A Selection of Lady Muck’s Magazine Articles
CARROTS DON’T GROW IN BUNCHES. WHO KNEW?
Everyone makes mistakes, right? I’ve definitely made my fair share. Agreeing to be chief bridesmaid without insisting on power of veto on the dress. Secretly drinking tequila shots on an empty stomach to dull the pain of the pink puffy monstrosity and matching bonnet. And my all-time classic, waking up next to the best man I swear was the spitting image of Idris Elba the night before. In fact, you think of an embarrassing mistake, and I’ve done it. My mum is so proud.
But for some reason, friends who have known me for years and witnessed these mistakes weirdly believe that I’ve never made any gardening mistakes and that I’ve been successfully growing stuff from Day 1.
They couldn’t be more wrong.
Take the first time I tried to grow carrots. I’d set aside a whole raised bed for them, made sure the soil was nice and sandy, and remembered not to dig in any manure – which they hate. I took my two dozen carrot seeds and sowed them 45 cm apart – plenty of room for bunches to grow, I thought. I tended them over the coming weeks. I watered. I weeded. I watched. I waited. Then came that special Sunday when I invited the family to help me dig up our sweet and succulent crop. There I was, scrabbling around in the earth, desperately hunting for the bunch of carrots beneath each seed sown, only to pull up one solitary carrot beneath each seed. One carrot? One single carrot? My entire crop was twenty-four carrots? What the hell?
Then I learned from Lady Muck Senior, who was desperately trying not to give in to hysterical laughter like the rest of my family, that apparently carrots don’t grow in bunches like the ones I buy in Waitrose. Who knew?
Then there was the time I killed Toby, Ted, Tim and their twelve cherry tomato siblings. I’d known them from birth, watched them burst into life and tended them lovingly. Once they were big enough, it was time for them to leave their sunny windowsill. Alas, they didn’t last long on my patio. You see, I’d been worried about the wicked whitefly covering their ickle leaves – Toby’s in particular. Well, he was always my favourite. So I reached into the greenhouse for the organic pest spray, grabbed the first bottle I saw and gave them all a generous coating. Then out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of another bottle, sitting on the table, clearly labelled ‘organic pest spray’.
My jaw dropped. My heart sank. I looked down at the bottle in my hand. Oh. My. God. Noooo! I’d grabbed the organic weedkiller spray from the greenhouse instead. Cue much sprinting to and from the water butt, pouring water over the tomatoes to wash off the weedkiller. But I knew it was too late. My babies were dead. I burst into tears and had to turn to Bombay Sapphire for solace. The next morning, I found their fifteen little corpses, crumpled and scorched, staring up at me reproachfully. What a terrible mother.
You see, as every seasoned grow-your-owner knows, we all make mistakes when we start out. Just like we do in the dating game. And to all of you newbies out there reading this, if you’re feeling a tad embarrassed about your emerging interest in gardening, don’t be! And if not having a clue what you’re doing is putting you off having a go at growing some stuff this year, don’t let it! Like me, just remember to laugh at your cock-ups. Use them as great dinner-party stories. Just make sure you have a plentiful supply of wine as you entertain your guests with your latest growing faux pas.
Right, must dash. Got to relabel the greenhouse sprays. My old eyes clearly aren’t getting any younger. Yesterday I mistakenly bought a bottle of non-alcoholic Rioja…
COCKTAILS IN THE GARDEN? YES PLEASE
Waking up on Monday morning, slumped over my kitchen table, bleary-eyed and hungover, is never a good start to the week. Throw in one sniggering husband posting the image on Instagram, and my shame is complete. Of course, that sniggering husband is completely to blame for my latest disgrace. He headed off for his mate’s stag weekend, leaving his good lady wife unsupervised. A recipe for disaster if ever I heard one.
My weekend alone started out innocently enough. With my trusty iPad for company, I turned my attention to the herb garden I was planning. I was just getting stuck into researching the best herbs to grow at home when I stumbled upon a site devoted entirely to growing herbs for cocktails. Entirely. For. Cocktails. Now that’s my kind of site.
