Hurricane warning!

There was warning of a hurricane (or at least hurricane-force winds) on Sunday night/Monday morning and I thought it would be prudent to lop a few branches off the conifers by the patio to take some weight off the top.

I've been cutting those trees down by stealth for a few years, taking off branches each year, but they grow at quite a rate and next year, I've resolved to take them all down. I'll have a bit more time then.

They were topped around 10 years ago, but if you think you've stopped a cupressus leylandii by chopping the top off, you're mistaken. They simply grow six new stems from the point the trunk is severed and so your original problem is multiplied several times over.

I've kept ours under pretty tight control. We removed lower branches to expose the trunks some years back and then some higher branches, so a large expanse of trunk was bare and the greenery concentrated at the top. They're quite nice-looking trees and I'd be happy to leave them, except that they're getting taller and taller. If one of them blew down now, it could take out a chunk of the house, extension or my sister's fence, house or shed.

Anyway, I've got that task on my list of retirement projects, but the job at the weekend was to take some bulk out before the storm hit. The branches that sprouted from the point where the trunk was topped are now quite thick, almost like trees in their own right, so one has to be careful where they fall and who/what is underneath. Margaret is ladder holder and chain-saw passer-up, so she's in most danger, but I'm careful not to injure my wife.

We moved chiminea, patio furniture and pots and I went round carefully lopping branches off and stacking them in the border. There's a surprising amount of weight in even a seemingly small branch, so it's not something you want to get wrong. A few branches were tricky as they had grown up into others and become entangled. They needed to be cut and then tugged clear. I saved the biggest branch until last. This had grown out of the trunk and was 8-10 inches thick at the join and some 15ft long. I wasn't sure whether it would fall outwards or drop straight down like a piledriver. It fell outwards and luckily it landed on the patio with an almighty crash, just short of the house and missing a handsome clay pot by a foot.

On Sunday, we made an early start on processing the debris. Thicker branches are sawn up for firewood, smaller ones for kindling, smaller still go through the chipper and the green stuff goes through the chipper or into the brown garden-waste bin for collection by the council. We just managed to get it all in and had a pallet full of logs ready for next year. Tree pruning is definitely a good work-out.

When the storm came, it was more rain than wind for us. My sister's patio chair blew over, but that was about it. However, there was a gust of 99mph recorded at Needles on the Isle of Wight and four people were killed by falling trees across southern England. Lots of trees were blown over and there were no trains all day Monday so I couldn't get to London. It's extraordinary that a few trees can't be cleared more quickly (Margaret and I could have sorted them out double quick) but I was able to have a day working from home, which was nice.

There's a moose loose around Sam's hoose!

London mice are clearly a more canny lot than their country cousins. We get field mice in the house from time to time, especially around autumn when the weather gets a bit colder and some enterprising rodent thinks he'd rather spend the winter in centrally heated comfort.

They make their presence felt by chewing a bag of bread or cereal in the food cupboard and it normally takes only a few snaps of the trap to sort them out.

It's not a nice thing to do, but if they'd only stay outside I wouldn't have to declare war on them. We detected one last year, the trap was set and within half an hour I had him. His little teeth were just closing on that sunflower seed when it all went black. He died a happy mouse in the anticipation of a tasty snack.

Perhaps word has got round, but we've not had one since. Sam and Lucy on the other hand have got some regular visitors; hardly an infestation, but some very cheeky characters and they're proving hard to get rid of. I lent them our tried-and-tested traps, but there was no catching a London mouse so easily. Sam's mice steal the seed off the pressure plate and the trap remains unsprung. I don't know how they do it, the trap is so sensitive that if you put it down a bit clumsily it goes off and scares the living daylights out of you.

