Bowl of Beauty by Susan Price
It's called 'Bowl of Beauty.'
It's a peony and I had to have it. This is my mother living on in me. Her small garden was so crammed with plants that there wasn't a patch of soil to be seen. But there was always some other plant she had to have.
My Dad lives on in me too, because I'm just as interested in the things that live in and around the plants. Last year, I was given a bee hotel. That's what the sellers call it anyway. I'm puzzled that, according to the sales catalogue, bees get a hotel, but ladybirds are housed in a barn, like back-packing hostellers. | |
| The little toe-rag caught in the act: Photo: Bernhard Plank | |
But, that aside... Since it was a gift, I dutifully opened the bee-hotel for custom but, being a pessimistic sort, didn't expect much from it.
So I was surprised and delighted when several of the holes were filled by leaf-cutter bees, so called because they block their nesting-holes with the neat circles of leaf they cut from nearby plants. My apothecary rose has not a whole leaf left. I do not exaggerate.
Other holes were filled by masonry bees, who blocked their cells with mud carried from the pond.
Over winter, I wrapped the hotel and its guests in fleece and stored it in the 'Big Box' where I keep garden tools and other trankliments. I took the hotel out again in April, as instructed, placed it in a sunny spot, waited, and --- nothing happened.
And then, last month, it did. The old, brown leaf-plugs were turned inside out as they were pushed from the holes, showing that they'd remained green inside. Neat, drilled holes appeared in the middle of the mud blockages, where newly hatched masonry bees had bored their way out. I'm sorry I didn't catch them in the act of absconding, but glad they did.
As with every hotel, it's good practice to clean the rooms after the occupants have left, to make ready for the next visitors. From those blocked with mud, it was a matter of scraping out dried earth. But the leaf-cutters left behind neat little tubes with surprisingly thick sides, made of layers of wrapped leaves, still green. These tubes stood up on their own, strong and sturdy.
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| 'Do Not Disturb' signs on the doors of bee hotel rooms. |
Within a couple of days of the hotel being open for business again, the local leaf-cutters starting moving in. I watched them crawl inside a chosen hole until only their furry little bums were visible- and then they'd somehow turn round in the very limited space and sit looking out of the hole, as if satisfying themselves they liked the view. (Or, possibly, laying eggs.) Then they flew off to shred the leaves of my roses and bay-trees. Again. They made regular returns, flying in with bits of leaf clutched under their bodies. With considerable struggle, they dragged it into their chosen hole.
The photo, right, was taken earlier this month and shows two holes already sealed, with eggs inside. Since the photo was taken six more have been sealed off. So far, no masonry bees have turned up.
As you can see from the photos, my local birds are mostly sparrows. I don't mind that at all. I find them hugely entertaining. There might be a shortage of sparrows in the south-east, but here in the Midlands, we seem to be restoring the population. My garden is visited every day by a flock of 20-25 sparrows. They've raised chicks here, often two or three broods annually, for the last seven years or so. The flock stays at much the same number, so the extra birds must be dispersing to surrounding areas. Either that, or they're falling off the twig at much the same rate as they hatch.
to the feeder, describing the most beautiful arc in the air as they do. When four or five of them arc down together, in synchronised swoop, it's a lovely sight.
Their behaviour on the feeder isn't always so beautiful. There are some right punch-ups. Sometimes eight or ten sparrows sit around the feeder in a circle, all cheerfully tucking in together. But there are other chippy little spugs who can't seem to tolerate another family member being on the feeder at all. They're seen right off, as soon as they land, with vicious pecks and shoves.
The adults who are feeding chicks wear themselves out. When the chicks are still in the nest, they're constantly flying backwards and forwards from our ivy and rose arches, carrying aphids and other insects to stuff into gaping little maws. But even when the chicks are fledged, they still sit in noisy rows on our fence, shrieking and jabbering their demands for food. The adults dash around to feed them.
I was watching from my kitchen door earlier this month when a male sparrow landed nearby. He hopped into the cover of the ferns and reeds growing around the pond. I could see him, from where I stood, but he was well screened from the chicks chivvying and yelling on the fence.
And there he sat, while the chicks chow-rowed. He fluffed out his feathers, seemed to sigh, and sank closer to the earth, as if sitting in a nest. He stayed like that, quite still, for a few minutes, then gathered himself together, sighed again, and flew up to look for aphids in the climbing rose. I may be committing the sin of anthropomorphism, but it looked to me like a hard-working dad grabbing a few blessed moments of peace before dragging himself back to work. Poor devil.
This blog is too long, but I can't end without mentioning the climbing rose at the top of my garden.
I haven't been able to do much in the garden this year, because of a bad hip. As a result, it's gone a bit wild out there.
They've broken their arch. They captured the magnolia tree and rampaged over the fence onto next door's shed. If I'd tried to arrange this display, I couldn't have done it.
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