Before long, my plans for a simple kitchen herb garden had morphed into plans for a fully blown cocktail herb bar where I could delight and amaze my family and friends with rainbow-coloured cocktails infused and garnished with the very herbs and flowers from my garden. And as we know, any good plan has to be tested. So before dashing off to the garden centre to buy up all their herb pots, I rang round my girlfriends to see who fancied abandoning their family and joining me for an impromptu herb-testing happy hour on Sunday afternoon. Purely for research purposes. Honest.
You see, dear reader, while I have indeed got hooked on ‘grow your own’, I’ve never felt the need to give up my fun-loving personality just because I enjoy growing stuff. A conviction clearly demonstrated last Sunday. The shaker shook. The herbs were muddled. The cocktails flowed. The Bose boomed. My friends and I danced. The neighbours complained. And let’s just say that, come Monday morning, Instagram got a real corker of a picture.
So, to all you readers who fancy having a go at grow-your-own, remember, you definitely don’t have to give up fun afternoons with friends just because you’re into growing your own fruit and vegetables. Just merge your two passions. Growing your very own cocktail herb bar is a great project and can be as big or as small as you want. If you’re short on space, herbs grow very well in pots, so windowsills, balconies and patios are perfect spots. Just add bubbly – Lady Muck style.
You could start out with sweet basil, mint and rosemary, which are all great herbs for cocktails and easy to grow. Sweet basil is perfect for a Sweet Sunrise cocktail (tequila, sweet vermouth, orange juice, lime juice and sweet basil leaves). Basil will grow happily in a pot from early spring to mid-autumn. It loves a bright, warm, sheltered spot, but do try and keep it out of direct midday sun so its delicate leaves don’t burn. Garden centres are my go-to for basil plants, but remember that plants will probably need ‘hardening off’ if you want to start growing them on outdoors before the full warmth of summer. Just stand your pots outside during the day then bring them back in at night for about two weeks. Job done.
Next up, mint, which is fabulous in mojitos and the hero in one of my all-time favourite cocktails, The Lady (Champagne, cranberry juice and mint leaves). As mint can be invasive, I prefer to grow it in pots filled with free-draining, soil-based compost. Mint likes to be in light shade and well watered – much like Lord Muck when he’s down the pub on a warm, summer evening. In late summer, when it has finished flowering, cut back its leaves to just above soil level and give it a high-nitrogen feed to encourage a new batch of leaves for autumn picking.
Last but by no means least: rosemary. Super lovely in a Gin Fizz Mocktail (sparkling water, juniper syrup, lime juice, lime, ice cubes and muddled rosemary leaves). Like me, rosemary likes a bit of sunbathing so a warm, sheltered spot is ideal. And remember, it hates being overwatered.
Right, must dash. I need to crack Lord Muck’s Instagram password and delete that hangover photo before it goes viral.
Or at least, before my mother-in-law spots it…
MINI MUCKS
Vegetables. They’re absolutely hated by most kids, I know. But what if you could get your kids to eat their greens without any drama?
Every June, we host a big BBQ. The bubbly flows. The beer’s chilled. The music booms. Great for us adults, but not so great for the poor kids who get dragged along. Muck Manor is a dull place these days, or so I thought: no PlayStation, no Wii, no trampoline and, because of my beloved greenhouse, no ball games.
But last year the kids proved me wrong.
Three hours into our relaxing afternoon in the sun, we realised the kids were nowhere to be seen. Always a worry. So off His Lordship and I trotted, only to discover them behind the potting shed, covered in dirt, heads down, concentrating hard, sticks in their little hands, silently scrabbling around in the earth. ‘Ink-Sets’ came their collective reply when we asked what they were up to. ‘We’re looking for Ink-Sets.’
Ink-Sets? What were they talking about?
Rolling their eyes at us oldies in frustration, they explained again very slowly: ‘INK-SETS. We’re looking for INK-SETS.’ We looked at each other in bewilderment, which prompted them to thrust under our noses their haul: nine wiggly worms, twelve slimy slugs and eighteen loathsome louses – all proudly held out on their ickle hands as if they were holding precious treasure. Insects.
