A View From The Greenhouse; Reflections

As expected (once DJT got his feet back under the table), it became more than a possibility that the war in Ukraine could be brought to a conclusion of sorts. It may not bring the result that Zzelenskyyy and his henchmen would like, it almost certainly won’t fulfill (for now) the ambitions of the war hawks of the West, who trade primarily in death and misery for profit (although they’ll be salivating at the rebuild contracts on offer), nor will it suit the bureaucrats, bankers and lawyers who masquerade as political heavyweights in Britain and the EU zone. The legacy media, for now at least, continues to paint Vladimir Putin as the worlds primary villain (which he may well be). It continues to call for more weaponry (and cash) to be fed to Ukraine, thereby allowing more people to die, be maimed or displaced (both Ukrainian and Russian) in a punitive and deadly border conflict that has its roots in the bloody sectarian violence carried out by Ukrainian “Nazis” against Russian separatists, who responded in kind. So far as I can tell, although these days you never know, this is what eventually led to the Russian invasion. Whether it was used as an excuse to attempt territorial expansion or a genuine move to protect the people of the Donbas, whilst, at the same time reinforcing the need for a “buffer state” between NATO and Russia remains questionable. However, what isn’t in question is the terrible toll this war, which has now entered its eleventh year, has taken on the the people of the two nations. Over 14,000 military personnel from both sides were killed prior to the invasion and, according to available figures, there have been over a million casualties since. Putting the rights and wrongs to one side, as well as the huge amounts of money that have gone missing and the levels of corruption and political skulduggery involved, I think it’s time it was brought to an end. If Donald Trump and his team can make that happen and both Putin and Zzelenskyyy (or his successor) can be made to understand they needs must honour the outcome, however unpalatable it may be for one or both of them, then, in my opinion, the world will owe him a debt of gratitude. It only remains for me to say that this is a personal view and I make no claim of expertise in the area, but, if I had a son of a certain age, the military would be the last place I’d be advising him to look to for a career.

The greenhouse having been almost fully restored to its former structural glory thoughts turned, once again, to preparing the ground for the coming season. Following a third pass with the trusty rotorvator (but not before the motor housing had to be removed, the ball bearings replaced and a new drive belt fitted (don’t ask me how, it isn’t my department), we set about raking the top over, before dressing with several pounds of organic chicken manure, “activated” with a liberal dosing of our trusty nettle and banana skin fertiliser. We were offered both fresh cow manure and “collect it if you want it” horse droppings, but declined, deciding, instead, to stick to last years reasonably successful methods. The next job, and something which I’ve promised myself I’d do in previous years, is to draw out a planting plan. We have a little more space available and I want to make best use of it.

That’s that then, at least for now. The idea of weed suppressant worked so well last year that we’ve decided it should be an ongoing process. The blue “tarps” we put down last year weren’t as effective as we’d hoped as they didn’t really block out all the light. Any road up, we came across some old “round bale” bags which were laying around in the big shed. They were a bit rodent bothered in places, but we opened them out and double layered them. The whole of the plant-able area’s covered, so now’s the time to move outside and finish off the prepping of the raised bed area.

“Do the maths” they said, a cubic meters a tonne they told me, but I have to ask (with hindsight and rhetorically), does that include any residual moisture? The total capacity of the four raised beds being around 2.35 cubic meters I erred (or so I thought) on the side of caution and ordered 1.7 tonnes of best quality loamy topsoil and 850kgs of compost, enough, I assumed for a bit of “margin of error. Not a bit of it, as it turned out, but that’s for the next paragraph. The builders merchant I used when I built the house may no longer exist, but many of the people who worked there, including one of the delivery drivers, are still about. Lucky for me, because explaining where the old farm gate is to someone who doesn’t normally venture into the hinterlands of deepest, darkest Cumbria isn’t quits as simple as one might think; “Turn right at the egg-box, up Brig Beck, and carry on past the council houses and the church. There are three houses on your left, the gate to the old farm’s on the right, opposite the third house. If you get to Crag Lonin’, just past the demolished railway viaduct, you’ve gone too far”. You get the idea.

Buildings and maintenance decided on another refinement to the project at hand and duly acquired a roll of decent quality damp course to protect the timber from the soil and, at the same time, protect both the soil and the plants from whatever the timber has been treated with. It makes sense and, as with all things, the team did  an excellent and very neat job. Before you ask, it took us about half an hour to get the positioning of the various props right. A picture paints a thousand words, and all that malarkey.

It was pretty clear, before we even started moving the soil and compost, that there wouldn’t be enough. I mentioned the idea of utilising the bags of wood chippings we had left over, but that was soon scotched (I should maybe have tried to use subliminal suggestion, but the minute had passed). The soil from the old raised beds was to hand, so a plan was hatched to riddle it and use what we could as a makeweight. The small riddle I use to sieve compost would be no good, so we first tried an old plastic veg-box, before B&M came to the rescue again, fashioning an old plate drainer and some chicken wire into an approximation of a tool for the job. As with most of the yawk-ups we employ, it worked (after a fashion) & after an hour or so of side to side jiggling, we had four barrow loads of half decent base.

I’ve ordered another bag of top soil, something else that seems to be inordinately expensive for what it is, but the end result, once we get the beds topped up is just what I’d hoped for. I’ve bought some decent quality butterfly netting and we have some one inch plastic pipe lying around, so the final job is to make two of the beds insect proof, so far as I can. I have some new seed on hand, and the seed potato sale is coming up shortly, so it won’t be long before the cycle recommences.

“Our kid” would have been 73 on the 15th of February, just passed. I’ve mentioned him in my ramblings on more than one occasion. As some of you will know we were virtually inseparable during our formative years. It’s been almost half a century since he died, very suddenly, of a congenital heart condition. Time, obviously, numbs the pain of the loss, although I often think about him, especially at this time of year. I recently went to see “A Complete Unknown”, the story of Bob Dylans’ early career. I enjoyed the film and though the chap in the lead part (Timothee Chalamet) made a good fist of a role that must have been very challenging. Apparently he did all the singing, of which there was plenty. I’d recommend it, if you like that sort of thing. Dylans’ music provided the backdrop to our puberty (Steve was three months younger than me). I bought “Bringing It All Back Home” when it was released in March 1965 and Steve did the same with “Highway 61 Revisited”, released in August of the same year. Many a friendly argument was had about which one was the “best”, but we played them both endlessly and, impressionable 13 year old youths that we were, we believed that this music spoke to our generation. As I sat watching the film, singing along (quietly) to lyrics I’d forgotten I knew, but now remembered almost word perfectly, I couldn’t help but feel an immense sadness. Not just at the loss of someone I considered a true brother (our mothers were sisters) but at how the idealism and dreams of “working class” youth had eventually to take second place to the realities of later life. But those were heady, carefree days and I doubt whether we, or our progeny, will ever see the like again. We lived in a golden age of opportunity which now, sadly, no longer exists for the majority of British folk. Steve would have loved the film, I’m sure. For my part, I came away wishing that we’d watched it together and then gone to the pub and argued (again), over a pint or three, about whether “It’s All Over Now Baby Blue” is a better song than “Like A Rolling Stone”.
 

© Colin Cross 2025