#1405 theoldmortuary ponders.

The Yard 2026 ©theoldmortuary

Two inconsequential recipes to share today.

People have asked for my organic dog poo processing recipe . So here goes with that.

We have been dog owners for 13 years . Most of that time we were city- based with either a small garden or, as now, a small yard. For a while we lived in the countryside and this method worked well there too.

A long time ago I had friends with two big dogs and a large garden who long before the internet buried a bottomless compost bin 1/3 into the ground in an area out of the way. When their dogs did a poo in the garden it was popped in the bin with tea leaves and coffee grounds from the kitchen. Worms and other creatures who chomp on unthinkable things found their way into the bin. There was never a smell and the bin seemed to settle at about 2/3 full

Our small London garden could not have housed such a big item, but we experimented with a terracotta rhubarb forcer. The same organic magic happened. Just poo, tea leaves and coffee grounds. Our Rhubarb forcers also seem to settle at 2/3 full

In both cases our friends dogs and our dogs were not habitual pooers in the garden . This system works for dog bathroom emergencies. It might well work for larger quantities. I see no reason why it wouldn’t .

The only time the system needs to be disturbed is when moving house or relocating the Rhubarb Forcers.*

The first time I moved the Rhubarb Forcers was because of a house move. I approached the job with trepidation but ultimately all was well . We had stopped using them 3 months before. Collecting our garden dog waste in poo bags and delivering them to poo bins that the council provided on the streets.

Trepidation was completely unnecessary. The compost created was almost perfect. Fine, light brown compost, no smell. Had I been presenting a gardening programme I would have romantically run my fingers through it in the style of the opening scenes of Gladiator, as Maximus runs his fingers through ears of corn. The only minor problem was that some t-bag bags did not seem to be biodegradable but as we always split them it was easy enough to pick them out. We decided to only use actual tea leaves and coffee grounds in future.

One rhubarb forcer per dog seems perfect. When one is nearly full we put a lid on it and open the other for business. Allowing rain and sunshine in.

The other two times I have had to move the Rhubarb Forcers the results have been the same. Lovely compost.

*Rhubarb Forcers are bottomless terracotta pots

Enough of poo . Now for miraculous results.

Two Rhubarb Forcers, a palm tree and a black gumtree.

Hidden under our rogue Pampas Grass was this palm tree and to a degree the mid to lower levels of the gumtree. Now the Pampas has had serious remedial cutting-back the almost unbelievable growth of the palm tree has been revealed. He was certainly on Death Row for the last 5 years but 2 years ago I moved the Rhubarb Forcers very close to where he was planted. Last year he did not do much that I noticed but under cover of far too much Pampas Grass he has made a ridiculous achievement of growth. I wonder if the Pampas and the Black Gum are also benefitting  from the close proximity of dog and coffee organic matter. Who could begin to guess, but now we are down to just one dog I wonder if supply and demand may be a problem..

And so onto the second inconsequential recipe.

There is an element of  squabbling in one of the organisations I work for. Not a life or death issue but troublesome to those involved and troubling to those on the sidelines. Intervention might be needed and then again it might  not.

My father and grandfather were both rural men at heart but whose career choices forced them to manage other humans. Other humans are complex creatures with foibles and opinions or views on how life should be.

Intervention is sometimes needed but timing is everything.

My grandad would reassure my dad that , ” Sometimes people need to be left to stew in their own juice for a bit”

My dad would say the same thing to me in the early stages of my career.

I have no idea if this was just familial advice or East Anglian wisdom passed down.

But I do find that allowing  squabbling humans some time, “Stewing in their own juice” is a very effective recipe for some types of conflict resolution.

Two recipes on a Wednesday that may never be needed. Until they are.

Mr Palm, no longer on death row.

#1404 theoldmortuary ponders.

Drying Washing in the Yard 2025 ©theoldmortuary

We have not yet hit the giddy heights of drying washing in under two hours, as we can easily do in the Summer months. But in just under a week our washing lines have gone from support for our festive winter lights to drying an enormous load in eight hours.