They had entertained themselves all afternoon looking for insects. Brilliant. Right there and then, I wondered if the mucky old insect-ridden world of grow-your-own might interest them. Let’s face it, kids love getting dirty, they aren’t afraid of creepy-crawlies and, most of all, they are curious creatures. I tentatively asked the Ink-Set Crew if they would like to go hunting for more insects in my kitchen garden and greenhouse, and you know what? They jumped at the chance.
Much to the amusement of their parents, the kids followed me around for the next couple of hours, bombarding me with questions about veggie-growing. But the question that took me most by surprise was a simple one: ‘Do you think we could grow something, Auntie C?’ Over the course of that one afternoon, I had somehow assembled my own little army of Mini Mucks, who left excited about sowing some of my seeds at home.
A while later, reports back from our pals were positive. Not only had their kids remained enthused about gardening, but they were also seemingly far keener to eat their five-a-day. Result.
So, if you fancy not having to force-feed your kids their greens, why not have a go at creating your own Mini Mucks? Start with easy-to-grow seeds such as cress, lettuce, cherry tomatoes, runner beans and courgettes. To get started, you will need: seeds, seed compost, a seed tray, a small watering can, space for the potted seed tray (e.g. an indoor windowsill).
My best tip is to let the kids sow their seeds themselves. Yes, it will get messy, but they will absolutely love it, I promise. I tend to sow some seeds myself first, so they can see how it’s done, then let them loose with their own seed tray.
So, how to sow seeds? First, grab your seed tray. I find modular ones best. They are the ones that are divided up into rows of small individual growing cells. Fill it with peat-free seed compost up to about a centimetre below the rim of the tray, then pat down to give a flat surface to sow on. Remember to bring the compost inside for a couple of days to warm it up a little, as this really helps seed germination. Then sow the seeds following the instructions on the back of your seed packet. Cover the seeds lightly with compost and water gently. Now, the kids will love this part, but my advice is to use a small watering can with a very fine rose, or a spray mister, to ensure their overenthusiastic watering doesn’t drown the seeds.
Have some ice lolly sticks nearby so you can write your child’s name on a stick and pop it in their tray. To keep your kids interested, you could take weekly photos of the seeds’ development, and measure the seedlings as they emerge. Once they’re big enough to handle, pot on individual seedlings into bigger pots. Then relax and wait for the day when your kid points at their dinner plate, looks up at you, smiles and proudly says, ‘I grew that.’ Bless.
Right, must dash. Need to go and rescue the Duke and Duchess of Didsbury.
They popped round earlier with their little ones to sow some seeds.
But the kids seem to have ditched their diddy watering cans and got hold of the hose instead…
POSTCARD FROM ANDALUCÍA
Big news. His Lordship and I have moved. Not yet sure how long for. But for now, we are in Spain. Andalucía. Land of sun, sea and sangria. Not to mention tapas, tortillas and tempranillos. Result.
Alas, that did not stop me from having a complete meltdown leaving my beloved UK. Saying farewell to family and friends was hard enough but saying goodbye to my precious garden, my greenhouse and my veggie patch turned me into a snivelling, sobbing, shrieking wreck. Lord Muck had to pick me up, prise my hands off my plants and carry me to the loaded car, much to the amusement of our neighbours.
And when it came to packing up our precious possessions, what took up most of the packing boxes? Shoes? Clothes? Designer Bags? Secret stash of Mac lippies? Case of Bombay Sapphire? Nope. Seeds. Trowels. Secateurs. Hoes. Spades. Forks. Shears. Which as you can imagine, left our Custom Agent and Border Officials thoroughly bemused, scratching their heads and his Lordship sighing deeply at the hours it took for us to be cleared.
But, now, here we are and whilst Lord Muck gets stuck into sorting out somewhere for us to base ourselves, I’m walking the length and breadth of Casares ( a white village near the coast at the south western edge of the beautiful province of Málaga on its border with the province of Cádiz) smiling and saying Hola to everyone I meet as I start my search for a huerto, which is the closest I can get to allotment via Google Translate. Although I do have to be careful using that app. In the local hardware store yesterday I asked for one of those squeegees for shower screens which resulted in much hilarity from the owner, Jose and his team. Apparently, I’d asked for a ‘car windscreen wiper for the toilet’.
