Month in the life of a gardener: February.
The tasks, problem solving, wildlife spots, learnings and reflections from an organic food grower in a North London kitchen garden.
Welcome to this separate reflection on what it’s like to be an urban organic food grower. I started sharing these insights in March 2023 with snappy videos that condensed moments from across a month, but realise that there’s an opportunity to more deeply share learnings and mistakes with you, rather than just funny little tidbits with no context.
Watch reels of previous months here →
January 2024. / December 2023. / November 2023. / October 2023. / September 2023. / August 2023. / July 2023. / June 2023. / May 2023. / April 2023. / March 2023.
These stories form part of the Food-Fibre-Fashion publication shared to Substack and LinkedIn. There will be stories and musings to raise your awareness of how interconnected our food, fibre and fashion systems are, even when we’re looking in small scale, such as an urban garden.
This is the fourth in this series of articles — A Month in the Life of an Urban Gardener. To read about the context of where I work, head to the first article.
Watch February 2024 in the form of a reel here.
Listen here or on Spotify:
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Month in the life of an urban gardener: February 2024.
Images: Tiredness — 1. Shattered after a very windy day; 2. Harvesting salad and cooking mustard greens after months of not harvesting (due to winter) and remembering how gruelling it is on your back.
More pruning.
Apple.
The first week of February was spent in the Lake District. I’d taken myself away for more wintery time, only for the snow to have dissipated. I’d bootlegged my journey home with two separate tickets for two different train companies, one of whom went on strike so voiding the first part of the journey. I consequently stayed another night (oh no) rather than risking one or both of the companies having further hassle. I spent some of the hours during mizzly days at Borrowdale Youth Hostel doing more data input on the previously mentioned Product Catalogue and Massive List of Trees and Bushes. On my return to London I went in for a lonesome pruning day as further catch up.
In the week prior I had started pruning an apple variety known as Lord Hindlip. It was a standard rootstock, though had been attempted to be trained as a goblet. Big trees don’t want to be small trees. Over the last few years its branches were swooping over, or it was being attacked on both sides by two separate elaeagnus. It took some foresight to envision how it may grow, how we want it to grow, and how harsh to be to the already struggling being. So on the second round, I got to work tidying up what I’d been unsure on (high branches hanging over the neighbours’ gardens, but potentially proving to be too much chopped off). Some ropes were also employed to keep branches in certain directions until they grow in that direction themself. We’ll see in the coming growing seasons whether it liked this haircut or not.
Hazel.
We’d also had a very good time copparding the hazels of Nut Row in January, but a few still needing topping off, and a couple needed tidying up. The ones that had yet to be pollarded had branches up way higher than could be safely reached on a ladder, especially with muddy sloping ground (and a fox hole close by), and hung over the neighbours’ gardens. It wasn’t really a job I should’ve been doing alone, but needs must. The core of my body held tight, I did some precarious moves (though within my level of risk) up the trees or on the ladders. This season we purchased a telescopic loper and that helped greatly to either reduce the weight of branches before they were sawn off, or to remove water shoots and DDD (dead, damaged and diseased) wood. This tool still requires some serious manouevring of your body though, along with strong arms to a) clamp the levers for your cut and b) keep the long heavy pole balanced and directed to the branch you want.
Not only is pruning about reviving the tree or bush in terms of shape, and encouraging regrowth depending on where you cut, it can also be about letting in light. As I held myself atop the ladder reaching for a branch with the secateurs, loper or pruning saw, I was greatly aware of the barbed wire fence separating us from the neighbours’ gardens, along with whether they were watching. I had to go a good job for the tree, and for the neighbours so I didn’t get told off by lobbing branches on their land. Not only was I removing (in their eyes) all of the greenery to come, there was someone pulling faces and grunting metres into the air. We know that the hazels will put out growth from the pollarded branches (and new growth from the base that we’ll again coppice), but they won’t be as leafy or talll as they had been — it’s just about patience for the reward of timber and nuts).
