The Compost Doctor Is In

When Ms Cowgirl wrote to Doctor Compost for help, he was so moved by her decomposition distress that he wondered how many other lost souls might benefit from his rot remedies. This is the result: welcome to the Compost Doctor problem page.

Ms Cowgirl wrote:

Dear Compost Doctor why won't my compost heap rot?.. my breakdown rate has broken down, despite vigorous stirring and liberal applications of shop bought compost accelerant...all I see is dried up grass clippings, the only sign of any change are the pale spots left by my dried tears... please, Compost Doctor can you help?

The Compost Doctor lifts a handful of the specimen kindly provided by Ms Cowgirl, lifts it to his nose and breathes in deeply closing his eyes. He nods sagely and then inspects the sorry sample separating the contents with his index figure. Finally his expression changes from one of professional appraisal to one of satisfaction as he sits down to write:

Dear Ms Cowgirl,
Calm yourself, all is not lost. Firstly I notice that this specimen consists predominantly of grass clippings which, whilst they will eventually decompose, are notoriously bad rotters - they are not the ideal basis for a beginners heap. I prescribe daily doses of mixed vegetable matter for this heap: peelings, salad, raw vegetables. If the grass clippings are dry it may be rather too late for them; but if you add a good moist mixture of vegetable matter you may save them.

Secondly, you don't mention worms. Brandling worms (pictured courtesy of British Worm Breeders) are a friend to compost, they are the best of all compost accelerants. I wonder whether your heap is on a solid base or on soil. It wants to be on bare earth - break up the earth beneath it and then replace your container. If you provide plenty of good food for the worms they will repay your kindness by converting it into rich compost in half the time (did you know people actually buy worms for the purpose?). Incidentally, the addition of fresh horse manure will help to both encourage decomposition and encourage worms to join the fun - but don't forget to stir it all in.

Thirdly I was worried by the dryness - decomposition occurs best in moist (not sloppy) conditions (though undisturbed grass clipping clumps have a habit of looking dry on the outside whilst being wet on the inside). Bottom line: if you are happy that your heap is well aerated and your grass is nicely distributed throughout, it may need watering. Watering your heap is a good thing; watering it with a naturally occurring solution high in nitrogenous compounds is all the better - see where I'm going?

In summary, Ms Cowgirl, compost, like most of us, likes daily love and attention. Invest time and a good melange of vegetable matter in your heap and your reward will be great.

Lots of love,

Compost Doctor

I told the Doctor that I didn't think his signing off was quite professional but he insisted. Watch this space for more compost diagnoses.

The Rot Has Set In; I'm Glad To Say

It's funny how something that started out as a practical way to recycle food waste has become - according to people around me - an obsession. Regular readers know that Mrs C and I are keen gardeners; composting is a natural and not unusual part of that process; but somewhere along the line I seem to have been swept along by a tidal wave of rotting vegetation and aerobic decomposition. I suppose it started with a simple interest in how to make the compost process as efficient as possible - not unreasonable, so I applied 'A' Level Biological (D Grade) knowledge to understand the relevance of the difference between anaerobic decomposition (slow, wet and smelly) and anaerobic decomposition (fast, moist and aromatic).
Most evenings when adding something to my two-bin system, I turn the contents to let the air circulate; and I do add something every day: do not be surprised if you find used teabags or your lunchtime apple core disappearing form your desk (what do you mean you don't leave them on your desk?).
I also quickly learnt the benefit of adding nitrogenous compost accelerators, for example chicken manure or urine (and with my new compost bins above waist height that is quite a challenge I can tell you). Other compost accelerators include fresh animal manure and I think this was the tipping point between interest and obsession. On countryside walks with Mrs C and the dog I am eager to gather souvenirs to take home to add richness to my own little corner of the garden.

But the rewards for dedication to this decaying art are great: the harvest of rich peaty material spread from my heap to the garden is only bettered by the harvest of fruit and flowers fed by my rotten viand. Almost a metaphor of life: the cycle of things failing and decaying only to regenerate new life and growth (blimey, I almost shed a tear then).

