I have a little plum tree
Well, September's here and judging by the number of times I was
woken early this morning by rain hurtling against the bedroom
window, autumn has swept in with a vengeance. So this
seems to good time to note down just a little snippet of summer
before it fades from memory, and perhaps make us feel more mellow
about the changing seasons as a result.
When we moved here 12 years ago, our daughters were seven and five and, understandably upset about leaving their old home and friends. To cheer them up, I promised I'd plant a plum tree in our new, bigger garden, so that come summer, they'd be able to eat as many plums as they like. It was a fruit they'd both always loved, from Victoria plums when they were toddlers, to greengages they'd become addicted to on holiday in France.
It wasn't so easy. First, we'd moved into a house and garden that had been fairly neglected over the years. If that makes it sound like some romantic tumbledown cottage, I'm sorry to disappoint and admit it's a detached 1970's estate house, but at least that means its dimensions are still relatively generous. In any event, it needed a lot of work.
Secondly, the previous owners had left their dog in the garden while they were out at work during the day. We all know what comes with dogs, and suffice to say that for some time digging over the soil was a stomach-turning task.
Still, after nearly a year, I reckoned the soil in the area I had earmarked for a tree was just about fit for planting. I trawled the garden centres, but found mostly only Victoria plums, which need another tree for pollination. Of any greengage, there was no sign. Eventually I came the next best thing, a golden gage. I took it home, duly planted it, and watched for fruit the following year. Nothing. The year after, nothing again.
It was only after speaking to other plum tree owners that I realised I could be in for a fair old wait - probably five years minimum. But they assured me it would be worth it.
A couple of summers later, glancing up, I spotted two golden plums high up in the tree, surrounded ny several wasps guzzling themselves stupid. But I didn't care. I was excited.
The next spring, I could hardly believe it when my tree was covered in delicate white blossom. I nearly cheered when dozens upon dozens of tiny green fruits formed a few weeks later. Sure enough, that summer we returned from our holidays to find the branches laden with plenty of ripe plums. Awkwardly, most of them were on the higher branches, where thet caught most sun. Also awkwardly, they had attracted an enthusiastic retinue of wasps. I did the sensible thing and let my husband go up the ladder to pick them.
We collected several bucketsful. We ate plums till we thought we would burst, had them in pies, had them stewed with custard, put some in the freezer, gave lots away and my husband made wine with the rest.
For most years since them , we've had varying crops. Sadly our daughters won't eat them raw any more since one of them took a bite and saw something wiggling at her from inside. I tried telling her it was extra protein but she wasn't impressed.
Last year was disastrous. The tree gave its usual glorious display of blossom, but no fruit, possibly due to a late cold snap. It turned out to be a bad year for plums. Still, the tree must have appreciated having a rest, because this year it produced more than ever. My husband was up that ladder again, with me holding a bucket underneath to catch the fruit. Our kitchen was taken over by bowls and buckets of golden gages. We must have picked around forty kilos in all, and a full fortnight was spent dealing with them - stewing for the freezer, and spending evenings stoning them for use in jam and wine. We took some photographs which I keep meaning to load onto my prolfile album.
Now, our freezer is stocked, there are half a dozen jars of plum jam in the cupboard, and six - count them, six - gallons of wine currently fermenting in demijohns on the kitchen worktop. That's thirty-six bottles and probably the same number of hangovers, if previous vintages are anything to go by.
In a couple of weeks I'll spread some compost round the roots and hope the tree recovers enough strength for a repeat performance next summer. In the meantime, through the dark days of winter, we have the results of this year's harvest to remind us that the seasons will work their way round again.
Cheers!
When we moved here 12 years ago, our daughters were seven and five and, understandably upset about leaving their old home and friends. To cheer them up, I promised I'd plant a plum tree in our new, bigger garden, so that come summer, they'd be able to eat as many plums as they like. It was a fruit they'd both always loved, from Victoria plums when they were toddlers, to greengages they'd become addicted to on holiday in France.
It wasn't so easy. First, we'd moved into a house and garden that had been fairly neglected over the years. If that makes it sound like some romantic tumbledown cottage, I'm sorry to disappoint and admit it's a detached 1970's estate house, but at least that means its dimensions are still relatively generous. In any event, it needed a lot of work.
