Irohazaka in the Vall de Gallinera

Autumn is my favourite season, and has been ever since my very first encounter with the brilliant autumn colours of deciduous trees in Nikko, Japan over four decades ago. Since then I’ve always looked forward to this yearly spectacle wherever I lived — the US, Canada, UK, and Germany.

Now that I live in southern Valencia, I’ve come to accept that this is one natural phenomenon that I’ve foregone. Although the gingkos and poplars do turn an eye-catching yellow, it’s autumn’s fiery reds and oranges that delight my eyes. To experience such blazing colours, I assumed one would have to travel to Spain’s colder regions, to Asturias and Galicia perhaps, or Cantabria, Navarra, and the Basque country, and even as far afield as northern France.

All the more astonishing then to come across such a spectacular show, just a short drive away — minutes really — down to the Vall de Gallinera in Alicante. I’ve now baptized this area Irohazaka, after the renowned attraction of coloured foliage blanketing the mountain slopes in Nikko during autumn. And, were this Nikko, the whole valley would be packed with tourist buses inching their way all along these winding mountain roads. We were there on a Sunday, and no one else regarded the metamorphosis of leaves from green to red and orange and purple as anything worth marvelling at, or even meriting a second glance. All the other cars sped by. How fortuitous for us then to have these gorgeously coloured fields and slopes to ourselves 🙂

The Vall de Gallinera is famous for its black cherries in May — reputed to be the earliest to ripen in the region. And the best tasting as well — they are juicy and luscious with a nice balance of sweetness and tartness, with a dense, chewy texture. In spring, the entire valley is a joy to drive and walk through, with the cherries and almonds, peaches and apples clothed in white and pink blossom. I should have known, from my own experience with our cherry tree in the UK, that these trees would be equally spectacular in their autumn garb. For this momentary lapse of forgetfulness over how cherry trees behave in autumn, I can perhaps be forgiven, as our own cherry tree and those of our neighbours in our mountain hamlet, have not displayed flaming colours before falling.

Gallinera downslope cherry terraces fab_7667 copy.jpg

Gallinera mt stonewall cherry orchard vvfab wow_7685.JPG

Gallinera cherry orchard lvs on grnd vvfab_7681

Gallinera two cherry lvs Benisilli autumn fab_7698

And after our eyes had feasted on foliage, it was time for another kind of feast — steaks grilled over the embers of a woodfire at the restaurant La Font in Benitaia. The tarta de queso (cheese cake) was topped with the region’s famous cherry preserves.

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Gallinera tarta de queso cherry preserve g_7721.JPG

 

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Giving thanks — a novice farmer’s harvest

Having been away in Germany during April and May, it was only in July that I was able to sow vegetables and herbs. Rather late, I know, but none the less, over the summer, we enjoyed Asian vegetables, such as mizuna and pak choi (bok choy), as well as purple-podded beans and purple kohlrabi. (I was aiming for a jewel-coloured veggie bed.) I also grew dill, salad burnet, Thai royal basil, and an unusual pale green, fuzzy-skinned cucumber, known as Armenian cucumber. I also planted three Pink Fir potatoes bought in a supermarket for Christmas that had been left in the fridge. (Professionals advise to use only seed potatoes, but being new to potato-growing, I thought why not take a risk.) It was my first time to plant these. And, moreover, in a Mediterranean climate (plant hardiness zone 10, with winter minimum temperatures ranging from -1 to 4ºC). For the second time I raised local tomatoes and Bishop’s mitre peppers from seedlings bought from Viveros Agave, the nearest plant nursery. I was warned by our gardener that watering tomato plants before they´ve set fruit will lead to splitting, and indeed some did. They were still edible though. Valuable lesson learned. I also discovered that the Bishop´s mitre peppers, which I´d assumed were fiery hot, turned out to be sweet, with a complex fruity taste, with only the occasional one possessing a bite, and a mild one at that.

The mizuna greens made a nice last-minute addition to stir-fries and soups, and we ate the purple kohlrabi raw in salads. It’s a pity to have had to peel the kohlrabi’s brilliant skins. The purple-podded beans turned green once cooked, though their taste was outstandingly sweet. The runner beans did not take kindly to summer heat. Their orange flowers were decorative, and the occasional bean, like the purple-podded beans, was intensely sweet. The flavour of vegetables cooked just minutes from being harvested is truly incomparable, and the depth and range of flavour can tempt an omnivore to turn vegetarian. Now that it’s cooler though, the runner beans have set more pods. My gardening book (attuned to the English climate) says bean vines should be dug in at the end of summer, but they seem to be just getting into their stride.

Miraculously, a crop of daikon (Japanese giant radish), appeared, though I don’t recall having sowed any. Their origin remains an unsolved mystery. I’m leaving most of them in the ground over winter, as their flavour apparently improves with the cold. I might try making daikon kimchee (Korean hot peppery pickles), from a recipe by Holly in Beyond Kimchee.

