FIRST SANTA OF THE YEAR

“Where’s Santa? Is he here yet?” I’m shouting out of the window of my car at a bloke at the entrance of Willow Hill Nursery in Fahan. “He’s not here yet, we’re expecting a lot of people, so if you want to go up the road to the chapel and get parked there’s a bus service running every couple of minutes to get you back here.” He is silhouetted against the glare of an extremely powerful set of floodlights that they must have got from the GAA.

I’m here to see Santa officially open Willow Hill’s Winter Wonderland Fairy Grotto. This magical experience is open at certain times on Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday until Christmas. Now I don’t like buses much at the best of times, as I feel I lose my independence to come and go from places, so I ignore the man directing the traffic and park my 16 year old Nissan so tightly into the verge that the driver’s side wheels sink into the soft ground. I manage to get the car free and squeeze out of the door, getting brambled in the process, just as the full shuttle bus drives past me and pulls up in front of the well-lit entrance.

I walk into the sales area where a festive Dermott Walker dressed as an elf is trying to give change to customers who are paying in advance for their children to see the man in red and white. “We’re waiting for Santa to come and switch the lights on,” says the jolly but flustered elf, as he asks people to check their change “I think it’s ten euro but it might only be a fiver,” he cautions.

IT’S MAGIC
There are a lot of people turning up and anticipation is high, the entrance might be lit up like a football match but the garden centre itself is in darkness. Even in the darkness you can feel the excitement. It’s starting to rain too, but that isn’t putting anyone off as the fire engine siren is heard in the distance. There is a surge forward as the bright red fire engine crawls into the car park with a very smiley Santa in the passenger seat. As the machine comes to a stop he jumps out with a big Ho, Ho, Ho! and starts throwing boiled sweets up into the air for the youngsters to head butt as they come down to earth. As if by magic it stops raining as Dermott quickly leads the corpulent VIP to the “on” switch to get the lights working. “I now declare this grotto open” says Santa as he clicks on the power. “Oooooooh!” the crowd go appreciatively

The trees light up in a myriad of different colours. Polar bears and snowmen illuminate the garden centre. We also have a real live donkey in the corner of the site that looks to be very happy with the attention it’s getting now that the children can see it.

GROWING CHILDREN

Jackie has opened up the Grotto that has been built in her new polythene tunnel. The first thing that seems to be growing in it is the excitement of the children as they start queuing to see the big man. It’s surprisingly warm in the tunnel and Jackie and the team have been working hard to get the stage set up with a really cosy front room feel for Santa to greet the eager kids. I bump into Jackie as I walk into the tunnel. “We thought about this a couple of months ago and the idea just snowballed.” She says.

I use my powers as a writer for a local newspaper to squeeze my way through the crowd and get first in the queue to see Santa. “I’m taking photos.” I say to a couple of lads looking very displeased with this big grown up pushing in. Inside the grotto it’s actually very peaceful and Paul is there to take photographs of the meetings. “I’m here until Christmas.” He tells me just before he accidentally calls Santa “dad.” No- one notices so it’s down to business. Santa is fantastic, his personality and manner are everything you would expect, especially when the younger children can be so nervous. He is really putting everyone at ease.

CHRISTMAS PLANTERS

I think it’s time for me to wander about and let the youngsters have their fun, so it’s off to the display area of winter shrubs and planters. Even in the glow of the coloured lights I can see enough to know that the displays are looking better than ever this year and I am pleased to see that there are no spray painted heathers in sight. All of the plants look healthy and natural. Well-planted containers are a must for the doorway at Christmas, and all that is needed are a few hardy plants like an aucuba rhododendron or skimmia. The plants don’t even need flowers; berries and leaves are often bright enough to cheer you up on a dull day.

As expected, the queue is long for Santa. The kids have been very patient, but its time for me to go and slide my car out of the drainage ditch. I have just remembered as I walk out of the gate that I didn’t see the Giant LED teddy; it’s supposed to be the biggest in Ireland. That’s reason enough for me to come back next week.

Photo: Santa with Jackie, his little elf helper.

BEAUTY

BEAUTY IS IN THE AUDI OF THE BEHOLDER

I am starting my talk on gardening at a local club after putting it off for a long time. The room is full of enthusiastic gardeners and all are waiting to hear my ramblings about garden design and garden ornaments. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, especially when it comes to garden features, and it will be interesting to see what delights people have in their precious plots.

