Hoppin', nettin' and campin'

Back into the garden today. With the topsoil on the raised bed warming up under the polythene it will soon be ready to sow with carrots, beetroot, cabbage 'n' stuff. But as soon as we plant anything, we know the chickens will dig it up and eat it.
'No we won't,' says Mrs Poo, her wings crossed behind her back.
'You bloomin' well will,' I say, because I know these chickens.
'Promise!' says Poo.
'A chicken's promise is like a chicken's egg,' I say.'Easily broken.'
'Oooh, hark at her,' says Miggins. 'Spouting her Kentish country sayings.'



What we needed was a net covering that would be a) chicken proof and b) not so human proof that it will deter us from weeding because it's such a faff to remove from the bed. Andy disappears into the attic this morning and returns with a tent. We're not sure if it's his tent or Chris's tent ('HAPPY BIRTHDAY, CHRIS!' by the way, 23 TODAY!! P.S we may have used your tent frame to build a top for the raised bed. You might want to claim the rest of your property from the attic before we use it to make other stuff for the garden).

'I can use the tent poles to make a frame for the raised bed, and then cover it with netting,' says Andy.
'Excellent,' I say, pleased that we have managed to build this raised bed on the cheap, in the true spirit of self-sufficiency. So Andy disappears into the garden et voila! One light, moveable and chicken proof net cover for the veg bed!

'What's this then?' says Mrs Slocombe, giving the net a tug.
'They think it'll stop us digging up and eating their vegetables,' says Mrs Poo.
'They have very simple brains, don't they?' says Mrs Pumphrey.
'I'll say,' says Mrs Miggins.

Yesterday, the postman delivered the hop bines. At least, a large envelope arrived, filled with what appeared to be a big wodge of moss.
'Odd,' I think, examining the mossy pile. 'How does one tell the base from the apex of these hop bines. I don't want to be planting them upside-down.' I toy briefly with the idea of digging the required hole (one chicken depth deep by one and a half chicken widths high), chucking the tangled mess inside and making a run for it in the hope Mother Nature will sort out the ensuing mess. But then I think, I'll just have a rummage in this mossy pile and when I do, I discover that it is indeed moss and the two hop bines are snuggled up inside!

'Aha!' I go and manage to plant both bines successfully, up the right way and without them being eaten by Miggins and Poo, who were VERY persistent in their attempts to get at the emerging green shoots. Andy surrounds them (the hops, not the hens) with a chicken wire barricade. What we're hoping to do is train the hops over the swing seat and create a sleep-inducing hop bower. Apparently it will take the bines around three years to achieve their full 20 foot high potential, so we've got plenty of time to reassess the plan if necessary. Planting the bines brought to mind another old Kentish saying - 'Plant your bines on a windy day and your hair will look like a bunch of hay.'

'Is that REALLY an old Kentish saying?' asks Andy, and I give him a look of pity, much the same as he looked at me when I once thought he really WAS going to sellotape a guinea pig back together.

'What made you choose this particular variety?' asks Andy, noticing the name - Phoenix.
I give him a convoluted explanation about my experience of when I tried to order the bines on-line when my original plan had been to have one Fuggle and one Phoenix but the order page went beserk and I clicked the button for the variety 'Challenger' by mistake, and when I tried to delete it and re-order the ones I REALLY wanted and it added another one instead and everytime I tried to go back a page it just kept adding more and more hops to my order and in the end, when I had inadvertently spent over £200, I gave up and telephoned my order instead.
'Oh,' he says. 'I thought you'd chosen Phoenix because your ancient hop-growing family worked for the Phoenix Brewery.'
'Did they?' I say.
'They did,' says Andy.
'I didn't know that,' I say. So now I am convinced I have received hop-planting guidance from beyond the grave.

In the greenhouse and conservatory, the veg seedlings are coming along nicely. A single lupin has also made an appearance. I was going to plant the grape vine today, but having consulted many gardening magazines and books, all of which seem to insist I plant the thing in the greenhouse, I am holding fire until I can phone Radio Kent's gardening programme tomorrow to ask if I can grow it in a pot instead. And if they say 'No,' I shall probably still put it in a pot and to hell with the consequences.

Or it could go in what remains of the tent...