Jungletoast

This is going to be a very boring post, I strongly advise that you click away now to something else. Anything else. Even the Liberal Democrats homepage. It’s about plants. Bye now! Anyway, a couple of weeks ago I mentioned on here that I had had a disaster in my conservatory. Boring and middle class, yay! Like many that particular blog post sank without trace, but I had briefly mentioned that I had been almost reduced to tears (and my youngest daughter actually was!) when on returning from holiday we discovered that the conservatory had had no ventilation during an extremely warm spell, and had probably heated up to something like 50C for around five days. When we got home in the evening it was still 43C in there, a dry arid heat. The kind of conditions in which dogs die in cars, and it had dreadful consequences for the plants. Our conservatory is a haven. It has – well had, let’s get the tense tragically right here – a bougainvillea vine growing into the ceiling up a trellis, foliage plants giving bold splashes of green, hanging baskets with hoya, ruellia and tradescantia, cacti and agave dotted around, and my pride and joy, cycads from Australia, South Africa, Mexico, and India. We eat (ate…) surrounded by heady amounts of oxygen and prickles, leaves arching over our heads. If it’s warm enough we open vents, windows and doors, and are soothed by the gentle rustling of leaves. We do get stabbed from time to time, but generally we (well, I) feel that the benefits outweigh the occasional sharp pain.

I’ve been growing plants for a long time, one of several interests I have. Like all my hobbies, commitment ebbs and flows, it's a time thing, and so during times of ebb the plants do tend to suffer from neglect, but this is nothing compared to what just happened to them. This spring I had finally dragged myself out of the gardening doldrums and got everything sorted out. Things were going, and growing, gloriously. Plants that had not grown new leaves for a number of years were flushing, the bougainvillea was flowering. The place was looking more lush than ever before, the results of the increasing love and attention the plants were getting. Good husbandry in other words. I still had issues with mealy bugs, a common sap-sucking houseplant pest that even Kew Gardens has legions of, but overall I felt I was winning the battle.

Then we came back to total devastation, a wall of heat. All the soft leaved plants - the vines, the trailing plants, the foliage plants - had been decimated. Barely a living leaf, brown and shrivelled, white and skeletal. The cacti and agaves, desert plants that you would think would have easily tolerated the conditions, had had the moisture sucked out of them and become shadows of their former selves. But worst of all was the damage inflicted on the cycads. Glorious leaves that had once been silver, blue or green were a deep reddish brown. New flushes of leaves had been cruelly stopped in their tracks and withered away – to put this in context the plants frequently grow only one set of leaves per year, and sometime not that many! On the species that grow continually but one leaf at a time from a central whorl I had literally lost a decade of growth. What had looked like a lush green firework now looked like a dead stump. To say I was stunned was an understatement. I sat on the sofa numb, disbelieving of what had happened. Away for just a few days I’d undone months and in some cases years of care and attention.

The family gathered round, unpacking forgotten. There was no saving some plants as once desiccated leaves do not recover. The green garden waste bags came into the conservatory and I sadly pulled down metres of dead vines from the struts and supports, and was almost inconsolable as I chopped off the dead cycad leaves. Everything got a mild watering to try and reintroduce some moisture into the soil, but not too much as dried roots will rot in waterlogged conditions. When we were finished clearing up it looked post-apocalyptic, Armageddon. Our once green space was practically bare. There were some exceptions, a cycad from Mexico had sustained almost no damage whatsoever where neighbouring plants had been cut to the ground. Of two from South Africa, both the same species one had lost 100% of its leaves whereas the other had just the mildest of brown tips. Nonetheless these were the smallest of miracles in what was otherwise outright carnage. Depressing as hell. There are no photos, I couldn't take it.

I have a greenhouse too, and the plants in there were not affected, including some that by good fortune I had moved down there to repot but not brought back, and so I was able to add some instant greenery in places but the vines and foliage plants had no subs ready to go. To get back to something not resembling a nuclear holocaust I’ve made a few select ebay purchases. A new rubber plant has been collected from Surrey, far larger than its unfortunate predecessor, and looks fantastic in one corner, like it has been there for years. It has reached the stage where it’s more like a small bush, rather than the single stems you find in garden centres, and is growing from multiple different points. I swear that it has grown by 10% in all directions since I brought it home, clearly it likes the new conditions. Agaves were easily replaced from an enthusiast in Essex and again look like they have been there forever, and where there was once a huge hoya I have now strung up a passiflora that is already four feet tall and spreading its tendrils all over the place. In time it could look amazing, especially if it flowers. Overall it is looking a lot better than a few weeks ago. The cycads are not so easily replaced though, and amongst the new green additions look like a succession of Del Monte cast-offs, pineapple husks in weathered pots. Nonetheless I was hopeful that their unique biology would have allowed them to survive.