The Turkish rocket that I´d grown last year on one of the raised beds seeded itself on the ground below. Since we have two dogs who are rather diligent in marking their territory, we haven’t harvested any. Luckily, the ants have been busily moving seeds about, and rocket plants appeared near the Thai basil on a nearby raised bed. Their leaves have lent a peppery note to several salads. Another crop, the Peruvian fruit physalis, has also appeared elsewhere in the garden, doubtless disseminated by the ants as well.

Last year’s crop of Italian kale (Nero di Toscana) continued to grow throughout winter, spring, and summer. I harvested all the leaves recently, but there are new shoots sprouting from the stalks. I shall wait to see what happens to these. I am learning that some vegetables regarded as annuals in a temperate climate, such as the Bishop’s mitre pepper for example, can overwinter here successfully. I’ve also read that Thai royal basil is a perennial in subtropical conditions — it remains to be seen how it fares with our winter cold. Perhaps the Italian kale will get more leaves….

One of my interests is neglected and under-utilized indigenous food crops, and this year I grew Amaranthus cruentus (variety ‘Velvet Curtains’), as much for its stunning colour contribution to the vegetable and ornamental garden, as to find out what this traditional cereal grain from Mexico tastes like. The tender leaves can be cooked like spinach but I have not tried this. I’ve now harvested the seed heads, leaving some on the plants for the birds to discover and tide them over winter. (The bird feeder with peanuts that we set up last year hasn’t been patronized at all. Perhaps because hunting is rife in our area, the birds are extremely wary.) Amaranth seeds have a nutty taste and were once used in Aztec rituals. The drawback is that they are tiny, and separating them from the chaff seems a formidable task. It is no wonder then that these and similar indigenous small-seeded and highly nutritious crops such as Ethiopian teff (Eragrostis teff) are being supplanted by larger-grained maize and easier-to-process wheat. Such a pity and what a loss of biological and nutritional diversity and culinary history. (That said, amaranth grains, as well as teff, are available in certain health food shops.)

Amaranth harvested in basket fab

Amaranthus cruentus ‘Velvet Curtains’

Not least of this year’s bounty are the olives. The olive tree is alternate bearing, which means it bears plentifully only every other year. Next year we expect very little or no fruit at all. We are elated to be able to taste our own extra-virgin olive oil — 13 precious litres of yellow-green gold — and to have been able to watch the process of its extraction. In months to come we look forward to gradually sampling our home-made preserves of green and black olives.

For the bounty from this year’s experiments in veggie growing and the lessons learned thereby, I am deeply grateful. It has been amazing to discover and appreciate how truly and astonishingly full of flavour organic, homegrown, and just-harvested vegetables are. Bought vegetables, even organically grown ones, simply cannot compete with fare directly from the plant and straight into the pot.

The origin of Thanksgiving is to give thanks for the harvest, and in times past in temperate climates, the harvest referred to wheat and other grains which matured in autumn. The word ‘harvest,’ I was surprised to recently discover, comes from Old English hærfest, meaning ‘autumn.’ A close relative is the German word for autumn, Herbst. What splendid and magnanimous timing indeed is harvest in autumn, enabling the laying of food stores, for humans and wild life alike, for the wintry months ahead.

Our own olive oil, finally

When well-laid plans go awry, often Providence steps in with an unplanned proxy, way better than any we could have thought up ourselves. And that is precisely what happened with our first venture into pressing our own olives into oil.

Our oil on plate w olives zaatar

For breakfast this morning: our own extra virgin olive oil, cold extracted, with last year’s pickled olives, za’atar, and sourdough rye bread.

When my gardener went ahead to have his olives pressed three days earlier than we had agreed upon, I thought I had no other option for our olives but to pickle them, as our meager harvest would most likely not meet the minimum required by a press. It would probably require buying more pickling jars, unless I could convince friends to come and get some off our hands.

So what could be more miraculous and providential than my friend Roselie phoning me that she’d just found an almázara (olive press) near her farm? M and I at once set about feverishly harvesting for a day and a half. We left the ones unreachable even with a ladder for the birds, and some fully ripe black ones for later salt pickling. Our harvest came to 2 large crates and a quarter of a large trug. We estimated about 40 – 50 kilos.

Shortly after noon on Friday the 10th, we drove to the 2-hectare farm of Roselie and her husband Lambert. Their lovely house at the end of a stonewall-lined lane peeped through a diversity of fruit trees — olives, persimmons, quinces, and citrus — backlit into shimmering gold by the autumn sun. It was their neighbour who had told them about the almázara run by a cousin. Our group then headed for the village of Benicolet, driving through orchards scented by ripening persimmons, oranges, grapefruits, and olives. There, near a grove of baby olive trees on one side and a citrus orchard on the other, stood the press.

