Asparagus and Leaves

It's the end of October,  and the deciduous trees are shedding their leaves.  The lawns are covered,  and the grass will begin to suffer if they are not moved.

The asparagus shoots are over;  they,  too,  are shedding their leaves and beginning to fall over.

The asparagus was cut to the ground (with all that mulch it's hard to know where the 'ground' really is,  but just below the surface of the mulch will do!) and thrown onto the lawn.  The thick cover of foliage through the summer had inhibited the growth of weeds,  but new seedlings of mallow and nettle had to be removed and the dying stems of willow-herb pulled out.  The willow-herb is perennial and its roots spread widely through the vegetable beds and the fruit cage:  probably all over the garden!  It can't be eliminated;  just pulled out whenever it's seen.

The stack of weeds and asparagus fronds on the lawn might get in the way of the electric mower,  but the petrol mower cut them into tiny fragments which were perfect for the compost bin!

And then the leaves.
The petrol mower sucked them up,  cut them into tiny pieces and bagged them.  They were then tipped onto the asparagus bed and spread into a uniform layer.  Over the winter the fungal hyphae will invade the pieces of leaves and digest them.  The earthworms will move up under the insulating blanket and swallow the fungal hyphae,  bits of leaf and lots of soil.  Then they'll spread their fertilizing casts throughout the mulch and deep into the root-zone of the soil.

Next Spring the plump,  succulent spears of asparagus will push up through the mouldering leaves and the family will enjoy this most delicate of gourmet foods until mid-June.
By the time the fronds are allowed to grow again the leaves,  the fungi and the worms will have worked their magic,  and the thick,  spider-like roots will swell with food for the following Spring's harvest.
By this time next year all those leaves will be leaf-mould,  more leaves will have fallen and the cycle will continue.

Meanwhile,  it's a mild Autumn and most of the leaves have not yet fallen:  more leaf-mould to come!

Rosie

Fifty small children,  two narrowboats and 16 'teachers'!

Peter had been approached by the school to take the tots for a trip on the river.  He'd organised it well.  A couple of gazebos and six tables on the bank gave them a place to draw and colour their drawings.  In small groups they were given pots of bird seed and allowed to approach the water and feed the ducks,  geese and swans.
The pub had agreed to let them use the facilities.

Groups of 10 were kitted out in life jackets and herded onto Rosie and Little Rosie. 
"Can I leave my bag with you,  Miss?"
"Please Miss,  may I sit next to Rachel?"
"I'm going to climb through the window!"
"I don't like boats.  I'm scared!"
"I can't swim!"
You have to admire primary school teachers:  they are organised,  caring,  thoughtful,  patient.

Two parents or mothers to each boat with the hopeless task of keeping them seated and keeping their arms and legs inside the gun'l'.  The safety briefing is always fun:  there are three fire extinguishers which you won't need (even if you know how to use them!); please don't let them fall in the water;  and everybody must test the whistle on the life jacket to be sure it works (but don't use it again unless someone goes in).  It seems cruel:  blow the whistle when the skipper says so,  but not when you want to.
Each child was issued with a list of likely sightings (swans,  fishermen,  moorhens,  horses) and a pencil to record every sighting.  This seems to be good educational practice.  Whenever one sees organised groups of schoolchildren they have checklists.

Away from the mooring,  winding in the river,  and down toward the lock.
Lots of ducks,  many moorhens,  several horses,  a pair of swans and a heron.
Joggers,  fishermen,  single sculls and a double scull.
Winding again before the lock and back to The Plough.
And the Dragon Boat race had started!

Three times for Rosie and twice for Little Rosie.
The children squealed with joy and excitement;  the Dragon Boat paddlers sweated and struggled;  the teachers worried and coped;  the boatmen steered and moored.

What a wonderful morning!

For the two narrowboat helmsmen the extra factor was the Dragon Boat race taking place at the same time and in the same piece of river.
So,  fifty small children,  16 mothers or teachers,  30 corporate day-outers,  five boatmen,  two narrow boats,  two Dragon Boats and one safety boat.  Plus,  of course,  the First Aiders for the sweating Dragon Boaters.  Could this possibly end well?

It started well.
The children embarked and disembarked safely.  None of them fell into the water.  All of them went away with a ticked checklist (although none of them saw the heron) and most handed back their pencils and crayons.

It progressed well.
The youngsters squealed and laughed all the way there and back.  The helmsmen enjoyed the half-hour voyages.  The teachers and parents seemed happy.
Someone won the Dragon Boat races.

It ended well!
The lifejackets were all recovered (none used),  the children were reunited with their coats,  bags and friends,  the facilities were used and,  finally,  the bus was caught.
Peter and John took down the gazebos and returned the picnic tables.  The boats were tidied and closed.

It was a truly satisfying morning.

Rosie at Jesus Lock

Trees

The life of a Tree Warden is very hard.

The sun shone,  the birds sang,  the barley waved and the peas and beans rustled.   The jogger called a cheery “Good Morning!” and the runner nodded a breathless greeting.   The young lady dog-walker kept her eyes averted,  wanting to be solitary:  the couple spoke and waved from 20 metres,  petting the dog,  making a small fuss.   The milk cows grazed and gazed.   A fishing heron protested raucously and flapped ungainly into the air.   They have a way of flying away in a big circle and,  when the dangerous creature has gone,  settling again in almost the same place.   The pair of swans in the lode was too busy puddling duckweed through its pair of bills to notice.   But the mallard fled,  for worlds looking like an X-wing fighter,  straight out of Star Wars.

The fen goes endlessly to the flat horizon,  with its wind turbines and pylons,  growing quietly to itself.

Ah,  the trees.

A Lime,  in flower,  waiting to drip its sickly sweet smelling sap onto any polished car that might venture that far into the fen.

A Crab-apple,  its fruit swelling from the rain and the sun,  but not yet coloured.

A few small Oaks,  planted along the headland next to the drove;  and a magnificent old tree in the middle of a barley field at the head of a ditch.

A grove of Blackthorn,  grown into trees,  not hedgerows,  with the sloes swelling.   Jocelyn will want to know about these for her sloe gin later in the year.

Some of the hedgerows are wild,  neglected,  growing toward becoming trees.   Others,  along the paved drove,  have been meticulously trimmed.   Some people rail against the flail which the farmer uses to trim the hedges but,  used carefully,  and at the right time of year,  they do a good job.   By now,  early August,  the flailed hedges look very smart.