Daucas Carotus Subsp. Sativas Part 2

 

What next? Ah yes, the water. I am very wary of watering after the tomato fiasco, but I reason that all things need water to grow. The school hymn runs through my head. 

'We plough the fields and scatter

The good seed on the land,

But it is fed and watered

By God's almighty hand;'

Damn, now it will be on loop in my head for the next few hours. It wouldn't be so bad if I could remember any other lines. So should I wait for the miraculous watering to take place? As we are currently in the middle of a prolonged dry spell possibly not.

 

I check the packet for watering instructions. There are none. I turn to trusty Google again and type in 'How to Water Carrot Seeds'. In dismay I read the answer; 'Water deeply prior to planting. Water the area with the gentlest stream you can provide, and keep it constantly moist until the seeds sprout.'  Water prior to planting! Have I just wasted the last two hours? A plan I need a plan, there has to be a way around this situation.

 

I need to water deeply. Deeply seems to be a common theme with carrots. Deeply till and now water deeply. What to do. I need to get the water deep into the soil. If I can find something to poke into the ground that I can pour the water into, it will take it deep into the bed. My mind roams through my house, searching for tubes. Straws, no, too narrow. I can't think of anything else. My mind is a blank, too full of ploughing the fields and scattering to think straight, I need to go and look. 

 

In the kitchen, I tentatively reach into the faulty partially-open kitchen drawer, wary of the myriad of sharp and dangerous objects. I feel around pricking my hands on the points of a carving fork, then joy, I find a tubular item. I manoeuvre it out of the drawer and see myself holding the turkey baster. Perfect! I can suck the water up and then put the baster into the soil and squeeze the water out. Amazed by my genius, I decide to post this handy gardening tip on Facebook later.

 

Back out in the garden, I fill a plastic bucket from the garden tap. The question now is where to insert the baster. The seeds are 1 inch apart, but I've no way of knowing exactly where they are, so I opt for a position about 2 inches away from the row. I fill the turkey baster with water, and although some runs out the majority stays inside. I plunge the baster into the earth. It sinks in about 3 inches and won't go in any further. Is this deep enough? I don't know. I squeeze the end of the baster, and the soil boils up. I frantically push the ground back down as the bubbling spreads towards the precious seed. Too close and not deep enough. This isn't going to work.

 

We plough the fields... The rows are 15 inches apart so I reason that I can dig a trench in between the rows and fill it with water. No, I can't do that. If I do, the soil I dig out may cover the seeds, and then even if I level it out afterwards, they may be more than 1/2 an inch deep. I just need to loosen the soil. Is that ploughing? ' We plough the fields and scatter....' How do you dig deeply without disturbing the seeds? 

 

I measure 7 1/2 inches from the row, pick up the trowel and gently dig into the soil. So far, so good. 'We plough the field...' I work my way between all the rows. Mission accomplished, and this time when I insert the turkey baster, it sinks to a suitable depth, and as I squeeze the bulb, the soil remains where it is. I've cracked this. I feel someone's eyes on me and glance up. My next-door neighbour is staring at me from her bedroom window with what looks like amazement. She must also think my idea is fantastic. I wave to her, and she slinks back into the shadows.

 

As I'm making the final depth charge my stomach rumbles and I realise that I've missed my lunch. I deserve a break and something to eat; something tasty; a cheese and Salt and Vinegar crisp sandwich. I go inside, sanitise my hands thoroughly, singing 'Happy Birthday to You', twice to be sure I've got rid of all the germs and then make the sandwich.

 

The sun is blazing down now, and I sit under the parasol to enjoy my food. I admire the raised bed next to the greenhouse and imagine how it will look when the carrots start to grow. Then I notice a small brown bird land on the bed. It starts pecking at the ground. Then another arrives and joins in. They are eating the seeds! I jump up, and my sandwich falls to the ground. I windmill my arms as I run towards the bed. 'Shoo, shoo.' The birds fly off. How many have they eaten? I need to protect the seeds.

 

Google will know what to do. She suggests netting and shows me images of green netting. I don't have any green netting, but I know that I have some old net curtains. Will they do? The birds have settled on a nearby fence ready to pounce. This is urgent, and I run inside. Upstairs I tear through the airing cupboard. Paisley curtains, stained duvets, flattened pillows, faded sheets and tattered towels fall to the floor as I scrabble through the musty pile to find the net curtains. Finally, the floral, frilly monstrosities come into view, and I grab them and rush back downstairs. I knew they would come in handy one day.

 

As I arrive back at the bed, the birds take flight. How many seeds did they manage to eat during my absence? I spread the curtains out. The scalloped edges and frills mean there are gaps around the edges, but most of the bed is covered. This is a temporary solution, so I return to Google for ideas. 

 

Hanging CD's on strings is one option. I briefly consider using my beloved CD collection, but the thought of Phill Collins taking his chances with the elements fills me with dismay. He would undoubtedly discover the true meaning of something in the air tonight, and I'm pretty sure he wouldn't like it. A plastic owl is another suggestion. I check out the prices, but they cost more than my annual spend on carrots! A scarecrow. Where would I stand a scarecrow without it squashing the carrots? Then inspiration strikes me; shiny windmills. The sort of windmills you see at the seaside stuck into the top of sandcastles. If I order them from Amazon, they will be here tomorrow. My friends at Amazon, the only people I have spoken to during Lockdown (at a suitable distance, of course), can supply 50 multi-coloured windmills at a very reasonable price. I place the order.

 

Jaqui Fairfax

Image by Carolina - l-s (Unsplash)