The final hazels to finish were ones that had been pruned by a volunteer, who unfortunately was haphazard in their cutting strokes. This revealed the inner wood, known as the sapwood, showing it to the elements, which would likely draw in pathogens and would draw out energy. While you are revealing all of the inside of a branch whenever you make a pruning cut, a smooth cut without breakages to the bark ensures that the plant can divert resources directly there to regenerate its cells, rather than this hodge-podge of repair. I describe it as something coming along and ripping off your limb, rather than cutting it off with a nice sharp clean knife. So I went around the tree simply doing fresh cuts an inch or so below the original. P.S. I wouldn’t have done any pruning if it was a wet day or there was a significant amount of rain to come, as the plant can’t regenerate as easily.
Images: 1. A clean cut through a hazel branch (you can see a messy one in the background) with 8 rings; 2. Myself actually up the hazel tree, precariously perched, wearing plastic glasses to avoid sawdust getting in my eyes; 3. Had to take a break as I noticed Rufus the fox up on the Roundhouse roof (Roof-us).
Rose.
The hybrid tea rose doesn’t really get a look in because it’s in an area of the garden overshadowed by a myriad of hawthorn, willow, elder and a hedge. They get forgotten about, and subsequently the rose does too. As we were actually doing the work to bring the hedge height down (as we should every year) and generally tidy up this section, I had my first attempt at pruning a rose bush. In my Pruning Calendar and Massive List of Trees and Bushes research, I discovered that there are some 9 pruning groups of roses, depending on the rose bush habit. Feeling apprehensive, and knowing it would be a mess requiring a drastic cut, I headed over to see how I could help. Of course — as gardeners often find — in order to do the job you planned on, some five prior jobs need to be completed.
On this occasion it was hacking and pulling out the roots of brambles that had wrapped themselves in thickets both around the rose, a now-dilapidated hazel fence and a hawthorn. Satisfying though, to clear a space. As I was doing this I would periodically stop to chuck the bramble stems into our Big Green Dump — the spiky, pernicious section that is left to rot before being burned. Surprisingly though, it’s home to our resident fox (or one of his homes anyway), and it transpired, bumbleebee mothers who’d nested there during winter. I’ll talk more on this further on.
The hybrid tea rose had dead stems removed at the ground, older stems cut to two nodes, and the newer stems (that we more likely wanted to keep) were cut to five nodes. Or something like that. While I followed the RHS directions, you’re looking at a living plant that has been doing what it feels like for years, rather than cultivated to a society’s instructions each season.
Blackthorn.
During the development of the Massive List of Trees and Bushes, a garden plant ID walkaround was required. We had discovered this bunch of trees in the Swale that we had no idea on, and because it was winter, wouldn’t likely figure it out until they were in full bloom. We knew we had blackthorn, but we also were supposed to have a juneberry (Amelanchier). We’ve also got a ton of cherry plum suckers, so it’s a mish-mash in that space and quite frankly, confusing and annoying. But tidying was needed before sap rose and buds came proper.
I’d actually gone in the area to simply tidy up what I figured was a variegated elaeagnus (we knew we were supposed to have one in there, but it was some ornamental evergreen anomaly we never really paid attention to). But I realised that in order to get to that, I needed to clear out some suckers and crossing branches of other things. This led me to the spiky group of trees that after manoeuvring around them to make sense of what was what and where was where, the huge thorns had to confirm were blackthorns. It was such a windy day though, that on top of already being frustrated by the noise and distress of wind, and having to crawl around spikes and masses of branches (next to a holly), I couldn’t deal with dragging the prunings out for sorting. They’ll just have to be burnt in one mass exodus of spikes.
Sorting them out a bit gave room for them to bud and be successful — no matter what they turned out to be — and the elaeagnus could be better tidied too. There was also a tree in the group that had different buds and no thorns, so I’m hoping this turns out to be the juneberry.
Images: 1. Dismatled hazel fence now piled up tidyily, with a pruned hybrid tea rose, and the Big Green Dump behind a fence; 2. One of the bumblebees that had nested in the Big Green Dump, with some pollen noticeable in what I call their “armbands”; 3. Sat under the blackthorn trees looking up to assess where else should be pruned.
Mulberry.