Sam got some super-sensitive traps but they have also failed, he's tried different bait, but those mice remain on the loose. And we know they are there - they've been seen running around, popping their heads up between the floorboards. The man in the hardware store suggested sticky pads was the sure-fire way to get them. The mouse runs onto the pad and can't get off. I asked what you were supposed to do then - hit it with the cricket bat? Sam was told that you just picked up the pad and put it in the bin - apparently the mouse soon dies. Hardly seems very humane and Lucy has vetoed this particular form of pest control.

So far the traps have yielded nothing and the mice are loving that nice warm house for winter.

Faces on a train

I spend a lot of time on trains. I'm writing this on my laptop on a train. I have it perched on the small table that First Capital Connect provides for work or refreshment and there's a chap opposite who is sorting out a massive sheaf of papers. He's a bit resentful that I have some of the table and he's trying to nudge my laptop across a bit. I'm actually using less than my half of the table so I'm not giving way. I might try a sarcastic "have you got enough room?" if he carries on.

My train is full of fairly familiar faces but at 7am no-one feels especially sociable and so we tend to sit there plugged into mpv players, watching video on tablets, texting, reading Metro or sleeping. A few of us work, I'm either on my Kindle reading or tapping away on my laptop for either work or leisure writing.

I know many familiar faces, but few names. I observe people and people observe me. One chap asked me, out of the blue, why I wasn't coming on my motorcycle any more. He must have seen me wearing motorcycle boots. It turns our he had a Yamaha R1 and had commuted to London on it when he lived in Biggleswade. He'd moved to Peterborough and that was too far to commute by bike. There are a couple of other bikers, including a chap who has a BMW R1200 RT. I try to avoid him as he's a bit of a moaner and I once had to listen to a long conversation (pretty one-sided) about problems with his electronically-controlled suspension and how much it cost for new sensors and controls.

There's a chap called Gordon, who is very sociable. He runs the trade body for manufacturers of branded gifts - pens, flash-drives, mouse mats, mugs, etc.

Mostly there's little said, but on Monday we were stopped at St Neots and, when the doors closed, the train started going backwards. Everyone wondered what was happening. It stopped and then starting going forwards. "Must be a woman driver," the bloke next to me said. We all shifted. I said: "We all think that's funny, but none of us dare laugh."

Our little group then had half an hour's chat about political correctness, women drivers not being able to reverse, marriage and touch typing. I think Jack Wilshere's goal for Arsenal against Norwich might also have been mentioned.

There are some interesting looking characters on the train. The blonde girl who gets on at Huntingdon and who is always desperate to save a seat for the young man who gets on at St Neots. I'm not sure whether they are lovers or friends. They are tactile, but a little awkward. He gets off at Stevenage and then she goes to sleep. If she can't save him a seat, she gets up and stands with him.

There is a tiny woman with briefcase and Daily Telegraph who gets on at St Neots. She's like a terrier, she's always desperate to get a seat. She's in her forties I'd guess and she never wore make up. I think she might be a barrister and has a wig on all day, or she's an academic who has no time for such things. Her hair is always a mess and frankly, she often looks as if she's been dragged through a hedge backwards. Once she gets her seat, she'd open up a Daily Telegraph,scrunch it into a complete mess as she read it and then leave the badly folded pages in a crumpled heap on her seat. I never saw such a scruffy person. She always wants to be first out of the train as well.

About a year ago, her wedding rings disappeared and soon afterwards she started wearing lipstick (which she applied like she read the Daily Telegraph) and then she began talking to other women about nail care and hand-cream. It was astonishing. She's settled down now and tends to read highbrow books or her Kindle rather than the Telegraph.

Old Lady With The Tea gets on at Huntingdon and she must have been commuting for years. She gets a lot of respect from her fellow travellers, but I don't like it when she sits next to me because she always takes the lid off her tea and perches it on the little table. If it's going to spill it will be over my lap-top or my lap.