Cycads are funny old plants. They’re remnants, living fossils, descended from the oldest of plants and familiar to dinosaurs, like Ferns and Araucarias (like the Monkey Puzzle). For some reason plants from these families have always called to me, I should have been an Edwardian. They have small furry or smooth trunks, caudexes, formed from the bases of old leaves, and they grow incredibly slowly. Smaller plants in particular, which most of mine are as I’ve grown them from seed, tend to have significantly more more below ground than above, huge underground root systems far larger than the caudexes themselves, and this means that they can store a tremendous amount of energy in the form of starch. I was hopeful that this energy would be released after the heat stress, just as wildfires in habitat can trigger a mass flushing of new leaves.

Tim Farron never looked so good did he?

I was not wrong. A mere three weeks after the furnace they are springing to life, even the smallest and daintiest plants. In the days immediately after coming home I gradually introduced a bit more moisture, and then the following weekend I gave them a decent amount of a high nitrogen fertiliser. Slowly but surely the tops of the caudexes are expanding. Green tufts are beginning to show. On one Indian cycad they’re a foot long already. I will remain eternally grateful for the extra warmth that September has blessed us with, as ironically enough these plants need heat in order to grow. Had we hit an early autumn it could be that many of these plants may have just gone dormant, as it is I’d say that around half of them are actively growing, and it’s likely the other half will follow suit, although the sooner the better as the leaves become stretched in low light conditions (the professional term is etiolated). It may not look dark to you or I but these plants are from the tropics.

I suspect that in another four weeks things will look vastly better, and that a year from now we will barely remember what happened with the exception of one of two plants that will unfortunately look forlorn for much longer. There is a silver lining however, and that is that a week of oven-like conditions has proved pivotal in the fight against the bugs. Mealy bugs are soft and moist, with a waxy coating, and the unrelenting and extreme heat seems to have killed the vast majority of them off. A few lived on the leaves, and so departed when I cut them off. Many more however lived unseen in the cracks, crevisses and fur. When soft new leaves start to come out they’re like a magnet for these pests and in some cases, if I’m not sufficiently on the ball, can prevent a new leaf from growing before it has even got started. They breed like the clappers and severe infestations can completely engulf leaves, making them look like they’re covered in snow. Like aphids they secrete sticky goo, and this in turn grows mould on it and it all becomes disgusting. They’re easy enough to clean off leaves, but hiding in the cracks they escape detection and also insectides (though mostly I use a hose or the shower to blast them off). This time around however and the new leaves are untouched. Where previously I could have been guaranteed to spot small white bugs crawling up stems, now there are practically none. I can only surmise that where a decade of various treatments has failed, the unintended super-heating of the conservatory has fried them all. Who knew? Certainly not me, and whilst I would obviously have preferred that none of this had ever happened, if all the plants are back to normal in a year or two but I have no bugs to contend with, it may just have been worth it. Just. 

Did you make it this far? If so I'm amazed!

4,054,458,047

That’s me that is. On this glorious planet on which we blog, tweet and snipe on Birdforum, I am the 4 billionth, 54 millionth, four-hundred and fifty-eight thousandth and forty-seventh person to have been born. Whoa. How s about that for mind-boggling thought eh? Hope you were sitting down. How do I know this? It was on the BBC website, so it must be true. You can play too:

What's Your Number

The reason that this little gem of a stat exists is that the population of planet earth recently passed the seven billion mark. That is a serious number of people, imagine the queue at the post office, it would go on for ever and ever. I mean when I get up in the morning and catch the tube, I think that’s a lot of people, but seven billion! They wouldn’t even fit in an extra-long train!  Seven billion is like, loads. The other interesting stat is that, in the history of the universe and space, there have been 78,404,690,760 sentient human beings. And then add some birders. With seven billion alive (if not all well, necessarily) that means a lot of dead people. 71 billion to be imprecise. Where did they all go? Jeez. I’m alive though, one of the seven billion, and able to blog, tweet, and post inanities on Birdforum. Talking of which, I’m actually having a little love-in with Lee Evans on there at the moment, or rather he is, as for some reason he believes me to be on his side. I’m not on his side, nor am I on the opposing Lee-bashing side, but it didn’t prevent him declaring his adoring and eternal gratitude for something he perceived me to have done. Had there been a “hugs” emoticon thing, I would have used it in reply. Except emoticons are a load of crap, and I refuse to use them; they are a poor substitute for intelligent writing, and only exist so that stupid people can grasp simple sentences and get a vague understanding of their likely meaning. I didn’t reply, I couldn’t think of anything both cutting, witty, and genuinely inoffensive.

This bird is largely responsible for global warning. I hope it goes south via Malta.