Benicolet Almazara L'or del Xiu

The Benicolet olive press. The man facing the camera is Victor Climent.

View from Benicolet Almazara fab

View from the olive press towards Montixelvo.

The guy in charge of the press, a tall young man, greeted us, and introduced himself as Noé. I had telephoned for an appointment for 1 pm the day before, and he apologised that we would have to wait, as there was still a batch going through. I said we were perfectly content to observe the process while waiting. Noé and his assistant Javi (Javier) were relaxed and pleasant as they showed us around the machinery, explaining the process at the same time that we took photos. Roselie and Lambert then left. They would be bringing in their olives at a later date.

While we waited for our turn, Noé pressed cold beer cans into our hands, and there was no way we could refuse, as we’d already refused once before. They also offered us tiny cups of a herbal liqueur, scented with anise and other sweet-smelling herbs. I was glad to see the previous batch finished before we got totally inebriated. The machinery was cleaned of debris and spent paste (pomace), ready for our turn.

Noé and Javi helped us carry the olives from the car. The olives were weighed, still in the crates and trug, and they came to 51 kilos. ‘Limpia!’ Noé was happy at the state of our fruit. The previous batch had been chockfull of twigs and leaves. ‘We picked by hand,’ I said. There are short harvesting rakes which we could have used, but only learned about later, being absolutely clueless about olive harvesting. In any case, olives meant for the table are best harvested by hand. Those for oil are usually stripped with narrow-tined plastic rakes.

Our olives were then poured into the input chute for sorting and washing.

Our olives into input chute2 fab

Our olives into input chute copy

The leaves and the fruit stems are separated, leaving the fruits to drop into a swirling cold water bath. They then proceed to be crushed into a paste, pulp and seeds together, with steel blades. (The traditional cold press method involved grinding in a stone mill with the ground paste wrapped in layers in straw or jute to be pressed.) The olive paste moves to a large horizontal tank to be mixed gently at 27°C (this is the maximum allowable temperature under cold extraction). This low temperature allows the oil content in the paste to be easily separated from the water content. It is not hot enough to affect the quality and taste of the resulting oil, and the process still qualifies as cold extraction. The term ‘cold pressing’ is now reserved for the traditional stone mill method. The crushed paste is mixed slowly, to allow enough time for all the oil to accumulate while the water drains off to pipes that lead outside.

Olives in macerator stirrer

Ground-up olive paste; the greener the olives, the paler the paste.

Mixing tank olives

From the mixing tank at top right above, the oil then slowly trickles through — a stream of molten gold. ‘Bueno,’ Noé and Javi both comment on our oil as it flows. We are quite chuffed. I am tempted to taste it, but restrain myself.

Our own oil at last fab.jpg

The first trickle of cold-extracted oil

Meanwhile the temperature in the mixing tank drops gradually — to 26, then 25 until it is at 23°C when the last drops of oil trickle through to a sieve and on to a stainless steel collector.

The oil proceeds to a large stainless steel tank for mixing, and is then bottled into appropriate sized jugs. Our oil went into 3 jugs, each containing 5 liters. The last one only came to 2/3 of the jug. The total for our first olive oil came to 13 precious liters. And the oil content? At 28%, Noé and Javi reckoned it excellent.

Javi filling jugs

Javi bottling oil from the previous batch (13% oil content).

 

Finca Oropendola olive oil copy.jpg

Our oil at 28% oil content

The standard oil content for the variety of our olives — Villalonga Manzanilla (distinct from the Sevilla Manzanilla) — is between 22 – 25%; 28% is brilliant and totally unexpected. The price of extraction is 18 cents for each kilo of input fruit, and 55 cents for each 5-liter jug. In all our 13 liters of extra virgin olive oil cost us 10 Euros to process. (Prices vary from almázara to almázara. Some charge as low as 14 cents per kilo, others as high as 80 cents. Other mills also expect a portion of the extracted oil in addition to, or instead of payment.)

The high oil rating is, I assume, thanks to the generous organic amendments of stable and chicken manure over the past year, and timely drip irrigation at three critical periods: flowering, fruit set, and seed maturation. The yield of 13 liters of oil from 46.5 net weight of fruit is quite good too. Normally it takes about 6 kilos of fruit to produce 1 liter of oil. Ours came to 3.6 kilos of fruit to 1 liter. For us novice organic olive farmers, this is an encouraging beginning. And we’ve still got a good 20 – 30 kilos of fruit in various stages of being debittered for pickling. Not all our 33 trees have borne fruit this year, as they’d been neglected for years, and only received water and good nutrition since we came.

I cannot end without mentioning another incredible bit of our olive oil adventure. Because it was the team’s time for lunch (between 2 and 3 pm), we were invited to share the partridge puchero slowly cooked into deliciousness over 9 hours by Noé. The partridges were courtesy of Javier’s father who had hunted them in the surrounding mountains. As evidence, Noé warned us to beware of any remaining shot, showing us one that turned up in his serving.