Misery Guts (that's Margaret's name for him) doesn't sit in my carriage, but we see him every morning walking slowly, painfully down the platform. He doesn't look happy (hence his nickname). He's in his 50s, quite fat and quite unhealthy. Once, we didn't see him for a few weeks and we thought he might have died, but then there he was again. Some fat people who walk slowly make you want to run up behind them and give them a push, get them moving a bit quicker, but you wouldn't imagine doing that to Misery Guts.

East European woman is an evening regular but I see her only rarely in the morning. She's small, smart and very pretty and her husband/boyfriend meets her every evening. He is waiting in the station foyer; he always looks pleased to see her and then he walk with her to where their car is parked. Often, I'd find myself walking behind them to my car where Margaret is waiting. She chooses to stay in the car rather than walk to the foyer to meet me (which is fine, I'm grateful for the lift), although just lately Holly has been included in the evening station run which means Margaret and Holly are waiting. Holly can't pick me out in the crowd and it's only when I approach that she recognises me and gives me a wag.

Thin Man with Raincoat and Rucksack was another Huntingdon regular, but I think he must have retired. He was a small chap and very thin with sharp features and hair that was grey with just a hint of ginger left. It was slicked back with plenty of product - Brylcreem, I suspect. He always wore a tweed jacket, a pale raincoat and always had a massive rucksack on his back. He was desperate to be first out of the train and would get up from his seat before Finsbury Park so he could be right up against the doors when the train stopped. We generally pull in on Platform 8, so the doors open on the right-hand side and it was a small pleasure for me when we were terminated at a different platform and the doors opened on a different side - he looked so annoyed. Thin Man was also a Victoria Line traveller and got off at Oxford Circus. He always wanted to be first on the tube as well and once on the tube, he'd stand there with his rucksack sticking out by a foot-and-a-half, reading the Metro and not holding on. His rucksack acted like a counterbalance and it was a bloody nuisance swinging around. It was amusing (on a crowded train) to give it a little sideways shove and put him off balance. Once, he tried to get on a really crowded train and his rucksack stopped the doors closing. That was a happy morning for me.

Notts Forest is a funny chap. He's getting on in years, but probably looks older than he is. He always wore a Nottingham Forest knitted hat and, once in his seat, he'd get his headphones on and go to sleep. Sometimes he'd snore really loudly. Last year, he got a girlfriend and she clearly set about giving him a makeover). The Forest hat was put away and replaced with an NY baseball hat (I said it was a makeover, not necessarily one for the better). His red Forest paddock jacket (XXL) was also consigned to the trash. Forest has a few work colleagues on the train and he started talking to them about his partner and the rock concerts they were going to. The romance lasted less than the close season; his Forest hat is back on his head and he's snoring away once more. I haven't seen him for a few weeks, so perhaps he's retired?

DT Man is tall, thin and a man of habit. He also likes his own space (and a bit of somebody else's). He gets on the train with a Starbucks' coffee and the Daily Telegraph, crosses one leg across his thigh so his foot's sticking right out and reads the Telegraph at a spread. No folding or scrunching for him; he has arms outstretched and the expanse of newsprint spread like a curtain providing him with space and privacy. It means I can read his newspaper from across the isle and his tactics normally mean that people are discouraged from sitting next to him or opposite him. If the Telegraph doesn't deter them then the Starbucks' cup on the edge of the table will. He's very grumpy when someone is in his place before he gets there and then moves across the aisle to my plot, plonks his Starbucks' on the table and puts up his DT screen. I don't mind that, but the coffee is a constant threat, placed near the edge and brushed from time to time by the newspaper. When the Huntingdon lot get on he has to rein himself in a little - and quite right too!