Secondly, the previous owners had left their dog in the garden while they were out at work during the day. We all know what comes with dogs, and suffice to say that for some time digging over the soil was a stomach-turning task.
Still, after nearly a year, I reckoned the soil in the area I had earmarked for a tree was just about fit for planting. I trawled the garden centres, but found mostly only Victoria plums, which need another tree for pollination. Of any greengage, there was no sign. Eventually I came the next best thing, a golden gage. I took it home, duly planted it, and watched for fruit the following year. Nothing. The year after, nothing again.
It was only after speaking to other plum tree owners that I realised I could be in for a fair old wait - probably five years minimum. But they assured me it would be worth it.
A couple of summers later, glancing up, I spotted two golden plums high up in the tree, surrounded ny several wasps guzzling themselves stupid. But I didn't care. I was excited.
The next spring, I could hardly believe it when my tree was covered in delicate white blossom. I nearly cheered when dozens upon dozens of tiny green fruits formed a few weeks later. Sure enough, that summer we returned from our holidays to find the branches laden with plenty of ripe plums. Awkwardly, most of them were on the higher branches, where thet caught most sun. Also awkwardly, they had attracted an enthusiastic retinue of wasps. I did the sensible thing and let my husband go up the ladder to pick them.
We collected several bucketsful. We ate plums till we thought we would burst, had them in pies, had them stewed with custard, put some in the freezer, gave lots away and my husband made wine with the rest.
For most years since them , we've had varying crops. Sadly our daughters won't eat them raw any more since one of them took a bite and saw something wiggling at her from inside. I tried telling her it was extra protein but she wasn't impressed.
Last year was disastrous. The tree gave its usual glorious display of blossom, but no fruit, possibly due to a late cold snap. It turned out to be a bad year for plums. Still, the tree must have appreciated having a rest, because this year it produced more than ever. My husband was up that ladder again, with me holding a bucket underneath to catch the fruit. Our kitchen was taken over by bowls and buckets of golden gages. We must have picked around forty kilos in all, and a full fortnight was spent dealing with them - stewing for the freezer, and spending evenings stoning them for use in jam and wine. We took some photographs which I keep meaning to load onto my prolfile album.
Now, our freezer is stocked, there are half a dozen jars of plum jam in the cupboard, and six - count them, six - gallons of wine currently fermenting in demijohns on the kitchen worktop. That's thirty-six bottles and probably the same number of hangovers, if previous vintages are anything to go by.
In a couple of weeks I'll spread some compost round the roots and hope the tree recovers enough strength for a repeat performance next summer. In the meantime, through the dark days of winter, we have the results of this year's harvest to remind us that the seasons will work their way round again.
Cheers!
14 Comments
We used to have a big plum tree that I could climb up, as a kid, to pick the fruit. The wasps do love them though, don't they? And they chew such perfectly round holes in the skin to crawl inside.
It does seem to work. I live in Audenesque squalor in rather a large house and just do not have time for the garden and could not keep things going, but I tried grape vines and got grapes this year.
It is a pity Woolworths closed down as you could get cheap plants from them - if you were quick - they were never watered. Garden centres where i am are so expensive for these sort of things! £15 for blueberry bushes.
Mike
I do have a rhubard plant among thh shrubs, and that gives us a few smallish sticks a year.
I also have some raspberries in a thin bed of their own. They did OK for a while until some strange long reedy type of grass grew under the fence from next door. Foolishly I left it alone because it was only in the corner and I thought it might provide a bit of greenery through the year. It's spread like mad though, and basically taken over the raspberries' bit. Hardly any new canes have come up for next year's crop. You can't just pull the stuff out because it cuts your hand. So I'm going to have to dig out that bed, put in lots of compost and get some new raspberry plants from somewhere - which presumably means I won't get fruit next year (sob!).
It's my own fault for neglecting it I suppose. Thing is, I haven't even got round to planting the autumn containers yet, even though I got the plants a couple of weeks ago. I'm just too busy sitting in front of the computer and scratching my head.
I love your phrase 'Audenesque squalor', by the way.
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