It’s more that the sycamores over on Thames Water land behind us are the problem. They overshadow a lot of our growing space, particularly in leaf, and especially our polytunnel. But the mulberry is also in that area and it’s the only tree we can reach (and legally do any surgery on). So unfortunately it had a couple of limbs shortened so that when it leaf it isn’t hanging over the polytunnel. Other crossing branches were removed, and some of the floppier branches that would maybe break with the weight of fruit were also removed.
Every cut made the sticky latex sap seep out, so the secateurs and saw needed a really good clean afterwards. Me too; I have a mild allergy to latex, and yet I always end up pruning or harvesting the trees and fruits where latex is present e.g. kiwi, fig, mulberry. Aside from the physical irritation, this was a physically frustrating tree to do because the highest limbs were out of reach on an A-frame ladder, though even hard with a taller ladder precariously perched against the main trunk (which can also damage the tree if it rubs). The telescopic loper was employed for some of the lighter branches to decrease the weight before sawing, as well as to lean over looking down on the slope that was impossible to steadily house a ladder or step on.
I also then did some sneaky pruning of the sycamores where branches were hanging over our land, and chucking the cut bits back over onto Thames Water. They have a lackadaisical approach to those trees, and for us it’s quite a pain to have not only the leaves overshadowing, but the helicopter seeds sprouting seedlings everywhere too. It also meant that I reached for branches above our sloping wood store roof, that once cut could potentially fall onto the neighbour’s garden, so had to be especially slow and considered — on top of an already tricky situation.
Other stuff.
Often — at least in our space — it’s an issue of capacity as to how much we can get done. Especially if it rains, or the frost comes back. We had the main pruning out of the way (one apple still to go, but the builders needed to do work in that area first), yet some tidying up could still be done, mostly the DDD. Pruning off anything dead, damaged or diseased reinvigorates the plant: it’s encouraged through the cuts to produce growth hormones, it has more space to grow, it will have more light access to leaves, it will have more airflow with less obstacles, and then ultimately it will flower and fruit better.
Once you start it can be difficult to stop (emotionally, really, because you want to look after the plant); there’s the notion that we don’t need to intervene in everything (even though it’s horticulture) because in “real nature” it wouldn’t, but realistically you’d have more wildlife and weather doing the pruning for you. In place of that, and because we’ve situated them in our human-made space, we need to ensure that we are reciprocating for the flowers and fruit (and timber, shelter, windbreak, biodiversity, water retention, soil health… etc etc) we gain. So I did some mild tidying of a few hawthorns, the willow (avoiding removing any catkins that all the bee species were all over), and an elder.
Images: 1. Fresh clean cut of a black mulberry tree limb, juicy from latex sap; 2. The black mulberry tree post-prune as dusk falls; 3. A selfie from below holding onto the saw and the tree, though it doesn’t show I was 3 metres up; 4. Identifying which elaeagnus varieties we have by the berries (this one is a goumi, Elaeagnus multiflora).
Rain.
It rained. A lot. It wasn’t just an hour or so of showers every now and then, but full days of downpours. The ground hasn’t been able to recover and our garden is sloppy and slippy. The plants have actually been fine — we have good soil. But we weren’t. Miserable, cold, damp, angry.
One of the days was then perfect to get the tool sharpening and cleaning done. I’d already done a “tool and stuff” audit so that we could purchase new equipment for the year, so this was an opportunity to change some of those data entries from “poor quality, buy more” to “good”. It wasn’t so for the secateurs, which went from 9 pairs to 5 after various incidences of not replacing a particular part and then being able to undo it again, or a blade put in the wrong way.
On other days, the team did in fact muck together and get some tasks done, including planting out whips in the hedgerow (baby bare root trees), layering the compost, and building new/reinvigorating old mushroom areas — and it was all knackering work.
Images: 1. Pair of secateurs successfully taken apart, cleaned, sharpened, and put back together; 2. A pair of secateurs I’d taken a photo of so I knew where the components went, and then didn’t look at it before missing out the rubber component (that turns out to be very key to the functionality); 3. Hiding from the rain in the glasshouse by sowing mustard greens as a succession crop; 4. Tidying up mouse poo, and mouse-strewn and weevil-eaten saved beans from our office.