“I have an old car sitting at the bottom of my garden.” A woman declares as she pokes her face through two chairs on the back row. “What can I do with that? My son left it there, years ago and lives in America now.”

“When it comes to garden ornaments, it all boils down to finding items that are unique and special to you and that make you feel good. Every time you look down the garden at the old car, I’ll bet you have fond thoughts of your distant son over the pond.” I’m not sounding very convincing but I continue. “Have you thought about keeping chickens in it?” I’m making this up as I go along and that comment only gets a couple of disapproving grunts, so I continue.

“Many homeowners wouldn’t dream of putting any kind of art in their garden unless it was very traditional, preferring formal garden art like stone or concrete statues of angels, gargoyles and goddesses. Formal garden art also includes ornate birdbaths and heavy classical water fountains. These certainly have their place and can be well-loved additions to a garden. Other people have a different sense of aesthetics and prefer a more unique outdoor living area perhaps with a modern look and feel. This is where recycled products come in useful. A friend of mine collects old double glazed windows and has made some really useful greenhouses and sunrooms. OK they wouldn’t win the award at Bloom for the most attractive garden feature but they do the job and keep a few more things out of the landfill for a few years.”

“Do you know anyone who can take the bloody thing away?” The woman interrupts. I’m being heckled by a disgruntled back row gardener, who thinks I am in the scrap business.

“No”. I say rather unhelpfully and continue.

I did a talk on garden design a couple of years a go in Buncrana and everyone either fell asleep or had to leave early so I ask the 30 strong group a question to keep them on their toes and keep boredom away.

“Has anyone got an original garden feature, other than a car that they would like to mention?”

“I have an old shed that I wouldn’t mind shifting” chimes a man at the front. “It’s got asbestos in it so you have to be careful.”

A chain reaction has started. “My husband left three pallets of blocks on the driveway last Christmas. I wouldn’t mind those being lifted too” says a small woman holding a sickly plant in her hands for identification later.

This isn’t going well. “Is there anything in a garden that someone actually likes and gets pleasure from?” I ask. A hand goes up at the back “Yes” I say.

“I’ve got some gravel that needs shifting.”

TEA TIME

It’s nearly the tea break. I have a list of topics that I wanted to cover tonight. Winter gardening, garden ornaments and redesigning old paths. I fold the list neatly and put it in my pocket, it will keep for another day.

“Clearing your garden of rubbish in winter can be as rewarding as having it landscaped.” I’ve have found a new topic for the evening and everyone seems interested. “It sounds like most of us have something in the garden that shouldn’t be there. Let’s see if we can come up with some names of people that will do garden clearance, I’m sure we can find someone in the area.”

The car topic returns….“How many chickens can you get in a four door saloon?”

“I reckon you could get at least six, maybe more if the seats are taken out.” I haven’t a clue what I am talking about now and could have just given a very poor answer to a joke. “If it was a hatchback then maybe eight or nine.” What colour is it?” I ask the woman aimlessly. “I had heard somewhere that chickens don’t like brown because it reminds them of foxes.”

“Green” says the woman…... “ Green with moss.” She continues and get’s a giggle from the audience. “It’s an Audi I think.”

“Greens fine” I say reassuringly. “Chickens like green, it reminds them of fields and open spaces, it will blend well into the trees too and won’t be much of an eyesore.”

“I don’t have any trees.” Says the woman disappointedly. “My husband chopped them all down earlier on this year to make way for a shed”

“The man at the front has a shed he doesn’t want, all it needs is a new roof.” I am being flippant but am saved by the sound of the tea being poured in the kitchen. “Here’s the tea coming.” I am feeling relieved. “We’ll have a look at that plant after the break.”

GRASS

I’m outside trying to get the mower over the long grass on the lawn. At this time of year, you have to pick your time with grass cutting and wait until the rain has eased off for a few minutes so the blades work properly and not clog up every few yards. It hasn’t rained for twenty minutes, so, like the grass, I thought that was long enough and have decided to give it a haircut.
Lawns are a strange idea really, when you think about it. They do have their practical purposes if you want to kick a ball around or get the rusty golf putter out of the shed. Apart from that though they are just there to make the garden look tended even though the beds and borders are in disarray. It reminds me of a story I heard about God talking to St Francis. I thought I would share it with you as I am under the mower scooping out the clogs of mushy grass that are clinging to the blades.