What joy and undiluted pleasure it was to partake of a meal so generously and freely shared by people who an hour before had not known us at all. We sat outside at a table in front of the press in the gentle afternoon sun, drinking red wine, soaking crusty fresh bread in the savoury broth flavoured with parsley and lemon quarters. The mixed olive pickles were from Olives Sanjuan, Javi´s family firm. Across from our dining table were oranges and grapefruits ripening on their trees in the nearby orchard. Could life get any better? This is precisely the kind of experience we had wished to come across while living in Spain.

While we waited for the cold extraction to come to an end, Noé’s father, Victor Climent, was graciousness itself as he recounted the history of the olive press, designed by his eldest daughter, an architect. I note, from the framed certificates on one wall of the press, that both of Noé’s older sisters had undertaken training related to extra virgin olive oil accreditation. It is only the second year that the press has been in operation, and the very first year that it is open to the general public.

The almázara, I gather, was established as a joint venture by the Sanjuan and Climent families in 2015. The Sanjuan family specializes in preserved olives and other pickles, and has branched out into ecological olive oil production under the label L’Or del Xiu. The word ‘Xiu’ comes from the former Moorish stronghold, Castell del Xiu (Xiu Castle), which was captured by Christian forces under King James (Jaume) I of Aragon in 1244. The ruins of the castle are a tourist feature of Llutxent, a town not far from Benicolet. Both Llutxent and Benicolet belong to the comarca (administrative region) known as Vall d’Albaida.

So what is our oil like? First of all, its colour immediately after extraction was a cloudy olive green. It has now settled into a brighter yellowish green, though still fairly cloudy. In time we are assured the particulates will settle and the oil will be less opaque. When poured onto a white plate, it is a distinct yellow. Its scent is intensely fruity, like that of freshly sliced green apples. This scent is characteristic of the Villalonga type of olive. Other scents associated with the Villalonga variety are freshly mown grass and almonds, but these I did not detect. There is also a strong scent of raw olives — after all, extra virgin olive oil is none other than pure olive juice. And what about the flavour? It is, like its scent, intense, mildly bitter, and peppery, and the taste lingers long in the mouth after swallowing. We love it! Not only because it is our very own, but it is just the kind of olive oil that we like, and what we had, rather unknowingly, hoped for. We aim to harvest a little earlier next time. Perhaps even two or more weeks earlier. The Villalonga variety ripens earlier than most other varieties, and ideally for the very best oil flavour, it should be harvested at the point when some fruits are already taking on a purple blush, even when most are still green. There is a trade-off between quantity and quality. The riper the olive, the greater the quantity of oil, but we would rather have less, and enjoy the best tasting oil we can produce.

A resounding thank you to our angels, Roselie and Lambert, for introducing and guiding us to an amazing almázara! And of course to Noé Climent Bosca and Javier Sanjuan Pascual for being so nice and hospitable. We shall certainly be back with our next harvest. Thanks also to Miichan and Satchan, our cats, who helped with the harvesting.

Benicolet Almazara Noe Javi.jpg

Noé Climent Bosca, on the left, and Javier (Javi) Sanjuan Pascual.

Contact details: Noé Climent Bosca, Almázara L’Or del Xiu, Benicolet, Valencia. Tel. 655 523 567. Call ahead to book. I understand pressing is only till the end of the November.

 

 

 

Time to plant bulbs

It´s a lovely cool day today at 21ºC. Everyday now I´ve been expecting rain, as it is usually grey and cloudy first thing in the morning. And so I´ve been holding off watering the garden. But so far, no rain. Which is fine, as I can continue to garden without getting wet.

These are what met my eyes this morning as I sipped my coffee and began to write.

Morning light on olive cosmos lavenders fab

Morning light on lavenders with blue-grey Russian sage, yellow euryops, pink cosmos, blue salvias (to the extreme right in front of the boulders), and in front, creeping verbenas.

Morning light on lemon verbena herb bed lavender fab

Flowering lemon verbena surrounded by various herbs — thyme, santolina, sage, creeping rosemary, and lavenders.

Ten am view from veranda

The mountain beyond is often wreathed in fog and mist, but not this morning. It is lovely at all times.

Since we got back from our holiday, I´ve been busy planting bulbs that will bloom sometime in February or March. Cyclamen — one of my favourites — have been nestled among the boulders in front and the back. The fuzzy photos are from the bulb packages.

Cyclamen from packet.png

I hope to outwit the squirrels and hedgehogs, and possibly mice, who are partial to cyclamen bulbs, whose common (and rather ungainly) name is sowbread, as it was once used to fatten up pigs.

Cyclamen bulbs for planting

Cyclamen bulbs — plant with the bowl facing up and smooth side down. The leftmost bulb was an indeterminate shape, and I am hoping the leaves and roots will find their own way.