The sowing bench of the glasshouse has an inch layer of sand that acts as a moisture-retention medium. Over the year it ends up getting compacted or full of sowing/potting mix. The underlying polythene also breaks down, which I realised after starting the job, and frankly couldn’t be bothered to remove all of the sand in order to refresh it — so that’ll wait until this winter. But I did clean it as best I could, brushing away wet sand from the underneath plywood. Reconfiguring the sand, topping it up, and relaying the heat cable (used in spring to help along seedlings), the bench looked like a fresh day at the beach. All ready now to sow tomatoes on March 4th, and the rest of the sowing season to come (every few days…). I did broom a newt though, as you’ll read about below.
Images: 1-5. The stages of reconfiguring and cleaning the sand for our seed sowing bench. Wiping one of the heat pads for an upper shelf. Scraping up all the sand from the bench and cleaning underneath the polythene lining, mixing it up, relaying the heat cable for the bottom bench, topping up the bench with fresh sand, and relaying the seed trays.
Bees.
We’re in the false spring known as Fool’s Spring, where the bulbs are up so there’s colours, and bees are buzzing, and the sun is shining. But then it rains, and the temperature drops and we retreat to not-quite-winter because there’s more daylight. But the honeybees took their first opportunity for a proper good forage on February 15th. Streaming in and out of both hives were honeybees with full pollen baskets, and deciding it would be beneficial for them to get in and out quicker, I took away their mouseguards come dusk (when they were inside back keeping the brood warm).
However, this lasted only a day as the temperature was due to drop below 10˚C. When this happens they tend not to fly, staying indoors consistently to keep the brood warm, rotating between themselves as energy allows. Mice can sneak in for warmth and honey, hence the metal guards — holes are the right size for honeybees, but mice can’t get in. So these guards went back on, and since then we’ve had rain and no temperatures over 10˚C. We have spotted some honeys, amongst other species, so I’m still content enough that they’re ok, but the inconsistencies with weather does mean they come out to forage (so burning energy and requiring their honey stores, if they even have any left after winter). I gave a loud exultation regardless, because what a happy sight and sound of them all getting their jobs done to help the whole family.
There were mother bumblebees flying in and out of the Big Green Dump, as I mentioned above. Overwinter, all of the bumblebees will die off (their lifecycle ends) but the queen (i.e. mother) will find a nest to hibernate in. This can be in what we humans would class ridiculous places, like holes in pub seating — we’ve had a nest in our Roundhouse bench before. But if it’s warm, sheltered and close to a nectar and pollen source come spring, wouldn’t you choose it too? The Big Green Dump isn’t often disturbed, has loads of degrading (warm) plant material, and is next to willows (offering some of the earliest nectar sources). Best course of action here is to not remove any plant material from the dump so allowing the mother to feed her eggs, they’ll hatch and move on, and it all starts again.
Tree bumblebees were spotted on the rosemary. They’re so fast, darting for nectar that they’re tricky to photograph. They’re the smaller bumblebees with the ginger shoulders. What is so upsetting about all of the daffodil flower heads I’m finding ripped off the plant is that once the flower shrivels up, that pollen is no longer accessible.
Images: 1-2. A honeybee “warre” hive on a sunny spring-like day with foragers streaming in and out of the entrance holes, currently made smaller due to the temperature by a ‘mouse guard’ - a holey metal strip to avoid mice sneaking in to get warm and steal honey; 3. A bumblebee, looks like a buff-tailed queen.
Fox.
Our resident fox Rufus had been spotted over the months limping and not looking as bushy. It transpired — through him getting closer to us/showing himself more during the daytime in the garden — that he in fact has mange. This is a sarcoptic mite causing an infection in the fox’s skin, they scratch, the fur comes away, and their immune system is further compromised. Rufus had taken up residence in the dog bed in our Roundhouse, quite sweetly, but being disturbed by staff members he’d of course get scared and run off.