The progress in our yard in one week is madness. We have gone from rain every day since Christmas to no rain for 10 days.

We were definitely late to start yardening jobs this year. 10 days of dry weather has kicked our yardening backsides. There have been some winter casualties, drownings mostly. All consigned to compost over the last weekend. One miraculous recovery.

We have had a Palm tree for about 10 years, he has moved, in a pot, from London to Cornwall and now Devon. 10 years in survival mode, never really thriving but surviving in a pretty lacklustre way. He was planted in a raised bed two or three years ago and just sat there, moodily surviving, not really bothering to make roots or friends with any other nearby plants.

Over the weekend I cleared the debris from an unplanned Pampas Grass . Hiding under the fringes of the Pampas was a glorious and vigorous palm tree. Solidly rooted into the ground and probably a foot taller than when I last saw him. There is no horticulural logic to this. He has been living in a bog for the last 6 months, his only source of nutrients is our dog poo, coffee grounds hygienic/organic dog poo disposal system.

Further tidying up will prepare him, for the first time, for some proud yardening  photos. Not something I ever imagined doing.

#1403 theoldmortuary ponders.

A late blog that is already a week late. On our trip over a week ago to the Cornish Tea Plantation we also threw in an extra stop off to a favourite churchyard. At St Just-in Roseland. I realise churchyards are not to everyone’s taste but we enjoy the peace and tranquility that a country church yard exudes.

It was a late evening visit and the sun was breaking through the Spring foliage at sharp angles.

William and Anna Maria Roberts having their moment in the sun.

It is the most beautiful place for both the living and the dead to rest their bones.

The harshness of life before the twentieth century is writ large on historic gravestones where adults die barely into middle age and their children die in infancy.

Not such a problem in the latter half of the twentieth century where other more middle-class messages are carved in stone. X and his wife Y both deceased well into old age, but wanting it known that they were not ‘Common’ people their gravestone informs us of both of their home addresses. Oxford and St Mawes. No mistaking them for Rif Raf!

It helps that the graveyard and the church are in the most spectacular landscape.

#1402 theoldmortuary ponders.

Our weekend started with a wet and dry bob. The weather was kind to us and the catering goddesses were even kinder.

The dry bob celebrated a retirement.

The wet bob celebrated cold water and friendship.

The conversations were, as usual, wide ranging.

The burning question of reverse mermaids came up, and with that all manner of mythical creatures who are half human and half something else.

The garden of our retiring bobber is celebrating Spring in a magical way. Mr Tumnus did not put in an appearance for our party,but her garden is a little like Narnia without the snow.

Anne’s retirement gift was a pink bobbing sweatshirt.

And a version of this print which features our actual bobbers within a historical and mythical landscape.

©theoldmortuary

We don’t dry bob as often as we should. Laughter is always on the agenda for both wet and dry bobs. Hard to tell which aspect  does us more good. The healthy, immune system boosting cold water swimming or the raucous belly laughs. Either way life is better with the Bobbers.

#1401 theoldmortuary ponders

Another blog hijacked by a chicken. See previous blog .

#1387 theoldmortuary ponders

Janner must have told Argyle there were rich pickings in our yard and that scaling the expensive fence extension that we built was a world of wonder .

Argyle researched her great escape earlier in the week.

What Janner had failed to mention to Argyle, was Lola.

I can’t add much to fill a whole blog. Lola buried her face in Argyle’s ample bottom. Our neighbour came round to collect his chicken and not much more can be done. Our wall extender is as high as it can be legally. Only the climbing plants can ‘accidentally’ increase the defensive barrier. Only steroids would make them grow faster.