Anyhow, the locals have taken to calling me La Extrana Dama Inglesa, ‘The Strange English Lady’ to you and me, which I kind of like. Andalucian matriarchs sitting outside their house smile benevolently and offer me a cold Tinto de Verano, which I gratefully accept as I stand in front of them, mopping my brow, standing in a pool of my own sweat, admiring their pots of stunning red geraniums, which seem to adorn every building I walk by. I offer them some ickle cherry tomato seedlings that I have grown on our Airbnb balcony. They generously give me bags of juicy home-grown peppers, baskets of fresh figs and some of the sweetest-tasting grapes I’ve ever tasted. We smile. We laugh. We gesticulate wildly to each other, no idea what the other is saying. But you know what, it doesn’t matter. A plant lover always has time for a fellow plant lover.
And yesterday, Elena, one of my favourite grandmothers, sent me off with her great nephew, Juan, up into the campo (countryside) to meet her sister, Carmen, who has been intrigued by tales of this eccentric English lady who wants to dig around in the dirt of the family’s land.
Carmen’s land was set in a beautiful green valley and forested hills in the foothills of the Serrania de Ronda, with a view down to the sea to die for. So, I did the deal there and then. Agreed to rent 50 square metres for the princely sum of 50 euros per month. Including water from their well. Bargain, I thought. I would start small, learn fast and in no time at all, I would hopefully be growing all manner of wonderful Spanish fruit, vegetables and herbs. And with this rather romantic fantasy forming in my head, I could easily imagine myself spending my days, working my land, getting to know my Andalucían farming neighbours, learning their traditions, integrating into their local community and being accepted as one of their own. The nickname, La Extrana Dama Inglesa, long behind me.
Only one problem: my loose grasp of Spanish numbers. When Lord Muck had a look at the paperwork I had signed, it appears I have actually rented 5000 square metres. Roughly the size of a blooming football pitch.
Oops.
This is going to get interesting …
POSTCARD FROM ANDALUCIA
It’s not all plain sailing living abroad. Especially when you find yourself toe-curlingly-embarrassed by your fellow countrymen here.
Allow me to explain. I’ve always been super proud to tell people I am English. Home of the amazing NHS, 2012 Olympics, Oasis, Take That, Cream Teas and most importantly, Pubs. But since encountering some delightful creatures down on the coast, my own national pride has somewhat waned. Beer bellies straining under tee-shirts, loud language drowning out our European friends’ gentle tones in many a Chiringuito. So, now I tell everyone I meet that I’m Irish. Gracias Kerry-born, Granny Fitzgerald.
The final straw came in La Cala de Mijas market. I head there most weeks whilst waiting for my own vegetables to crop. So, there I am, queuing patiently at my favourite Spanish family-run stall, when what do I hear, but that loud, grating, stereotypical English estuarine twang. As I look up, I spy a big, fat, shouty man, imported immigrant-bashing Daily Mail under his arm and sporting a fine year-round-Spanish-tan - this is clearly a guy that lives here. But, immigrant himself, can he speak one word of Spanish? Of course not. The cognitive dissonance is strong with this one.
I watch on in horror as he repeatedly points at the cabbages behind the stall, and demands his “C A B B B B I D G G G E” over and over again. But does the Young Spanish Guy behind the counter get angry? No, he gets even. Brilliant. As Shouty Man shouts and points, Young Spanish Guy moves from vegetable to vegetable, pointing and asking “Este?” This one? All with a big, friendly smile on his face. And moving slowly. Oh, so slowly. As you can imagine, Shouty Man is getting angrier and angrier. And redder and redder. I fear a heart attack is imminent. Finally, after pointing at Hinojos (Fennel), Pepinos (Cucumbers), Apia (Celery), Peras (Pears), Zanahorias (Carrots), Lechugas (Lettuces), Young Spanish Guy finally picks up the desired Cabbage. “Yes, yes, that’s it.” cries Shouty Man in relief, mopping his forehead and gammon-coloured pudgy cheeks.