Back Where I Belong

After my dangerous forays into the land of the Turkish Barber and my recent Metro-sexual experience I felt it was time to get back to where I belong: cloth caps and allotments. All it took was a good meal in the Ram's Head and two pints of Black Sheep Rigwelter to put me there (although I suspect had I not been been back on track pretty smartly Mrs C would have soon lost patience and facilitated a rapid return).

I was enjoying Mystic Veg's musings on the horticultural horrors committed by celebrity gardeners, when he happened to mention being brought up on Fitton Hill estate in Oldham. Fitton Hill still sprawls across the east side of the town and, like many similar estates, struggles to shake the social ills that have plagued them since they were built in the sixties. Meant to be their panacea they have proved, in many cases, to be their exacerbation. I was born 100 yards from Fitton Hill's borders, round the corner on Honeywell Lane and it may be that I have a bit of Fitton Hill in my genes; for Mystic waxed lyrical about the garden sculpture of his youth that consisted of sundry car parts in the front gardens of council homes. Now, take a look at Mrs C's fabulously creative solution to the fact that we had used all our pots and planters when it came to this year's salad leaves:

It's the wheel of a Renault Laguna that has been cluttering our garage for months and is now full of lovely nutty Rocket leaves. Of course I should never have expected our sons to see the true creativity, nor the ecologically sound recycling sense - Matt's reaction consisted of a consideration of wheel's worth on Ebay - but they weren't complaining when Mrs C dished up a salad with more Rocket than Cape Canaveral. Ah, the short sightedness of youth.

An English Country Garden Show

Every year Mrs C. and I go to the Harrogate Spring and Autumn shows. This year was no exception; having been back at work for almost three weeks I felt I needed a break so made representation to my boss (it was actually more like pitiful pleading accompanied by a pathetic limp - think of Dickens' Tiny Tim). Having successfully thrown myself prostrate on the executive office rug we trolled off to Harrogate on Friday.

The North of Yorkshire Horticultural shows, as they are more properly known, differ from the larger and grander shows of Chelsea and Hampton Court in a number of ways. For one, you are more likely to find people who garden at Harrogate as opposed to people who have gardeners; for another, the stalls reflect the likely interests of people who garden rather than an aspirational approach to what the latest garden designers are doing; ergo you can buy a wide range of plants direct from the nurserymen (oops sorry I mean nurserypeople...I've got a diversity meeting this afternoon!), together with a mass of handy gadgets and aids for the jobbing gardener.

Another notable feature of the Harrogate crowd is their distinctly northern, pragmatic approach to the products on offer. For example, stood in a crowd of people watching a demonstration of a garden irrigation system, a brash Yorkshireman (I'm safe here he was a man and I'm sure wouldn't object to being so titled) commented
"That's awreet on yer flat garden bur it'd never work on th'ill I 'ave at 'ome" (roughly translated as: don't send southern jessies up North with gadgets only fit for soft southern gardens); and of course, being a brash Yorkshireman he wasn't shy about passing comment loud enough to cause the enthusiastic salesman some discomfit.

If you ever consider opening a stall a show one thing guaranteed to go like hot cakes is anything handy in the garden that you can carry something else in for example: trugs - marvellous in the garden but can equally carry your purchases; folding wheelbarrows - again a garden boon that can be trundled round full of bought bedding plants. Of course being veteran show goers we were not to be conned into buying anything unnecessary and went equipped with two Tesco Bags For Life: good handles, you see.
We usually set off with a strictly limited list of intended purchases - limited by number and by the amount of cash we take with us. After a couple of hours though, the list is discarded in favour of inserting the trusty card into the thoughtfully provided mobile cash machine. This year I came back with a handy tool that will reach right to the bottom of my compost bin where I can wiggle it about thus aerating the contents and encouraging quicker rotting (should I get my anorak now?). This Spring's unfortunate purchase - we always have one - was five corms of a beautiful plant; we just can't remember what it's called. Our garden is full of plants like that: we could never be those clever folk on Gardeners World showing Monty Don round and telling him the Latin name of each plant.