This Tuesday I stayed with Max and my commute moved from First Capital Connect to Southern Railways, Balham to Victoria via Clapham Common, Clapham Junction and Battersea Park. At Peterborough, I can always get a seat and generally choose the seat I want. From Balham, on the 7.15am you have no chance, it's like a tube train. Normally, you can grab a seat at Clapham Junction when loads of people get off to change trains, but this week, I was jammed in so tight, I couldn't get across in time. It wasn't a pleasant journey - someone had broken wind so there was a sulphurous smell, a chap next to me had his headphones on just a little too loud and there was an Asian guy right in my face, who conducted a phone conversation all the way from before Balham into Victoria. He said nothing all the way except "yeah" and an affirmative grunt, but I could hear a woman on the other end of the conversation talking incessantly. Amazing!

How Holly has changed

It's only a few weeks since Gravel died and I do miss having him about. However, the sense of loss is mitigated greatly by having Holly in the house and while it was a bit of a mistake to take on two dogs, it's been nice to have a 'spare'.

Holly is very different in character to Gravel, who always liked to be sitting next to you. Dogs are as diverse in their nature as people and Holly likes to have her own space; she's never been a knee sitter and it's interesting to see how she has changed now that she's the only dog in the house.

She and Gravel always got on quite well, although she was definitely top dog, and when we first got her, she learned a lot by watching him. Little things like holding a bone in her paws to chew it, swimming, crossing dykes and chasing pigeons were all new activities. I never thought I'd see a Springer Spaniel that didn't swim, but Holly didn't. It took a great deal of paddling and watching Gravel (who was half seal) before she took the plunge. I think falling through the thin ice on the Thorney River also helped.

Now Holly is totally at home in the water - lake, river or sea - as the picture (below) taken at Holkham Beach by Tom Rayner on 1 Jan, 2013 shows.

When Gravel was put down and we brought him home, I let Holly see and sniff the body. She was curious and wasn't obviously disturbed by Gravel's death. When we buried him, she took little interest in the excavation or the burial. She has had a good sniff around the grave from time to time and Margaret swears that she's respecting the ground by not walking across it. I said that was probably because there's a large pot filled with geraniums in the middle of the plot, but Margaret is convinced that she's treating it as hallowed ground.

The main thing I've noticed is that Holly is much more relaxed. There's no competitiveness and no jealously, so things happen more calmly. In the morning, I get up to make some tea and take Margaret and myself a cup upstairs to drink in bed. The dogs always slept in the kitchen, but were allowed upstairs in the morning for a fuss. They loved that (and the opportunity to get on a bed), so there was a batttle to be first through the kitchen door, get the inside track on the turn up the stairs, gallop upstairs three at a time and then the final turn into the bedroom. It was always a mad scramble and Gravel, who was slower than Holly, especially in the past year, would often use some cunning to get on the stairs first and then manage to baulk her to reach the landing in the lead. Now she's on her own, Holly is no less keen to get upstairs to wake Margaret with a good face-lick, but she trots through the door. It's as if she's going out for a jog, rather than the start of the 100 metres dash.

In the evening, we often used to be sitting on the sofas with a dog each at our side. If Gravel jumped off the sofa, Holly would jump up in his place. Now she's alone, she will sometimes sit next to Margaret for a short period, but prefers her own space on her own chair (which Margaret has created by putting a dog blanket on one of the armchairs). Sometimes I go across and give her a stroke, which she appreciates, but she won't come and sit next to me.

Holly is much calmer all round and this is also reflected in her feeding. She is now often turning down the chance to lick a plate, which she'd previously have done just because Gravel would. I put some scraps in her bowl and she came to have a look and then went back to the lounge to carry on her snooze. When we had the two dogs, I'd have shared out any scraps evenly and they would both have been waiting expectantly for whatever was being put down.

It's also much easier for Margaret to walk one dog, rather than two and also to allow Holly off the lead in the park. Previously, it would have been something of a struggle holding onto the pair of them. I could manage it, but it could be hard work, and Margaret suffered with a sore thumb when she tried. Also, in the park, Holly would play for hours with a ball, but Gravel would wander off, down a dyke, chasing pigeons and pretty soon you had no idea where he was. Now, Margaret can take Holly to the park, enjoy a game of fetch, walk round the edge to cool down and then (if they're both in the mood) do it all over again.