GOD'S TAKE ON LAWNS
God: Hi St. Francis, you know all about gardens and nature. What in the world is going on down there in Ireland? What happened to the wild meadow flowers, dandelions, cowslips, thistle and stuff I started eons ago? I had a perfect “no maintenance” garden plan. The plants I chose would grow in any type of soil, withstand drought and multiply with abandon. The nectar from the long lasting blossoms attracts butterflies, honey bees and flocks of songbirds. I expected to see a vast garden of colours by now. But all I see are these green rectangles.

St. Francis: It’s the tribes that settled there, Lord. The Suburbanites. They started calling your flowers “weeds” and went to great lengths to kill them and replace them with grass.

God: Grass? But it’s so boring. It’s not colourful. It doesn't attract butterflies, birds and bees, only crane fly larvae and moss. It’s temperamental with temperatures. Do these Suburbanites really want all that grass growing there?

St. Francis: Apparently so, Lord. They go to great pains to grow it and keep it green. They begin each spring by fertilising grass and poisoning any other plant that crops up in the lawn.

God: The spring rains and warm weather probably make grass grow really fast. That must make the Suburbanites happy.

St. Francis: Apparently not, Lord. As soon as it grows a little, they cut it... sometimes twice a week.

God: They cut it? Do they then bail it like hay?

St. Francis: Not exactly, Lord. Most of them rake it up and put it in bags.

God: They bag it? Why? Is it a cash crop? Do they sell it?

St. Francis: No Sir. Just the opposite. They pay to throw it away.

God: Now let me get this straight. They fertilise grass so when it does grow, they cut it off and pay to throw it away?

St. Francis: Yes, Sir.

God: These Suburbanites must be relieved in the summer when we cut back on the rain and turn up the heat. That surely slows the growth and saves them a lot of work.

St. Francis: You are not going to believe this Lord. When the grass stops growing so fast, they drag out hoses and pay more money to water it so they can continue to mow it and pay to get rid of it.

God: What nonsense. At least they kept some of the trees in Ireland. That was a sheer stroke of genius, if I do say so myself. The trees grow leaves in the spring to provide beauty and shade in the summer. In the autumn they fall to the ground and form a natural blanket to keep moisture in the soil and protect the trees and bushes. Plus, as they rot, the leaves form compost to enhance the soil. It’s a natural circle of life.

St. Francis: You better sit down, Lord. The Suburbanites have drawn a new circle. As soon as the leaves fall, they rake them into great piles and pay to have them hauled away.

God: No. What do they do to protect the shrub and tree roots in the winter and to keep the soil moist and loose?

St. Francis: After throwing away the leaves, they go out and buy something which they call mulch. The haul it home and spread it around in place of the leaves.

God: And where do they get this mulch?

St. Francis: They cut down trees and grind them up to make the mulch.

God: Enough. I don't want to think about this anymore. Sister Catherine, you're in charge of the arts. What movie have you scheduled for us tonight?

Sister Catherine: “Dumb and Dumber”, Lord. It's a real stupid movie about.....

God: Never mind, I think I just heard the whole story from St. Francis.

FUNGI

“Hurry-up Ian.” Ruth is urging me outside. “Don’t forget the carrier bag.” I am putting my wellies on as quickly as I can. Ruth is very spontaneous and can get a bit impatient when she gets a notion. She is visiting us for a few days and has recently been on a “Fungi Spotting” course. So we have planned a forage in the local woods to provide some tasty treats for dinner. I follow her outside and into the crisp autumnal day. It is dry and sunny- perfect conditions for mushroom picking. As we walk down the muddy path into the woods, a rich earthy smell greets us. The decomposing leaves underfoot are shades of yellows and brown and there is a beauty in the decaying year.

“So how do you know which ones to eat?” I ask her as I attempt to keep up.

“I don’t know them all,” she replies, “but this guy took us out every Sunday morning for a month and we had great fun gathering the mushrooms and frying them up for lunch.”

She stops and kneels down by a clump of trees. “These ones are tasty,” she hands me a white, fluffy puffball for the bag.”