The sun and a hill are not on our side.The sun arcs across the sea to the south of our East/ West yard. All the tender young shoots of the climbing plants turn their faces to the sun and grow towards our neighbours yard.  Delicious nibbles for adventurous chickens have been available since early April. On the chicken side our eight foot wall/fence combo is only about 4 feet high. The massive  18 inch,thick stone wall is an easy chicken hop from their much higher ground level.  It was also an easy bunny hop but the large lop eared Dutch rabbit that hopped avoided capture by our dogs and made good its escape  across our subterranean garage and was never seen again.

Only yesterday I was congratulating myself that the wall extension and climbing plants were at last providing greater privacy in our yard. The secondary consideration beyond livestock control. Pride came before chicken invasion.

I sense a sketch might make this all the more understandable. Top to bottom our yard probably drops about 10 to 12 feet.

Looking South from our French Windows. Chicken not to scale.

#1400 theoldmortuary ponders.

When is a back yard like a nightclub?

In April after a long wet winter.

I had thought my tinkering in the yard yesterday would amount to no real  aesthetic improvement. In daylight I would say that is definitely the case. But last night with the winter lights taken off the washing line, and hung amongst the greenery of climbing plants things did not look too shabby.

The mildew covered slabs just have a bit of unwanted texture that only consistent  sunlight and a good scrub will remedy. Not unlike the sticky carpets of nightclubs and pubs.

I have always liked places of the night. I was an early adopter of going to nightclubs, and knew with first hand experience at my grandparents pub, what the morning after the night before looked and smelled like. All this when smoking indoors in public places was entirely normal.

The morning after the night before in my yard has filled me with horror.

Just before writing this I was googling how to trim Pampas grass. We were sold a tiny one in error about 3 years ago. Over this last wet winter it has thrived and looks like a monster in the small raised bed where it was planted with the other intentional small grasses.

Suddenly there is a time limit to a big yardening endeavour.

“Typically before April”

Already and unknowingly I am on the back foot. There are also no signs that our Pampas has done any dying back during our wet winter.

That is going to be a very dull blog some time next week.

The next google might be, how to dig up a Pampas once it has been trimmed.

#1400 is a big number. #1400 is the number of blogs since I moved on from #Pandemicponderings the original daily blog that recorded the Covid-19 experience. I never intended to be a long term daily blogger. I was just caught between a first blogging course and the follow up which was greatly delayed by Covid-19 restrictions.

So from the drama of Covid-19 to the mundanity of daily life. I turn up here most days and some days not a lot happens.

©thealphawomen club

A lesson worth learning I think.

#1399 theoldmortuary ponders

A sunny morning kicks off the 2026 Vintage Marmalade Season in our house. Marmalade by Gill (a bobber) makes its first appearance on breakfast toast.

The sun was everywhere this morning. But we are living in a ghost town. Nobody is visiting. Dreadful for local businesses.

The traffic situation was apparently terrible yesterday . Not that I experienced it as I walked or used public transport for my Wednesday Adventures.  The traffic situation is even keeping the swimmers away.

A more reliable one way system is being considered to ease the Ghost Town effect. Until then I think most people who can avoid coming here, will. Yesterday a coach caused a prolonged traffic jam but apart from odd incidents the traffic is only really bad at predictable times. It is the sun that is keeping me at home today, not a fear of traffic. Some yardening needs to be attended to.

Sunshine also filled our yard today. These beautiful roses are turning their heads to the sun and I must take the winter lights off the washing line so it can be used for actual drying of washing.

Just a couple of hours of tinkering in a sun filled yard makes  all the difference. Although there are no areas that look particularly pretty it won’t be too long before I can sit out with a coffee and not feel compelled to do yardening. I just need the sun to warm up enough to dry out the last damp vestiges of a very wet winter.

But for now more wandering in our Ghost Town.

https://www.plymouth.gov.uk/news/exclusion-zone-put-place-around-evolution-cove-block-stonehouse?fbclid=IwdGRjcARX3q1jbGNrBFfdqmV4dG4DYWVtAjExAHNydGMGYXBwX2lkDDM1MDY4NTUzMTcyOAABHnGEU-zWrzkQrefBuj360Rg7UfOWJ049ip6YxAQqxA6n62AWGDP3ijQWVN5f_aem_mD7bE5xsCVYkMbhm3b-DCA

#1398 theoldmortuary ponders.