Rocks under pine for cyclamen planting

I hope that the cyclamen will spread under the shelter of this pine and among the boulders.

Under the large cherry tree have gone muscari bulbs, and I envision their blue spikes up at the same time as the pale pink of the cherry´s blossoms. Some more muscari are going under the young cherry tree, a housewarming present from my friend T, who lives just over the mountain from me. I´m recreating a similar planting from the Bonn Botanical Garden, only there it was a flowering cherry, not a fruiting one like here.

Muscari from seed packet

Muscari

You can see where I´ve parked the wheelbarrow with my soil improvers — vermicompost (humus de lombriz; lombriz are earthworms, in the white sack) and organic humus (enmienda humica organica, in the blue sack), ready to scatter around the bulbs. These are to be found at the agricultural coop shop in Villalonga. Both are rich, black, and sweet-smelling, and I mix the two together with a bit of grit (limestone chips) from the gravel path and my poor garden soil to ensure good drainage so that the bulbs don´t rot when the rains flood my garden´s sticky clay soil. When I read ´poor garden soil´ in gardening books, my unimproved garden soil does not even qualify, and I always mix compost or humus to my impoverished soil.

Wheelbarrow wild olive ready for planting bulbs

Muscari waiting to be planted under the spreading boughs of a wild olive and young cherry tree. My wheelbarrow with humus sacks marks the spot and reminds me to get cracking, instead of writing.

Incidentally, when it rains for a few days, the gravel path spawns gelatious green-black blobs that look rather like the fungi called cloud ears, often used in Chinese cuisine. I think (but have yet to confirm) that these are nitrogen-fixing single-celled photosynthesizing bacteria called nostoc. And by incorporating these gravel chips (and the invisible dried nostoc) into the soil when planting, I hope to boost the chances of survival and longevity of my new introductions to the garden.

Casa Nostoc Sep2017.JPG

Deciding just where to plant these bulbs, which are naturally of Mediterranean origin (Lebanon, Israel, Syria, Greece, Turkey, etc.) is a bit tricky. To naturalize them, it is best to plant them 3 to 4 times deeper than is recommended on the packet to prevent them getting dry in our hot Mediterranean summers. For more temperate and wetter climates, planting them at 3 times their height is, conversely, to prevent them getting soggy and, subsequently, rotting. And, moreover, I want to make sure there are no endemic orchids that will be displaced. I shall be planting the rest of the bulbs in the next few days — Scilla hyacinthoides, Scilla peruviana, and scented tazetta narcissus.

Scilla hyacinthoides from seed packet

Scilla hyacinthoides

Scilla peruviana from packet

Scilla peruviana (misnamed as it is not from Peru)

Narcissus tazetta seed packet img

Tazetta narcissus

I missed out on the flowering of the autumn squill (Scilla autumnalis, although I call them pink orchids) while we were away, but their developing seeds are also worth a look.

Seedheads of autumn squill pink orchid fab.JPG

I came across Umberto Eco´s heartening and inspiring words on gardening this morning.

To rebuild a little chunk of the flowering earth: This should be every gardener’s goal. You must begin with a light heart and open eyes — as one does when entering a forest — while keeping in mind, at the same time, how tortuous and tiring is the path that lies before you. To become a gardener means to try, to fail, to stubbornly plug away at something, to endure serious disappointments and small triumphs that encourage you to try and fail again. But it means, above all, perking up your ears, sniffing, identifying the rhythm and the secret voice of a place, so that you may abandon yourself to and indulge it. To make a garden is to surrender so completely that you forget yourself. It is to obey.

I believe that a person cannot plant and remain bereft of hope. Putting a seed or bulb or plantlet into the soil is to see in the mind´s eye its eventual flowering and fruiting. And it doesn´t matter if it doesn´t turn out as expected. The very act of preparing the soil, enriching it with nature´s own and not with chemicals, and laying the seeds or bulbs or seedlings to rest into that thoughtfully made bed, is more than enough to keep dark clouds at bay.

 

 

 

What’s blooming now in my garden

With the first autumn rains coming early this year, the garden has greened up in the three weeks we´d been away. The daisies (Bellis perennis) are looking fabulous. The yellow flowers among the daisies are not dandelions — they´re autumn hawkbit (Leontodon autumnalis).

Daisies gnarled olive trunk yellow flowers fab.JPG

Here’s a closer look. The back side of the petals are a lovely pink.

It's daisy time!!! fab.JPG

I’d totally forgotten that I’d planted a cyclamen tuber in this boulder some time ago. What a lovely surprise! The curled up stem close to the soil is a seed capsule which bears as many as 12 seeds. Very clever of the cyclamen to insert the seed capsule into the soil. Ants are attracted to the sweet coating of the seeds and carry them away from the plant. They´re not interested in the seed itself and leave it once they´ve licked it clean, thus aiding in the cyclamen´s proliferation.