We’d gotten hold of a homeopathic remedy from the National Fox Welfare Society that we’ve (I’ve) been feeding him everyday in a bowl of dog food. I realised with the temperature drop that he’d probably be even colder without his fur, so I repurposed wool insulation sheets as a bed in the polytunnel. Frankly this was also so he would stop clambering on our cuttings bench destroying potted plants. It’s a strange feeling when you’re pleased that a somewhat wild animal is taking the food, water and bedding you’ve offered — and then leaves you urine in the food bowl, as a thank you?
We also took delivery of something stronger, but this needs to be given and eaten in front of us as it’s harmful to hedgehogs and dogs. Over the last week of February he was taking the food when we weren’t around, or at least, we’re assuming it’s him. If it’s not him and we’re assuming he’s ok because the food has gone, then, well, I guess we can’t do anything anyway. If we can’t find him, we can’t feed him. But it’s sort of a good sign that he’s backed off as that should mean he’s regained energy (mange ruins them so much that they become timid around humans). As I’m writing this, I have some salmon from a Too Good To Go I can’t eat (as I’m vegetarian) that he’ll be getting. The other day he gobbled up a a chilli-garlic sausage roll (sans pastry).
Images: 1-5. Resident urban fox Rufus seen around the garden while he suffers from ‘mange’, an infection caused by a sarcoptic mite that burrows in the skin and causes the fox to scratch the fur off. He’s very unwell and was very timid around us, showing virtually no energy. However, we’ve created beds for him and fed him everyday and now he isn’t around during the day (but still eating the food we leave).
Mushrooms.
My colleague is into mushrooms, and so that spurred us to refresh our mushroom chamber along with implementing a new Forest Garden mushroom area for wine caps and oysters. All that I know has been passed on from previous colleagues, and I took up the mantle to share wisdom that may not be correct, but experientially it does alright, so we continue.
Logs.
Freshly-cut hardwood logs are drilled with holes, and small bits of wooden dowel inoculated with whatever spore you want are hammered into the holes. The dowel-in-hole is sealed with beeswax to avoid any contamination from other mycelium spores, and logs are left for around a year. Mycelium should then spread out through the log. By soaking the logs for a day, banging them (shocking them, as if they’ve fallen from a tree) and then hanging or placing them, the fruit will be encouraged to pop out (so spreading spores via its gills). Our chamber utilises used climbing rope, and the logs are placed sideways in here. Every work day (twice a week) we put on the sprinkler system for 10 minutes or so, making it seem like it’s raining. It’s utterly bizarre, and I wonder if the mycelium is doing their version of an eye roll communication inside their log. But it works. Mushrooms pop out and we harvest, and when we think the logs have done all their fruiting, they’re rested for another go later on.
We have some shiitake logs that are very old (at least 5 years), so bark has come off from the constant soaking and shocking. But we didn’t inoculate that many new ones in August 2022 and so to fill up our chamber, I soaked and shocked them all. The new ones contain shiitake and oyster, so we’ll see shortly if we’d done a good job and the mycelium was happy with its home.
Images: 1-3. The ‘mushroom chamber’ is an area cordoned off with wooden trellis and a nylon shade net. It needed to be cleaned of leaves and debris before our next season. Inside hang old climbing ropes tied in sections to allow inoculated logs to hang horizontally. 4. A large tub the size of a bath is filled with inoculated logs, they’re weighed down and soaked for 24 hours, and then emptied. 5. Logs are hung up, and sprinkled with water from an irrigation drip pipe for 10 minutes a couple times a week to imitate rain, and the logs should fruit mushrooms; 6. Wooden pallets are spray painted with “oy” and “shiit” and “old” to denote which logs were from where, so they can be placed back in their correct place after fruiting.
Beds.
The new development is a cordoned-off area by our pond of woodchip and cardboard, with a sprinkling of straw-and-wine-cap-spawn. By keeping the area moist, the spawn should eat away at the matter, enjoy themselves, be healthy, and then fruit — so giving us wine caps. A wooden pallet from a delivery, that happened to be shaped like a planter, has been treated with weatherproof paint and lined with polythene. This will be filled with a substrate and oyster (mushroom) spawn.
