was left of the cabbages deserved to be called such, as all twelve (I think there were twelve) had been devoured by the caterpillar larvae of the white butterfly. It’s my own fault and it needn’t have happened. Cabbage whites couldn’t care less about the leaves of bean plants and I could have better secured the netting had I not tried to be too clever in presuming human ingenuity would outwit a humble butterfly, who’s only purpose in life is to mate and lay its eggs on brassica leaves. Lesson learned, next year we’re (I’m using the royal “we’re” here) going to install a framed cage, with a double layer of netting that isn’t touching said leaves at any point. The dwarf beans, which were as close to said cabbages as humanly possible have both survived unscathed and cropped well. Such, I suppose, is life.

It goes without saying that the rather un-strategically placed netting played havoc with both the runners and the other climbing beans, but these are hardy plants and I don’t think they’ll take any harm. I’m quite partial to french beans and don’t mind the young runners, but I’m not fond of them when they get a bit stringy. Those I don’t catch in time (there are always some) will probably end up, not in the freezer, but in the “Free, Help Yourself” box.

It’s odd to get excited about a simple little fruit, but when I first saw these Tyrian hued beauties I had to smile to myself at the simple beauty of both the tiny purple/white flowers and the seed pods they produce. I had planted at least half a dozen seeds of this variety, but only this one germinated. Apparently they’ll turn red, which is a bit of a shame, but for now they please me greatly.

There are times (clearly) when I refuse to see the signs for what they are, although I’m happy with the first time outdoor carrot growing I was a bit nonplussed to find the tops of the unharvested ones had mysteriously disappeared, almost overnight. In my ignorance I put it down to butterflies, but a rustling in the rhubarb patch opened my eyes to the real culprit(s). We’ve seen a resurgence in the rabbit population this summer, it’s one of the reasons the gate was originally fitted with mesh. We’d (that’s the royal we) left a gap under the bottom rail to facilitate freedom of hose movement, too. The green plastic mesh and the narrow gap turned out to be no match for the teeth or the dexterity of a couple of infant rabbits, who decided the offer of young fresh carrot tops was too good to refuse. The B&M department leapt into action and performed the required upgrade with the minimum of fuss (apart from the odd chunter). Here’s hoping the little beggars can’t chew through chicken wire (or the new bottom rail).

I had occasion to visit my hometown recently, for the happy occasion of my only blood nephews wedding. It was a less than formal affair, which is as they wanted it. I, being something of both a traditionalist and an old fart, was the only person there wearing a tie and one of the few male attendees not to be in shorts. You’ll be please to know that most of the females had made an effort and were turned out very nicely. The “after party”, back at their house was fun and everyone who attended seemed to have a good day.

The (very informal) “reception” was held in the repurposed Woolmarket. The revamped building stands on a part of the site that was once home to one of the largest mixed trade markets of its kind in Britain. I remember the Woolmarket well, from visits I paid to if from the late 1950’s until I left Doncaster (for the final time) in the late 1980’s. In those days it held over 100 fixed market stalls, where people traded in all manner of eclectic things, including (but not restricted to) spare parts for appliances, automotive spares, army surplus clothing, wool, fabrics, cushion foam, pet food, crockery, tailoring and dress-making alteration services. Several cafes were situated along the outer walls of the building, accessible from the aptly named Market road, that ran alongside six days a week and internally on Tuesdays, Fridays and Saturdays. How times change! The Woolmarket is now a “leisure” venue, with ten food vendors, three bars, occasional live music and a range of games and activities. It’s proudly LBGTXYZ+ friendly and as it was Doncaster Pride the weekend I was there, the bunting was out in force.

There’s a street opposite the Woolmarket called Copley Road. Not that many years ago its terraced houses were home to market traders, factory workers (Wheatley Hall Road, where International Harvesters, Don Valley Engineering and other large employers were based is just a stones throw away) and other Yorkshire working class folk. At the top end of Copley Road there lived several West Indian families whose menfolk also worked locally and they were very much an accepted part of the community. Stork, now boarded up and verging on derelict, was where, just over forty one years ago, we bought our first pushchair (they weren’t called buggies back then). In Copley Road you can now buy a range of bitter gourds, okra, rice in huge bags, lentils and chickpeas, I’ve no doubt if you ask at the right doorway, some bush meat, or maybe even the odd swan may well be available and, once you’ve done your shopping you can sit and wile away your days sucking on a hookah pipe if that’s what floats your dinghy.  Something that you’re highly unlikely to see is Mrs. Ramsbottom at number 35, dressed in her wraparound pinny, scrubbing her front step. I’ve seen pictures of the streets of Lahore and I’ve wandered around Old Delhi. South Parade and Hallgate, once the two (linked) main thoroughfares, are lined with pubs, bars, clubs, fast food eating houses, the ubiquitous nail bars, vape shops and “Turkish” barbers. This once bustling town centre would, not too long ago, have been heaving with folk, but on this particular Friday there was hardly a soul to see. I could go on, but Donny (as I’m sure is the case with many similar towns) isn’t the Donny I knew and I lament its passing.

The last time I went shopping here I’ll have paid for everything I bought with cash money. In the Woolmarket of today, where most of the disinterested and perfunctory staff are either tattooed and pierced youngsters with dyed mullets (and that’s just the girls), Albanians masquerading as Greek souvlaki Mageiras and Italian Pizza Capacuocho or Bangladeshi/Pakistani men masquerading as Indian curry “Maharaji”, cash isn’t welcome. If you don’t “have the app” you’d better go somewhere else, or hope someone in your company does. “Progress” might be fine and dandy, but, in many ways, what’s been lost isn’t compensated for by Duckpin Bowling, AR Darts, Shuffleboard, overpriced beer, tasteless tacos and a gyros plate consisting mainly of chicken skin!
 

© Colin Cross 2025