The sun has reappeared after a fortnight of gloom and I make the most of it. Time to brutally prune the vine that runs virtually the length of the terrace.
I realise as I do it how much my father would have loved this. He was a robust pruner - much to my mother's horror, as she watched through the kitchen window yet again most of the long stems of the clematis montana disappear into the wheelbarrow before they'd had a chance to flower.
I think our French acquaintances also look with some horror on what I do with our vine. Ours is much more of a tangled mass than the neat, compact structures in the vineyards. We were told when we bought the house that the previous but one owner - Serge's aunt - had planted three vines, one for each of her sons. By the time we moved in the vine at the far end of the terrace had died and the one in the middle (a white grape) was struggling. But the vine nearest the kitchen was doing superbly and remembering the Great Vine at Hampton Court I decided to let it weave its way along the dead branches of the other two. Over the years it has almost, but not quite, reached the far end. And the white one in the middle has coyly put out new tendrils and gives us a few modest small bunches among the overly abundant red.
As I prune another memory of my father comes to mind. He loved France and things French. My mother recounted an occasion early in their relationship - both barely out of their teens. He and his (female) cousin spent the entire time speaking French to each other and ignoring my mother. I think he was hoping to impress. I think my mother showed great generosity of spirit that she forgave him his rudeness. I'm glad she did - somehow, over the years my father passed on his love of France to me.
(Mind you, I could do with his language skills!)
What lovely memories of your parents that pruning job has brought to mind!
ReplyDeleteI'd swap your vine any day for the invasive chayote plant here which seems to manage to smother some other plant every day...as I loathe chayote, it is a great pleasure to rip offending bits away but whatever I do to it, back it comes.
That was me, Fly, by the way. I must have pressed something...
ReplyDeleteHello Fly, I would have guessed it was you even if you hadn't told me. Not many of my readers would have been fighting with chayote! There are some plants that love being pruned aggressively and come back with renewed enthusiasm - fine if it's a vine, less so if a chayote. :-)
DeleteA gardener I am not, and managed to kill off well established roses and the two vines that we planted whlle in France. I missed the guidance of my Mother.
ReplyDeleteBut I manage Buddleia well! Lesley
Hello Lesley - I could do with your help with the buddleia - I managed to kill one (impossible one would have thought) and the other, in front of the cottage, is looking very leggy. This last summer's drought was unkind to a number of our shrubs. Only time will tell if they will recover. In our family it was Dad who was the gardener and Mum was the cook. :-)
DeleteMum was the Cook and Gardener. Dad only cut the grass and when he could no longer do that Mum 'employed' a series of chaps called Monument - who were always named after the gardener in Mrs Dales Diary. Now that's going back ! Lesley
DeleteOh! That's a long time ago! We were under strict instructions not to disturb Mum while Mrs Dale's Diary was on the radio!
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