Life on our Peninsula has been compromised by a block of flats at a road pinch point being declared unsafe. Residents of this block and surrounding buildings have been evacuated and roads are closed. Dreadful for all those people whose homes are compromised.

There is a complex one way road system in place to protect everyone from the potential risk of this building falling down.

Everyone on the Peninsula has had to alter plans. I was so successful at changing my Monday plans that I thought it was a Tuesday. So yesterday I cracked on early with my day doing my Wednesday jobs only realising I was a whole day early when one destination was closed.

Having returned home using the complex current arrangements  for roads, I relaxed until a call from my Tuesday appointment at 11 am reminded me where I should be on Tuesday. By midday I was on track for Tuesday jobs on Tuesday. By midday today, Wednesday, I am on track for all Wednesday jobs for the second time this week.

All minor stuff really compared to all those people who are out of their homes but strange how a wrinkle in normal life can disrupt thought processes.

But today is also World Earth Day, not just any old Wednesday. Wherever we are the Earth is our shared experience. I am extremely lucky that my current normal day at the office looks like this.

Happy Earth Day.

#1397 theoldmortuary ponders

Sticking my neck out I would suggest that Spring has arrived on the Stonehouse Peninsula. Three days of sunshine but the temperature and wind are nothing like Springy enough yet.

The strong breeze certainly took my Giraffe off his feet for every one of his morning poses.

This one had him tumbling into a rockpool. But in clambering down to retrieve him I found a sheltered sun trap, where we could bask and harvest vitamin D for a few minutes.

Sticking my neck out predicting the arrival of actual Spring might come back to bite me on the bum tomorrow. The current ten day forecast  has not a single drop of rain illustrated. So for now that is good enough 

#1396 theoldmortuary ponders

The shortest journey from tip to lip.

Drinking a cup of tea in the place where the tea was grown and harvested was a unique experience yesterday.

Tea Drinkers at Tregothnan

Tregothnan tea used to be a treat when we lived in London. Swanky afternoon teas were sometimes unavoidable. Some swanky places served shockingly bad afternoon teas and some swanky places were shockingly bad at serving good afternoon teas. But if the actual tea served was Tregothnan  then the tea at least was of a fabulous standard.*

Odd then that it took us until yesterday to visit the Tregothnan Estate to drink a cup of tea with zero air miles. 11,000 steps in a beautiful Spring Garden in Springlike weather felt like just the right level of exercise to work up a thirst.

*Today’s ponder,triggered by a good cup of tea, ponders the oddest afternoon tea ever. We were at a hotel opposite the BBC’s headquarters in Langam Place, London on a very dull winter Saturday. We were there to celebrate two birthdays with some new friends.  Close to where two of us worked. Afternoon Tea service was in full swing, maybe even exceptional full swing. We had ordered Tregothnan Tea, but that was about as fancy as our order got. Our waiter was rather too attentive, but not fully concentrating. My work colleague, Mark, was twinkling a little. An enormous Birthday Cake was circling the room, the room swelling, with that somewhat difficult to sing birthday melody. The cake circled the room twice, nobody owned up to the birthday or the cake.  In a flourish our waiter called the cake over to our table, we had birthday cards opened. So he came up with a plan. The cake was delivered to our table, we were told to pretend it was for us. Four slices were served and apparently we then generously donated the rest to other diners who might want to share it.

When we went to pay our bill we pointed out again that the cake was not ours. Apparently it had been sent out during the wrong afternoon tea session. The whole room benefited from the error, Mark’s twinkling had just alerted the staff to birthday cards on our table where the cake could be delivered, masking the error. What happened at the session when the cake should have been delivered is anybody’s guess. It was not the sort of cake that could be whisked up  in a moment or any number of moments. It was not Colin the Caterpillar.