Cyclamen in boulder.JPGThe chrysanthemums, despite being frozen last winter, have come through. Here they are looking promising in bud.

Chrysanths daisies.JPG

A few spiral orchids (Spiranthes spiralis), also known as lady´s tresses orchid, are still in bloom, but most were flattened by heavy machinery when the new septic tank was put in while we were away.

Spiral orchid zoom g.JPG

I am willing myself to be optimistic that the spiral orchids will come back next year. The double track made by the backhoe into the daisy “lawn” (ouch!) was precisely where the spiral orchids grew thickest last year.

Tracks of digger thru orchid daisy meadow.JPG

Some lovely pale blue chicory are still in bloom.

Chicory still in bloom g.JPG

The strawberry tree (Arbutus unedo, madroño in Spanish) has fruits  ripening at the same time as its new flowers. It is often mentioned that the species name unedo (“only one”) is due to the insipid taste of the fruit, so that one is enough. To my surprise, the arbutus fruits on the two trees we have here are very sweet, too sweet for my taste in fact. A potent liqueur is made from the fruits in Portugal (called aguardente de medronho) and the Canary islands. In Madrid as well, licor de madroño is a typical drink, perhaps because the madroño and a bear feature on the coat of arms of the city, although the tree itself does not flourish in Madrid.  I am tempted to suggest that the specific unedo is actually because if you eat more than one, you are likely to become inebriated, due to the high alcohol content of the ripe fruits.

Arbutus fruits.JPG

Can you see the bumble bee on one of the flowers?

Bumble bee on arbutus flowers.JPG

The blossoms on this miniature pomegranate were a surprise. I had not expected any for at least two more years. I wonder if there will be some mini fruits? Watch this space….

Mini pomegranate in bloom g.JPG

 

 

 

 

Colours of the New Year in the Galilee

We were in the Galilee and Jerusalem for just over a fortnight last month for Rosh Hashana. It was a bit early for most of the wild flowers, but there were enough blooms to brighten the verges and the sea coast. We had wanted to take the cable car to see the sea grotto in Rosh Hanikra, but there was a long snaking queue of other holidaymakers with the same idea. So we gave up and just walked along the beach which was relatively empty. Only a few families had set up tents for the day. (No overnight camping or walking at night on this coast, as it is close to the border with Lebanon.) Yellow-flowered succulents were blooming among the rocks all along the coast at Rosh Hanikra.

Rosh Hanikra flowering succulent rocks.jpeg

I was overjoyed to come upon sea lavender (Limonium latifolium) in bloom. It was growing in pure sand.

Rosh Hanikra sea lavender .jpeg

Further south along the same coast, sea lilies (Pancratium maritimum) were also in full bloom.

Rosh HaNikra Pancratium maritimum1.jpeg

More Pancratium maritimum growing from a fissure in a boulder, south of Rosh Hanikra.

Rosh Hanikra Pancratium maritimum2.jpegA related Pancratium species has the most curious large seed heads. These were growing in the Sde Yaacov nursery of Mediterranean bulb specialist Oron Peri. I hoped to buy seeds of some rare endemic bulbs, but was daunted that they would take 3 or as much as 10 years to flower.

Pancratium maritimum seed heads zoom

Cyclamen in bloom in Oron Peri´s nursery. These are among the earliest to bloom — in a few more weeks, all the other autumn bloomers will be out.

Cyclamen in bloom exquisite zoom.JPG

Exquisite leaves of a cyclamen species at Oron Peri´s nursery.

Cyclamen leaves heart-shaped fab.JPG

All along the coast, sea squill bloomed in crowded groups. I wish I could have taken photos of them, but couldn´t as we were on the expressway, with no pedestrian access to the flowers. Here are photos from Oron Peri´s nursery. The surrounding beds will be crowded with blooms in a few more weeks.

Oron Perri nursery sea squill g

The Israeli species of sea squill is taller and with a fatter stem than its Spanish relative that I have growing in my garden in Valencia.

Oron Perri nursery sea squill zoom

A group of Israeli sea squills in the Zippori archaeological park. The hill behind is Nazareth.

Zippori sea squills group.JPG

Just for comparison, here is a group of Spanish sea squills in my hamlet. These are shorter and with more slender stems than the Israeli species.

Autumn squill grp copy.jpg

More photos of my New Year holiday to come in my next post.

 

 

Purple in the vegetable garden

Color is something I’d never considered as a criterion for choosing which vegetables to grow… that is, until this year. It’s not that I hadn’t appreciated the lovely blue-green of cabbage leaves before. Or the equally gorgeous silvery grey and majestic structure of artichoke leaves. But this year I decided to go with purple. In particular, purple kohlrabi. I confess I’ve never eaten much kohlrabi before, neither green nor purple. But the photo on the seed packet was so irresistible, I just caved in.