The other favourite trip is to come to the station in the evening to pick me up. Holly enjoys a trip in the car (all our Springers have been good travellers) and she is now often waiting at the station exit with Margaret. She's often being stroked by some strange chap (Holly, not Margaret) and rarely spots me until I'm out of the door. Another new treat is to park up at Car Haven and walk through town to the station to meet me. These are exciting and stimulating trips for a dog and when we get home, Holly often just jumps on her chair and goes to sleep.

I wouldn't want to say Holly is happier without Gravel, but she is certainly more relaxed and (well) happier.

Harvesting gourds and malolactic fermentation

It looks as if our splendid summer is over, the weather turned distinctly autumnal at the weekend, with daytime temperatures down to the low teens and a strong, cool northerly wind blowing. It was also raining quite heavily most of the weekend.

On Saturday, my focus was on racking the cider, but before we got around to that I was pottering around the garden and noticed that several gourd plants had withered and turned brown. The gourds were still hanging on, but it seemed only a matter of time before they detached.

Margaret has been itching to pick them for a month, so as soon as I suggested that we ought to harvest them, she was out there with her basket. It's been a good year for gourds, we've had a decent number and also a wide variety. The only disappointment is that the fruits have often been rather large - I would have preferred smaller and more numerous fruits. This year, I did mix some Growmore in the with compost in the pots and I wonder if that had any effect. Mind you, I also did that with my butternut squash and it didn't seem to make any difference there - they were very much on the small size.

Margaret with her gourd crop

We've picked all the gourds from the three pots down the garden and just left some on the three pots at the side. These are still ripening and they haven't gone brown or withered yet. In fact, two of the plants are still growing and (even in the wind and rain) there were a couple of brave male flowers in bloom. They can have another week or two of ripening and hardening on the plant.

Cider has been much in mind this week. At the start of the week, I'd been concerned that the fermentation hadn't happened properly, but when I investigated, I found the specific gravity had fallen below zero and all the sugar had fermented. It had happened steadily, without much froth, but quickly (within seven days). The cider I tested was from the batch made with Crossland apples - it was bone dry and very acidic. The pressed juice had been sweet and quite delicious, but I wouldn't wanted to have drunk much of this lip-pursing liquid.

Advice on the cider forum was to use eating apples rather than cookers (but I used what I could get hold of and only one tree of eaters was available to three cookers). The recommended ratio of three parts eater to one part cooker was not an option. Other suggestions included artificial sweetener (Splendour seems to be the sweetener of choice), but most people said I should just give it time.

The harsh acidity in cooking apples is caused by an excess of mallic acid and, given time, this can be converted to lactic acid by means of malolactic fermentation where a naturally occurring bacteria gets into the cider and works its magic. As well as converting the sharp mallic acid to more palatable lactic acid, the process can also impart a spicy taste to the cider, which craft cider makers are very proud to achieve. Malolactic fermentation by natural bacteria won't work in temperatures lower than 15 deg C or in juice where acidity is below 3.2, so I think we're right up against it on acidity. Anyway, I've resolved to let my cider mature for six months and then taste test it. If it's still too acid, I can either use artificial sweetner or introduce a bacterial culture artificially to promote a malolactic fermentation. Apparently, cultured bacteria doesn't add spice, but it can give a pleasant buttery taste (I'm not sure I like the idea of buttery cider).

On Saturday I tested all barrels and all had completely finished fermentation. There was a marked difference between the three types. The windmill eaters have already produced a very nice cider, the blend of windmill cookers and Chris Smith's apples have produced a sharper, but very good drink and the Crossland cookers, which tasted so acidic at the start of the week, already seem smoother. So all juice was racked (the cider siphoned slowly off the sediment at the bottom of the barrel) and barrels were filled to exclude air and sealed. I'll leave them for a month or six weeks and then put them in the garage to mature over winter (I'll have to make some room).