“Where is the best place to find wild fungi?” I ask carefully placing the small white ball into the bag.

“There are a lot of edible types growing near beech trees and pine trees”. Ruth answers. “Most natural woodland has a good selection of fungi if you know where to look.”

“What mushrooms will we find round here?”

“Let us see what we find. Don’t worry” she says as she looks at my face. Visions of being rushed to Letterkenny with an acute case of poisoning must be showing on my face. “I will only pick the ones I know.”

We tramp on through glade. “Which ones taste good?” I ask her. “Well, “ she replies “I love the taste of the hedgehog fungus, they have white spikes sticking out of the base. Then there are Chantelles, which are funnel shaped and orange. They have a lovely hot taste. Here’s another one that is quite common”. Ruth picks up a tiny brown mushroom “This one is an amethyst deceiver, it is delicious fried up on its own and eaten with wholewheat bread and a slice of wild smoked salmon.” We add a couple to the bag. “There are other ones like the horn of plenty, but unlike the name, you don’t see them very often, it’s a treat when you do”.

“Ooh” Ruth stops abruptly, and pounces on another treasure. She hands me a white mushroom that looks like one of Mr Spock’s ears. “That’s an oyster mushroom, it’s delicious fried up.” In the bag it goes.


Ruth pulls a pair of blue surgical gloves out of her pocket; I am a bit concerned “What are they for?

“I always carry these around when I’m picking fungi. There was a woman in Rathmullan who picked some hallucinogenic mushrooms by mistake and ended up in a right state, not because she ate them but because the chemicals were absorbed through the skin on her fingers. You can never be too careful, especially if you have children with you, they should wear gloves too”.

We are heading back up to the house ready to start cooking tea. “Do you think more people will turn to the woodlands to feed themselves with the credit crunch going on”.

“I don’t know” Ruth replies, “Hand picking mushroom has always been popular for people with an interest”. Their distinctive flavours are heightened by the thrill of collecting them…. and they are free. The current trend for foraging is not a threat to the future of fungi. But trampling and the picking of rare species is. The increasingly lucrative nature of fungi, sought after by top restaurants which pay up to €120 a kilo, increases the pressure. In China, there are more than 10 million people working in the fungi industry. Shiitake and oyster mushrooms, two of their major crops, have become relatively common in the UK and Irish supermarkets and delicatessens…”

We walk in through the back door, take off our boots and spill the contents of the bag onto the kitchen table. There are some good, bad and very ugly ones to choose from. “ Here are chanterelles, boletes, wood hedgehogs, puffballs and the beautiful amethyst deceivers” Ruth points out the ones she knows. “I think these are boletus “I’ll get my book, it’s sometimes as important to know what not to eat as well as what to eat” Ruth had a reference book for identyfying edible species. “I wouldn’t be without this book”. She says showing me the compact, fit in the pocket edition of the Collins Mushrooms and Toadstools of Britain and Europe book. “Even experts get it wrong sometimes and I don’t want to be giving you a dicky tummy.”

“Is it worth the risk?” I ask as I get the frying pan out.

Ruth gets on a favourite soap box and starts a diatribe of the endemic health and safety culture. “Don’t get me started, ” she starts. “There are risks in all walks of life but if we practice personal resposibility and take the rnecessary precautions, we’ll be fine. The current health and safety stuff makes me so mad, Do you know that traditional Christmas puddings are to go on sale with sixpence coins attached separately because they are a choking hazard. Children at a primary school have been banned from making daisy chains in case they pick up germs from the flowers. Handstands, tag, conkers, yo-yos and even skipping and running have been banned in schools in England. A district council felled a line of conker trees to stop youngsters injuring themselves. A union-produced guide advised work managers not to put up any mistletoe in case it encouraged sexual harassment at office parties. Oh and don’t have balloons at the party in case it sets off a latex allergy….”.

“Yes Ruth, shall I get the salt and pepper?”

Ruth’s tips for delicious wild mushrooms

Cut them from the base, don’t pull them up as they wont re-grow.
Don’t peel them. The nutrition is in the skin.
Don’t wash them. They absorb water.
Add them to any dish or fry them up on their own. If you are new to the taste try making chicken volevonts.
Never pick or taste anything that you are not 100% sure of.




Photo: Fresh puffballs are delicious fried up. As they get older like these, their innards turn to powder.