As a plant, purple kohlrabi, did not disappoint. It started out with purple stems, and its leaves are veined with the same exquisite colour. Even if it bore no fruit, it is such a beautiful plant, it made me so happy just to be able to grow it.

 

Casa color in the veg gdn kohlrabi seedling zoom g.JPG

And of course when the ‘fruit’ started to swell up just above the roots, it was almost unbelievable!!! I harvested it at the size of a plum, but I couldn’t stop gazing at it. It was so stunning in all its parts — its stems, its leaves with their purple veins. How could I cut into such beauty, or even contemplate eating it? Just cutting off the leaves pained me. I reluctantly peeled off its lovely purple coat to put it in a  salad. It was sweet and extremely crisp. I shall definitely be planting more.

Casa Kohlrabi 1.JPG

 

 

The other contributor of purple to the vegetable garden are purple-podded beans. I’m growing them for the first time as well. The stems, similar to the purple kohlrabi, also start out purple. And the flowers are divine.

Color in veg gdn prpl podded pea flwr vine gYou can see the bean developing below.

Color in the veg gdn fab 3 stages of pea fab.JPG I love the way the purple-podded bean tendril and new leaves go well with the kohlrabi leaf with its light purple veins.

Casa color in the veg gdn kohlrabi lf pea leaf fab.JPGIn the same veg bed is Amaranth ‘Velvet Curtains’. The amaranth’s seeds are edible, as are the young leaves, though I have yet to try them.

 

Amaranth seedlings2Given lots of water, they grow very fast and quite tall.

Casa amaranthus stems zoom vg

 

 

The amaranth looks great behind the purple-podded bean. On the left is a bean leaf, which has purplish tones as well. The frilly leaf in the middle is kale.

Color in veg gdn prpl pea brassica amaranth1.JPG

 

Casa color in the veg gdn amaranth curly kale g.JPGI’ve sown orange Tagetes all around the perimeter, not only for the colour contrast, but as well to deter nematodes A bit brassy, but quite cheering.

Color in the veg gdn cosmos w brassica leaf g.JPG

 

Casa color in the veg gdn purple pod pea & tagetes.JPG

It’s great to see what works and doesn’t work in terms of color and texture. I’m not too sure brassy Tagetes is in the right place, but as long as it deters nematodes, it can stay right where it is.

 

 

 

 

Garden blues

Blue in the garden begins with the wild chicory. Last year they only grew in one place, but this spring they have seeded all over the garden.

Chicory meadow2.jpg

Then the electric blue ‘Grandpa Ott’ morning glory takes over.

Casa morning glories blue 2 fab

Here’s a closer look at ‘Grandpa Ott’. I brought the seeds with me from my garden in Bonn.Casa morning glory blue zoom fab

These are Salvia farinacea, I believe, otherwise known as mealy sage. Unlike the other sages, they have shiny leaves that, rather to my surprise, withstood last winter’s snow and hail quite well.

Salvia farinacea_g_6699

Summer heat doesn’t faze them either. Here they are, looking quite hale, after the last heat wave.

Casa Salvia farinacea olives pines vg

Russian sage (Perovskia atriplicifolia) is another of my faves. It’s another toughie, standing up well to cold and heat. Depending on the time of day, it can look blue or mauve. The photo below was taken in late afternoon, so the setting sun’s scattered red rays may have tinted them slightly lavender.

Casa Russian sage cropped.jpg

The agapanthus, which I brought with me from Germany, is not used to having a thuggish local lavender nearby. It has gotten rather swamped, and will have to be moved where it can spread itself.  I hope to get more of them, as the flowers are really true blue.

Agapanthus in bloom lavender g_6444.JPG

 

Tough lilies — A lesson in survival

Last year while exploring an abandoned quarry, I came upon two clumps of what I took to be some kind of lily near a mound of dumped construction debris. (It is illegal to dump such material except for in the designated area, but people do it anyway. Shame on them.) The plants looked moribund, but I thought I might just manage to rescue them, as the leaves were still showing a bit of green. The clumps were rather heavy, so we only took one home. What with one thing and another, and with so many other plants that needed immediate attention, the clump did not get planted into the ground. I´d left it sitting near an olive, waiting its turn till I got around to it. Every so often I would give it some water, but not in a regular fashion.

Imagine my surprise when I saw what looked like a flower stalk just a week or so ago. And as the days went by, more and more stalks came springing up. What joy to behold these marvelous white blooms now gracing this former bedraggled clump. I thought they might be Pancratium lilies, but these look like something else entirely. I suspect they are a species of Crinum, perhaps a hybrid. If anyone can identify them, I´d really appreciate it.

