The wife is an enthusiastic supporter of Borders Organic Gardens (BOG) which is a very thriving local organisation although centred on the central borders rather than in the remote fastnesses of bucolic Berwickshire. I can take gardening or leave it-preferably the latter but we are stuck with a largish weed plot which is surprisingly productive in the fruit and vegetable department and is, thankfully, a long way removed from the neurotically manicured suburban gardens where one has an urge to dump anal unretentive dogs to add that natural touch to the agent oranged weed free rockeries and the garish flower borders. Gardens, this time of year are rewarding with the fruit dripping of the bushes and the tomatoes ripening nicely in the green house-the only warm place in Mr Fish's July.
The wife has an urge to see other people's organic gardens- a form of masochism perhaps in the unfavourable comparison department-or to learn new techniques which are as yet unpractised in our lovesome thing. Yesterday was a BOG open day. It was wet, cold, midge infested-just the day for watching on TV the last round of the Scottish Open on the lush chemically controlled fairways of -
'I'll take the front tee and you'll take the back tee and I'll be in the water, afore thee' Loch Lomond (Trad.) So we set off to the furthest of the show gardens-52 miles of Sunday drivers, off duty tractors and horse boxes. The Borders are beautiful but not when blanketed by drizzle. I half hoped that the weather was so bad that the garden in the depths of Roxburghshire woukd be closed. No such luck-it was very open and infested with the traditional BOG types, hand Knitted sweaters, sensible boots, string bags,straggly beards, unkempt hair-and the men were much the same. The garden was ok, disappointingly weed free but hardly worth a round trip of 104 miles (nearly 4 hours on those roads)At least we could buy a few plants we did not really need and I could justify my trip with a cream tea of scones, cream, jam and freshly landed midges.
To do her credit the wife feeling slightly guilty about my golf deprivation drove back at speed leaving the last few dozy horseboxes struggling in our wake. We arrived just as a bloody Frenchman was celebrating his win. He would never have managed such an amazing fluke if I had been watching. Wasted afternoon really