Another area of the show that attracts the (Mr) Croft attention is the Yorkshire food section - I came away with a Fat Rascal (thought got a crack off Mrs C. for calling it something else), and a Yorkshire Curd tart. The lady on the stall looked like she'd been making them all her life and had simply popped out of her kitchen with a shopping bag laden with goodies to spread on the stall. I love characters like that, the show is full of them, people who look like they spend ten months of the year talking to their plants and only mix with the public twice a year. That's the joy of Harrogate for me: no Alan Titchmarsh, no demi-celebrities, just simple honest folk who garden.

Briza Maxima: a garden thug to make you quake

Popular gardening expert and TV presenter Sarah Raven produced a lovely book called Grow Your Own Cut Flowers a while back; it's beautifully photographed and contains excellent advice - but don't be fooled by her suggestion that Briza Maxima or Greater Quaking Grass is a useful addition to your garden. It does, as she says, look lovely in a cut flower arrangement, and its tear drop shaped seed heads rattle as they waft in a gentle summer breeze; but the plant has all the charm of Uma Thurman in Quentin Tarantino's Kill Bill: beautiful but deadly, the plant is a garden thug.

The reason Briza Maxima rattles so fetchingly in the breeze is that the darling little tear drop seed heads are full of seeds; the plant is a prolific self seeder and this year, due to our mild winter, it has done exactly that, all winter. The garden is covered all over in a lush green growth of Greater Quaking Grass and has taken two whole days of weeding to get rid of it.



A lesson for life: do not be fooled by superficial beauty; always look for the big sword.

Sounds of Sunday

This post title sounds a bit like a Radio 2 Sunday evening show with Reverend Roger Royle: it's not. Yesterday I sat in the garden and, as an exercise, listed the sounds I could hear as a way of contemplating what the day consisted of. I've been thinking about soundscapes recently; thinking about the sounds that create the backdrop for our lives. Sound has always played a big part in my life, not least because music has always been important; but birdsong too is important; and I think I am more likely to be able to remember and describe the sound of something than its appearance . I'm struck by how many blogs are highly visual; in fact I doubt I'd do a post without a photograph to catch the eye. I guess that's the nature of our computers: the screen is a purely visual interface between us and cyberspace.

So, what did a Sunday in suburban Oldham sound like? Here are the sounds of Sunday:

• Birdsong- building up to the breeding season many birds are warming up their syrinxes to impress potential mates; particularly, there was a young Mistle Thrush who is learning the song of his species but hasn't got it quite right yet.
• Ice cream van with an electronic chime of Colonel Bogey that sounded like a bad mobile phone ring-tone
  
• The sound of gardening: this was a nice sound, a trowel crunching in earth as V. weeded out ornemental grass that has germinated inappropriately over the winter (this sound is accompanied by the lovely smell of freshly turned earth)
  
• Jet aircraft banking overhead on the incoming flight path to Manchester Airport
• Off-road motorcycles in the distance, over at the disused Springhead quarry I guess, better there than on the nearby bridal paths that they sometimes go on, annoying we dog walkers
• Pressure washer nearby - a neighbour washing his car; the washer is not the run of the mill DIY size washer but is a substantial professional affair; one that gives sufficient potency to the pressure lance to match the symbol of virility it is washing (even though the car is gleaming already)
• Lawn raking: the sound of a neighbour who, like me, is a little incredulous at having to start thinking about the lawn this early in the year
• The rustle of Eucalyptus leaves in the breeze - a neighbour's tree that I always wish was a native one

I found this process quite relaxing but was also surprised at how much it made me think about the distinction between noise and sound; I guess noise is simply unwelcome sound but it also defines a view of life too: I found the power washer intrusive, but perhaps my neighbour hates being woken early by birdsong.