Images: 1-5. Wine cap fungi spawn (fungi grown on a substrate) is sprinkled into pet straw, then spread over an already dressed area of fresh woodchip and cardboard. This is watered daily and mushrooms should fruit.
Amphibians.
Genuinely don’t know if this was excessive because it occured on the leap day of February 29th, but we were watching the wine cap mushroom development starting off, before noticing all the little frog heads dotted around the pond. Frogspawn was already visible, but on this day the frogs were going for it with each other, or simply floating with heads on the spawn, or popping up from below. Some were facing each other, some leap frogging another, some males ganging up on a female. It was mesmerising and unusual and captivating. They began to croak and then just as suddenly stopped.
The pond is always forgotten about. Every now and then in summer we’ll remember to top it up with fresh water, or in autumn we’ll chop down the reeds that have died back. There are piles of deadwood we top up, and a defunct bug hotel at the boundary edge. And despite being left to its own devices, it operates. The frogs and toads amass in our garden, finding homes for themselves after this spring mating. The fox and cats use it as a pathway to the rest of the neighbourhood. The elder above provides shade. However, we do need to introduce more biodiversity; during my Forest Garden course I did design in such plants as houttuynia, watercress, willowherb, wild angelica, marsh woundwort, douglas and yellow iris, and king solomon’s seals. But as always, capacity.
Another apparently resident amphibian is the glasshouse newt. We spotted it last year hiding under some sowing trays, and during my tidy of the space, I accidentally broomed it! It could’ve been a family member, but it had the same orange underbelly. I’d obviously stunned it with the hard bristles of the broom, pulling it from it’s comfy hidden wooden framed home (the glasshouse structure), but it lay there upside down arms and legs stretched out. It didn’t move and I was aghast, and having never handed an amphibian before, didn’t want to start with the one I’d maybe killed. Though, in hindsight, the first mouse I ever handled was also dead. My colleague stepped in by picking it up and it moved! We placed it in a dark damp area that I had already cleaned and within minutes it had scurried off. Both mesmerising and horrifying that it went into total stealth mode.
Images: 1-2. The pond with frog heads popping up amidst all the frogspawn (see if you can spot them all); 3. The glasshouse newt upside down in stealth mode showing off it’s orange belly.
All in all, February was soggy but signs of spring were showing via the wildlife and buds. Maintenance tasks remain, especially with our additional Saturday volunteer day once a month, but we’re now into the time when things return to planting, planting, planting. And that’s overwhelming, generally. It never stops, you have to be adaptable, it’s hard on the body. Though we only have a small space to manage, we cram it full.
I think sometimes the perspective of Instagram gardening exudes this care-free hobby, that you can become self-sufficient by saving your carrot tops and sowing seeds in egg cartons. To an extent, I agree that these methods can work as a top-up, and they are ultimately a beneficial way to encourage people into the act of growing: understanding what seeds are, tuning into seasonality, registering the effort it takes to grow food. But it isn’t easy to plan, manage and nurture a commercial space. This is a business as well as an area for wellbeing, and that’s tricky to navigate with not much time.
Gardeners — and farmers, and anyone else in the food production system — are wise. Not from learning theoretical stuff, but by getting stuck in. When you purchase your food, you are showing gratitude to that entire system, even if it’s a completely void conventional arable farm or intensive cattle farm. These landworkers are making decisions based on what they’ve experienced, and yeah, I’d disagree with some of the practices, though I also recognise that contexts vary. So while your windowsill garden ecosystem may be all you can support, remember that when you ask a gardener for their insight, they’re hopeful for the life of the plant and all that could come, but they’re also realistic. Buy plastic-free organic produce wherever possible: this is more supportive to a food system shift than using the roots of a vegetable. Save and use your avocado pit for dyeing, use your carrot tops for pesto and the heads fed to worms, and don’t try to grow tomatoes from the pinched out shoots (they won’t develop in time for the sun dipping).
Images: 1. A caterpillar cocooned in a lettuce leaf, looks like they’re currently metamorphosing; 2. Aphids on the indoor lettuce; 3. The rocoto chilli plant has already produced good-sized fruits; 4. River, the local cat, swanning on through the garden; 5. A forced rhubarb experiment.