Fern Gully
Or: how I almost bit off more than I could chew (part two)
9 February 2024
By: James Lennox
February is when galanthophiles are brave enough to venture out. What they do for the rest of the year is a bit of a mystery. I have my suspicions - perhaps they're all trying to outbid each other in online auctions for the latest mutant snowdrop; or possibly they're just planning daring nocturnal raids on each other's rarities.
Either way, this is the month to catch them outdoors, nose to ground - unless it's snowing when there's not much point braving the elements and missing the little darlings in the mush. It's a puzzling fascination, to say the least, and one that I didn't fully appreciate until I'd spent a good few Februarys in England.
This is, hands down, the most miserable month of the entire year. The sky varies all the way from dark grey to black and never seems to lighten. Driving rain is a speciality with only the occasional flurry of snow to brighten the mood. Gardeners have to entertain themselves somehow and, if they haven't reconciled themselves to a month on the sofa eating bonbons and reading trashy novels, they feel obliged to admire any old plant that pokes its head up at this time of year.
Good ol' galanthus-worship almost makes sense in that particular context. Unfortunately, I struggle to spot the subtle differences between G. ‘Galatea', ‘Hippolyta', ‘Ophelia' and ‘Desdemona'. It probably doesn't help that I don't get down on bended knee but just peer at them myopically from 6ft above. But credit where it's due, the discoverers, breeders and owners of these beauties certainly deserve full marks on the naming front.
Pteridomania, on the other hand, is much more my thing - botanically diverse (i.e. more than just one genus, galanthophiles!), out of fashion since Victoria's day and remarkably affordable. All admirable traits. And it was my growing obsession with ferns that led me to embark on yet another project at La Corolla.
Spain is not generally renowned for its cool, moist growing conditions. La Corolla is no exception. Although I'm slowly creating my own shade-filled corner of Asturias, I've always hankered after a spot to satisfy my craving for ferns - somewhere that'll never dry out or be scorched by harsh sunlight, humus-rich and permanently damp. In the end, I didn't have to look far.
All this time, we'd been sitting on a ferny goldmine, just over the tumbledown fence at the edge of the American Woodland. During the purchase of the new field, it transpired that we had first dibs on an additional quarter acre derelict strip of land. It would be perfect for ferns - a mini-ravine, with sheer rock walls on either side, protected by overhanging oaks, ash and bay trees, with dappled shade all day long.
As luck would have it, there were ferns growing there already - mainly Dryopteris filix-mas and Polystichum setiferum. Nothing to set the world on fire, but a useful hint as to how the area could be planted up. It’s very much a transitional space between intensively cultivated garden and open countryside, the ideal spot for a blend of native and exotic ferns, gradually giving way to local flora only on the far side of the ravine.
The only problem was that it had been used for years before our arrival and the advent of organised rubbish collections (unconnected events, I assure you) as the village tip.
Of course, the accumulation of decades of leaf litter had disguised the worst. As with most projects, ignorance is bliss. Chopping up a couple of fallen trees to create an entrance was child's play. After all, give a man a chainsaw and every tree turns into potential firewood. On this occasion, I was the model of restraint itself - I was trying to preserve the shady conditions, after all.
The worst, most disheartening phase was removing the mountains of detritus by hand, hoping that my latest tetanus jab was still doing its thing. Everything that couldn't be burned had been buried there - glass bottles, tin cans, car tyres, toilets, mattresses. I've seen enough TV police dramas to be fairly sure that the piles of bones we found weren't human, but they were an unsettling discovery nonetheless.
In the end, it only took a week of solid effort and was arguably a better use of my time than aimlessly scrolling through Instagram. Future archaeologists might want to excavate deeper, but I was happy to call it a day when I'd reached evidence of the early 20th century and had already dealt with the big ticket items.
Transplant a few ferns from holding patterns elsewhere, upcycle an old picnic table, decorate with a few of the choicer finds in a shameless homage to the installation we'd seen in the ravine at Hunting Brook in Ireland (subject of an upcoming review) and, hey presto, another clear-up was complete.
Mysteries remain. Is the gully a natural feature or the result of quarrying? There's no running water there now, nor are there signs of stone having been removed by man. Was it perhaps a defensive dry moat-type feature of an ancient settlement, as with so many other prominent hills in the area? And why had we not got round to tackling this area and expanding the empire sooner? Just think of the size of the tree ferns by now if I’d started this whole business 20 years ago.