Er, where was I? Oh yes, over-population. Not quite as important as which UK twitchers have seen the most birds and which grown men hate which other grown men, but worthy of mention nonetheless.  I read somewhere that by 2050 – this could be wrong, I refuse to actually conduct research - we will need two earths to feed the population, which by that time will be ten billion people. The trouble is we don’t have two earths, we only have one. Better hope somebody thinks of something, and fast. The good news is that by 2050 I’ll be on the way out, so won’t have to worry too much about, except perhaps over where to get buried alongside 71 billion other people, but it will be a genuine problem for my kids and my kid’s kids. I mean, what if they have to knock down Waitrose and grow turmips there instead? Where will they buy their imported green beans in December, or their Malaysian jumbo king tiger prawns? Like I said, genuine problems. Forget about where they might live, that’s blindingly obvious. They’re all going to be living with me and Mrs L until their early forties, possibly beyond. We will make weekly attempts to throw them out of course, but ultimately with starter houses by then costing a million quid, and starter salaries remaining exactly as they are today, and perhaps even less, what choice are they really going to have? I'm already resigned to it, but I suppose it will be nice to be looked after in my old age.

Seriously worrying statistics though, the cost of the weekly shop is only going in one direction. That said, it is a very clear case of SEP (someone else's problem), and I don't expect anyone reading the BBC website to do a damn thing except moan about the increasing cost of bread. In case you were wondering my preferred loaf has risen from £1.65 to £2.09. Yet another interesting stat. I am sure I can find more. Sorry this hasn't been about birds. I was going to go on the patch at the weekend and get the blog back on track, but instead I'm going to be planting spuds in the front garden and stocking up on canned food.

Not enough hours in the day

Imagine for a moment that I have a wick coming out of the top of my head. I am a candle, and I am alight. My hair is gently being singed, my scalp getting hotter. There is also a wick coming out of my left foot. That too is alight, and causing some discomfort. I am a candle burning at both ends. Put without stupid references to candles, there is not enough time in the day. Last night I went to bed at 1am, the night before that, also 1am. With paid employment now taking up the vast majority of my normal waking hours, all the stuff that I used to do during the day while the kids were at school is getting pushed to either end, and I’m still not getting it all done.

This is exactly how I remember it before, but then that was without the comparative luxury of knowing that one didn’t have to live in complete chaos. Back then, living in a bombsite seemed normal. When I lost my job in 2009, I turned my not inconsiderable energy and drive to running the house and looking after the kids, with possibly a small amount of local birding thrown in. Now that I am back at work, I see everything I strived to sort out disintegrating, and disintegrating fast. This is naturally extremely irritating. My response has been to attempt to squeeze some of what I used to do during the day into the mornings and evenings.

Last night for instance I did a pile of cleaning in the kitchen, and this morning saw me hanging up washing, cleaning up the kitchen – again, moving the vacuum cleaner whose upturned plug I had trodden on several times in the last few days, and helping the kids with the arduous task of putting away socks. It didn’t help that I got up late, but that was because I had only gone to bed a matter of hours previously after all the stuff I had needed to do last night. And this is with help!! At the moment, I am not responsible for either the school run or feeding anyone. That thankless task is being done by a succession of exhausted relatives, without whom we would be up a certain creek missing a certain paddle, and we are very grateful.

Tomorrow, I’m in charge again. I’ve had over a week in the office now, sorting myself out and working out what exactly it is that I need to do, but with that bedding-in out of the way, I’m going to attempt to work from home. I won’t have time during the day to do much of what I used to, but I think that just by being present when the children are around I can perhaps keep a lid on quite how much devastation they can cause. Or that is the plan anyway. In reality I’m going to be hiding myself away and hoping that they don’t kill each other.

We always knew that this period would be difficult, and of course it didn’t help that I went to both Shetland and Norfolk in quick succession, but that’s October for you, and I'm already planning next year. We’re both working full-time, we have three kids at school, including one on a daft half-day schedule (which thankfully comes to an end quite soon), and the house does not clean itself, nor the clothes wash themselves. Neither does food cook itself, nor transport itself from the shop to our kitchen. And more is the pity, for soon something will have to give. I’m thinking specifically of the word “cleaner” at this point. Though it pains me to pay someone else to clean my house, it may have to happen. It would be one less thing to worry about, and would of course help the economy. The Lithuanian economy primarily.

Then there is the small matter of local birding, the thing that above all keeps me sane and balanced. Can you guess how much I’ve done in the last two weeks? Exactly. Right now, I’d need help finding my way to Wanstead Flats.  I’ve not been out once. Not that there has been much to see, the odd Ring Ouzel, a few Skylarks and a large Sparrowhawk ;-) , but that’s not the point. I just enjoy being out there, and that has been sacrificed. I’m not happy about it, but there is nothing I can do at the moment. The good times are over it seems.....

Unless.....have a Shrike! They always cheer me up, and they may cheer you up too having just read my big whinge. This juvenile Woodchat Shrike at Lowestoft in Suffolk was extremely approachable, though with many other birders there, and a recent article in Birdwatch Mag about photographers, I didn't want to push my luck. We popped in to pay it homage on the way back from birdless Norfolk last weekend, and it cheered us up no end, as did a Glossy Ibis just down the road at Minsmere, site of some of my finest smash and grab raids. And I finally connected with the Semipalmated Sandpiper in Essex as well, although my mate Lee, er I mean Bradders, thinks we're stringing it as he didn't see it earlier in the afternoon. I of course would never doubt any of my mates' sightings..... no no no, never.