We've enjoyed cider-making so far, it's been interesting and I like the idea of getting something for nothing. I have three full barrels (over 15 gallons) and five, one-gallon demijohns. I'd lose a gallon in the next racking, but I have around 95 litres and should end up with around 300 330cl bottles. I'm busy saving all the beer bottles that I can.

I might branch out into apple juice next year with the plan being to offer to pick people's apples, press the juice and sell it back to them as sterilised apple juice. We'll see how it goes.

Davina pounding the pulp, while I get the press ready for juicing

Pulling the pressed pulp bag from the basket

Starter yeast culture ready to be added to the juice

On Sunday the rain was lashing down from the north and it was a pretty miserable day. We'd arranged to have lunch at Sam and Lucy's in Walthamstow and Holly was invited as well. Sam did lamb shank to a Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall (a TV chef) recipe and it was nice. I got told off for being fussy and leaving some fatty bits - the story of my life.

Sam had also picked the gourds that Lucy has been growing and it was interesting to compare. Hers were smaller (a better size in honesty) and she also had some that we didn't, including a couple of knobbly green pear-shaped ones. We both had various sizes of bishop's hats.

It was pretty wet in London and so a planned walk didn't happen and Holly was a bit of a pain in the house for four hours. She travels really well in the car though, has a look out of the window for a bit and then, if we're going any distance, she just hunkers down for the duration.

We made good time there and back (less than two hours each way) and we were back by 6pm; in time to have a glass of wine and a few nuts sitting in the summer-house, listening to the rain lashing against the side. It sounds bonkers, but it did give Holly some outdoor time and I rather like the feel of sitting in a shed or tent and hearing the rain pelting against it.

We'd got an e-mail or Facebook post from Max to say he and Toby Knights had completed the Yorkshire three peaks (20 miles and 1600 metres of climb and descent) in under six hours. Considering the weather, that was very good going, or so it seemed to me. They're training for the OMM (Original Mountain Marathon) which is being held in a couple of weeks time.

Weekends seem to disappear in the blinking of an eye and before you know it your phone is bleeping to tell you it's 5am on Monday morning - time to get up for work. It was still raining a little this morning, or rather a fine, wet wind, which had come round to the south (through 180 degrees since Sunday). Only another nine weeks and I'll be finished work for good.

Starstruck at 5am and drinking cider before nine!

It was a starry night. This morning, at 5am when I got up and let Holly out, I was shocked by how bright the stars were.

Dawn hadn't started to brighten the eastern sky and the morning was warm enough (13 deg C) to stand and admire the sky for a few minutes. Orion was brilliant, you could see almost every star in his bow. I hate having to get up so early for my morning commute (it's one thing I won't miss when I retire) but then, if I didn't have to get up at 5am, I would never have seen such a beautiful sky.

As I'm writing this travelling to London on the train, the sun is rising across Sawtry fen to my left and turning the few clouds deep pink. It looks lovely - some small compensations for long-distance commuters.

I have been a little worried about my cider. It looks OK and has smelled yeasty, but it hasn't seemed to be fermenting. I'd expected froth overflowing from the top of the fermenting vessel; there's been a yeast scum but nothing else.

I don't want to lose this batch of cider after all the hard work we've put in, so I've been watching it anxiously. The first phase of fermentation - when the yeast is multiplying - needs some air and so I'd left the bungs slightly loose in the barrels. After a week, I thought it had to be working, so I greased the seals and bungs and fitted airlocks. There was nothing bubbling out of the airlocks in two days.