Crinum lilies?.JPG

Well, seeing how lovely these lilies turned out to be, my cupidity was aroused, and so we went to see if the other clump was still there. And it was. While nosing around, I found yet another clump abandoned under the shade of a pine. While cleaning up the bigger clump, removing the dried up leaves, I spied a flower stalk two days ago. I hadn´t expected it to flower so soon. I thought it might need a year to settle down, at the very least. This morning, like a miracle, the whole clump seems to have woken up and decided to strut its stuff. Overnight, flower stalks have erupted all over. And this is a plant that has only received whatever rain has graced it over the winter. It has been baking under the sun as well. This is most definitely one tough plant!

Lilly abandoned large_6702

Strewn on the ground are the dried leaves that I´d cleared from the clump. The pot was only for transporting it from where we´d found it. It had been abandoned just on its own roots. Two flower stalks are peeking out.

The one that has been more sheltered from the sun is showing just one flower stalk. Its leaves are also not as robust. Perhaps it needed to be out braving the sun and being blessed by the rain.

Lily abandoned small_6703

This morning both clumps were planted into the ground and watered. We shall see how well they take to a little bit of pampering.

Sowing with the moon

There are gardeners who faithfully sow according to the phases of the moon, firm in their belief that the tug of the moon’s gravity influences germination time. I have in the past tried to time my sowing of flower seeds as the moon heads towards fullness, but I have not kept a record of how much faster germination happened. This year however, I’ve actually noted when I sowed seeds and when they eventually germinated. The earliest to germinate was a green vegetable: mizuna (Brassica rapa var. Nipponica), also known as Japanese turnip greens (and sometimes as mustard greens). Sown on the 1st of July, they germinated on the 3rd, a mere 48 hours from sowing. I was truly amazed.

Mizuna early germination_6441

I was concerned that the higher temperatures at the end of June would deter germination. Another concern was the onset of summer heat for the next month — according to a local gardener, mid-July to mid-August is the period of greatest heat. I’d been away during what would have been the best time to sow seeds for summer crops, but now that I’ve sown the seeds, it would be interesting to see how they fare at the height of summer. Today the mizuna look like this, with their first true leaves — the serrated ones — up. I shall have to thin these out soon.

Mizuna first true leaves

The optimum soil temperature that triggers cabbage (and its relatives, such as mizuna) seeds to germinate at 99% certainty is 77ºF or 26ºC (from germination tables posted by Tom Clothier. On average at this temperature, cabbage seeds should germinate in 5 days. So, my result compares favourably. Could this be attributed to the power of the moon? Hmmm… I honestly don’t know, and I would need another sowing (if not more) of the same seeds when the moon is on the wane for comparison.

The runner beans, sown on the same day as the mizuna, took 5 days to germinate, and leaves opened out on the 6th day. Cucumber – a local variety with a pale green skin and a similar shape to snake gourd — took 3 days to germinate. This is the same number of days posted by Tom Clothier at 86ºF (30ºC), though I doubt it refers to the same variety of cucumber.

Tarragon and Thai basil germinated in 4 days, and the dill and salad burnet likewise. This herb gardening site  gives 10 – 14 days as standard for tarragon seed to germinate (no soil temperature given on this site; for basil, 5 – 10 days. If using a special propagation medium (and I did not), basil could germinate in 2 – 3 days, and tarragon in a week.

Okra germinated in 5 days for me, and the germination time given for it by the SF Gate (no soil temperature given) is within a week, so it has germinated well within the normal time expected.

I also sowed some flower seeds: cosmos sprouted in 4 days; and sunflowers in 5 days.

Whether the moon’s phase had an accelerating effect or not, the rapid germination of these seeds – some of which are quite old and have been in storage for the past 3 years – is nothing short of astounding. The air temperature at sowing time has been between 21ºC (69.8ºF) and 27ºC (80º F) during the day, and dipped by 3 – 5ºC during the night.

I’m too much of a skeptic to garden entirely by the moon, though it remains to be seen whether the seeds I sow from now on, i.e., during the moon’s waning or dark phase, will germinate as rapidly as those sown before.

For those who are curious about gardening by the moon: this site recommends planting annual flowers and vegetables that bear crops above ground during the moon’s waxing phase: that is, from the day of the new moon to the day of the full moon. Flowering bulbs, biennial and perennial flowers, and vegetables that bear crops below ground are best planted during the waning phase: from the day after the full moon to the day before the new moon.

A German gardening magazine, Mein Schöner Garten, and its sister publication, Mein Schönes Land, use a more detailed moon calendar published by the Anthroposophical Society in Switzerland. This society also advocates Rudolf Steiner’s biodynamic method of gardening. The society’s Mondkalendar (moon calendar) even goes into specific hours, not just days, for garden care of flowers, leaves, fruits, and roots. It also recommends when to trim hedges or to do weeding, so that the subsequent growth is slower or weaker, thus lightening these garden chores.

I leave you with the moon over our hamlet, the day before it was full.

One day to full moon2.JPG