What sounds define your life?

A right good send off

Crazy coffin maker Vic Fearn can build you a custom casket to reflect exactly what you want to say to the world as you take the journey from the mortal realm. He has made cars, guitars, skips and Egyptian themed burial boxes to ensure that the final send off is as spectacular or symbolic as one could wish.

Anita Roddick the founder of The Body Shop tells The Independent today that when her mum dies, she has asked to have her ashes rocketed into the stratosphere on a giant firework to the theme tune of The Godfather.

I'm a keen composter; it suits me to have a fully biodegradable coffin, so that my rotting remains can feed the roots of a yew tree that might grow for hundreds of years with a bit of me inside.

How would you like to go?

Yoga and post-sugical recovery

I recently read a review a book called Gardener's Yoga, subtitled Bend and Stretch, Dig and Grow it's by Seattle yoga instructor and gardener Veronica D'Orazio and espouses the virtues of yoga to gardeners complaining of aches and pains who have, up till now, relied on the relaxing properties of a Radox bath. The review was by the type of gardener I would call a trendy gardener. You know the sort, undoubtedly an excellent horticulturalist; but more likely to be found sipping Chardonnay among the prize-winners at Chelsea Flower Show than messing with his spuds down the local allotment.

Trying to reconcile the suggestions in this, it has to be said, lovely looking book with the reality of gardening here in the cold damp north-west of the UK, I had amusing visions of flat-capped men warming up for a session of double-digging with the bridge pose, or more correctly: Setu Bandha Sarvangasana (Illustrated from the book).
I also wondered whether there was any benefit to be had in yoga for my own post-surgical recovery, in fact was there a market for a similar book for recovering patients in general.
Already I have established that there are tasks to be done in the home of the recovering patient that would benefit from the additional extension of muscles and sinews that yoga gives. Here are some of the tasks that I might feature in the book:

• Bathing with a leg wrapped in a bright yellow hospital hazardous-waste bag teetering on the side of a bath
• Climbing the stairs on your bottom, bad leg extended in front, when feeling, after a glass of wine or two, less confident on crutches
• Maintaining your balance whilst competing with the dog to answer the door
• One-legged onion chopping
• Emptying the dishwasher on one leg; just how do you hold the plates and your crutches at the same time?

Perhaps there is something in the spiritual aspect of yoga too, all that enlivening of the chi could perhaps benefit recovering patients and also encourage vegetables to grow. Maybe the local tai chi class - I believe that tai chi is good for the chi too- could carry out fresh-air sessions down the allotment to encourage the plants, whilst allowing the gardeners to concentrate on the more practical aspects of crop production.

I have to say, I'm all in favour of allotment gardening, albeit at the moment by other people; the parsnips we are getting from my father in law's allotment are fantastic. I think, though, that our vegetables have more to gain from Carol Klein's Grow Your Own Veg on BBC 2 on Friday evening than from mystical practices; although Prince Charles is a self confessed plant-whisperer - I wonder now that he has a large organic farm, whether he has to employ a team of people to talk to the crops? Carol Klein's programme is not only stuffed with down to earth gardening know-how, but is attractive to watch and has excellent music too. Yes, you can't beat watching other people doing back breaking work against the beautiful back drop of the Derbyshire countryside.

I do see the sense in stretching and warming up certain muscle groups before strenuous gardening, but yoga? it doesn't seem to fit here among the mud and compost. If you do want more information about the yoga of Veronica D'Orazio click here to go to the website of the Seattle centre at which she teaches. There you can view a video of the Samadhi Yogini Dance Group (don't ask because I didn't bother; but if you do, let me know what you think, I can always go back for a look!).

On the other hand if after bending and stretching a bit in your old clothes and cloth cap you fancy some vegetable gardening click here to visit the BBC pages that go with Carol Klein's show.