I thought the yeast must have failed to start, so yesterday I ordered more cider yeast and thought I'd re-inoculate the must this weekend if nothing had happened. Last night I decided to test the must to see if any fermentation had taken place. You do that using a hydrometer, which tells you how dense the liquid is. If it has more sugar, it's more dense. As the sugar ferments to alcohol, the liquid becomes thinner and the hydrometer sits lower in the liquid. You can use the readings on the side of the hydrometer to calculate the amount of sugar in the liquid and the potential alcohol. It can also tell you when all the sugar is fermented and it's therefore safe to bottle.

Extraordinarily, the sample showed that fermentation had happened and that all the sugar had gone. It was saying "safe to bottle." When I tasted it, it tasted like rough dry cider, all the unexpected sweetness of the pressed juice had gone. I've only tested one barrel, but it looks as if fermentation has happened right under my nose without me realising it. I'd expected cider fermentation to be longer and slower, but perhaps this is down to the warm weather this year.

The experts say a long, slow fermentation is desired because that adds more character and complexity to the finished drink. If that's the case, then I can kiss goodbye to complexity, but, to be honest, I'd be glad just to get some drinkable cider next summer. Character and complexity, I can work on.

I took a little sample into the office (and it looked exactly like a sample, if you get my drift). Everyone in the office had tried some by 9.30am and there were mixed views. Quite a few found it very sour, others thought it was excellent. Darius, being a Cornish lad and knowing his cider, said it was good, Davina said it needed sugar and Laura has taken the remainder home for a nightcap!

Cider sample went down well at work.

This has been a wonderful summer weather-wise and it continued at the weekend. Margaret and I had a barbecue and lit the chiminea on Saturday and sat out as it grew dark. I'd spent the day pottering in the garden and had pruned the Acer Drummondii tree which had been casting a little too much shade onto the border by the gate. I took quite a bit out of it and so we had a small pile of thin logs for next year and the smaller branches produced three buckets of wood chippings which went down the bottom of the garden in the front of the laurel where there's a short-cut between wood pile, compost bins and the summer-house.

I felt a little sorry for the acer, as I often do when pruning. It developed a strange, weeping wound on the trunk a few years ago and it transpired that Max had been shooting lead pellets into it to check his air-gun sights. That wound has now stretched into a long bare scar, perhaps two feet long, where the bark has opened to expose the hard wood below. The bark is quite open around the scar and I think it will continue to grow. It looks unsightly, but doesn't appear to be harming the tree at the moment. It's the first tree in the garden to get its leaves and they are a beautiful pale green and yellow when they appear, often waving in the wind like little flags. It looks amazing in a light spring breeze. It's also the first tree in the garden to lose its leaves and they have been falling now for a couple of weeks. The lawn and border have been covered and in a week's time (even with this nice weather) the tree will be bare.

The gourds have also stopped growing and we've now stopped watering them to encourage the fruits to dry and ripen in the remaining sun. They've been very big this year - perhaps a little too big - but there's a good range of different shapes and colours.

There is still quite a lot of colour in the garden. The bidens on pots and baskets have been magnificent, the sweet peas are still a beautiful show and the begonias have been amazing. One of my favourites is a pot of winter pansies, which looked amazing in the spring, but which have kept going all summer and are still a lovely show. The small, yellow single dahlias, which I bought as a bee-friendly dahlia where disappointing. They made lots of leaf, but not many flowers. I had said I wouldn't bother keeping them over winter, but in the past fortnight they have started flowering profusely. It's almost too late for the bees to make use of them, but they are a show.

Begonias have been a super show this year.

I should also say a word in favour of nasturtiums. I've grown quite a lot this year. They weren't a success in hanging baskets, but those in the garden have bloomed, been eaten by caterpillars and have regrown leaves. They are now a magnificent show of yellow blooms at the bottom of the garden.

One disappointment has been the butternut squash. Andrew Knights told me they wouldn't grow, but you have to find these things out for yourself don't you? I bought a variety supposedly well suited to an English summer and, with us having such a good summer, I did have high hopes. We'd had seven squashes from three plants, so a pretty poor hit rate and the fruits are not that large.