But the horror does not end there. Oh no. As Young Spanish Guy turns away to bag it, over comes the stall’s boss. In fluent English, she engages with Shouty Man and asks how her Grandson did, explaining it’s his first weekend working the family stall. I wait with baited breath and pray that Shouty Man just answers “Fine”. But, of course, that would be too much to ask. “Well,” he starts. “He did ok, but he’ll do much better when he learns the language” and promptly turned on his white-socked-in-sandals heels.
I stand there, open-mouthed, appalled and embarrassed at what I had just witnessed. But then, I see the Grandmother and Young Spanish Guy, not cross, but hanging on to each other as they throw their heads back, laughing. I move forward, and feel obliged to apologise on behalf of my country and, attempt, in my best Spanish, to voice my anger. Replying in perfect English, she reassured me “Oh don’t worry, Chica. Antonio is fluent too. He’s been learning English since before he could walk. He knew exactly what El Ignorante Ingles wanted.” Well played Young Spanish Guy. Well played.
Right, must dash. Need to get that Irish Passport sorted and practice my Kerry accent…
POSTCARD FROM ANDALUCIA
Last month we moved to a country villa near Frigilianna, a beautiful white washed village just 5 minutes from the sea. Perfect I thought. What I hadn’t bargained for was bagging myself a stalker. I first spotted him last week when I was parking up. Tall for his age, skinny, with a cheeky grin, but as soon as I opened the car door, he was off.
Two days later he was back. Lurking by the patio doors. His beady little eyes locked onto mine as I stood rooted to the spot. But last night was the worst. Stepping out of the shower, there he was, right in front of me. I screamed. He froze. Mexican stand-off style. Thankfully, in loped his Lordship to check I was ok but instead of kicking my stalker out, he befriended him and christened him Cuthbert.
You see, Cuthbert is a gecko. A cute little lizard. But a lizard nonetheless. And chatting to our new neighbours, it seems everyone here has a gecko tale; but my neighbour, Kieran’s, is the funniest.
Apparently, last summer, his sister, Chloe was house sitting. One evening, home alone, enjoying a rather strong sundowner on her bedroom balcony, Chloe was cornered by a gecko. Knowing her much braver boyfriend was hours away, she did what any desperate woman would do and heroically sacrificed her G&T to fend off attack and trapped said gecko under her upturned bowl glass.
Alas, in her haste, she sliced his tail right off. Horrified and ashamed, she sank to the floor, the now tail-less gecko staring back at her woefully. Leaning back on the patio door, trying to work out what to do, she heard her only escape route lock shut behind her. Realising she was now trapped; she took to the local expats’ WhatsApp group to ask for advice. Cue one of the most amusing threads I’ve ever read.
Some neighbours worried about the gecko, some about Chloe, some far more worried about the loss of gin. Particularly since it was imported Bombay Sapphire. Then a flurry of questions.
Was there enough air in the glass for gecko to survive? Cue Chloe adding photos of glass followed by frantic calculations of gecko size to O2 capacity. Could the gecko upend the glass and escape? Cue hysterical attempts by Chloe to climb off the balcony, convinced she would soon be devoured, one teeny tiny bite at a time. Was the alcohol in Bombay Sapphire strong enough to sterilise the tail for re-attachment? Cue Chloe on hands and knees, locating slithery tail and placing it on the fast-melting ice from her G&T. Only to be informed by Sven, local hotel manager, that gecko tails grow back. Followed by a heated debate as to how much gin was likely left inside the glass and whether said gecko was now absolutely hammered. Who, by the way, had now been christened TT, tail-less Tommy.
But the piece de resistance was when the messages turned to the siren-loud arrival of the Bomberos (firemen) who had been alerted to the life and death crisis by the little old Belgian lady at Villa Eduardo. Many photos then ensued as neighbours flocked to the scene of the crime to capture for posterity the hunky, handsome Bomberos’ rescue of a rather embarrassed and scantily clad Chloe, alongside a traumatised but now slightly squiffy TT.
The story even made the front page of the local Spanish newspaper. With the hilarious headline.
“Joven aterrorizada por un lagarto sin cola. La ginebra salva el día”
Loosely translated as
“Young woman terrorised by tail-less lizard. Gin saves the day”.
Right, must dash. Need to coax Cuthbert out on to the balcony. I do quite fancy me a Bomberos’ rescue…
