Waging war with the women who weed in search of lovely lettuce
IHAVE taken to patrolling the rolling acres around Medders Manor with a match-box in my pocket. My eyes are peeled for ladybirds, which I coax into this handy cardboard container for later release into our polytunnel. You see, we have an infestation. What a wonderfully sinister word, infestation. It smacks of biblical, apocalyptic doom. It reeks of some malign force of pitiless nature visited upon a hapless population. It speaks of famine and disaster. The reality is slightly less dramatic. Rather than a plague of all devouring locusts, we have an infestation of greenfly.
The problem came to general attention as we geared up to receive a state visit from Her Majesty, the mother-in-law. Hermione took inspirational control of preparations to receive the great lady, running her broom over all floors and dispatching family members on errands.
Eldrick, on your bike and off to buy a block of HM’s favourite vanilla ice-cream. Now would be good! Persephone, chop chives, peel potatoes, bake brownies and please stop SnapChatting for at least 20 minutes. Medders, run out to the tunnel and fetch a lettuce. So I trotted off and returned proudly with the pick of the crop, a sturdy big green head of the best lettuce, the very finest of home grown produce. Dearest, loveliest, eagle-eyed Hermione took a brief look at this strapping specimen and declared: ‘She won’t eat that.’
She won’t eat that? HM will devour our best steak and drain us of all sherry, but she won’t eat our lettuce? What on earth is wrong with the lettuce?
‘Greenfly,’ replied Hermione in the manner of one explaining something to a very small child. She pointed to a constellation of tiny spots on one leaf of the lettuce. As greenfly go, these lads were very well disguised, not so much green as white and clearly in no mood to fly anywhere. They were parked on the lettuce in large number. Very large number. On closer examination, they made up not so much a constellation as an entire galaxy all intent on sucking the life out of our plant. Eldrick, get back on the bike and fetch us some lettuce. So it came about that Her Majesty was obliged to eat shop bought salad. She looked at it suspiciously as it sat on her side plate, diplomatically passing no remark and dousing the dubious greenery in French dressing.
Since then, great minds have been called upon to consider how the infestation of aphids may be tackled.
In matters of fashion, Hermione calls upon the brains trust which is comprised of the ladies who lunch. However, when it comes to growing vegetables or cultivating flowers, contact must be made with the women who weed. They offer a repository of biological and horticultural know-how unmatched this side of the Botanical Gardens in Glasnevin.
One of them also must also have the makings of a chemical warfare consultant to the government of North Korea. Hermione decided it would be best if she did not reveal the name of the person who supplied her with a jar of bluey/purple granules which bore no label. I did wonder whether these granules would pass scrutiny by UN inspectors charged with tracking down weapons of mass destruction but realised that asking questions about their provenance would be a waste of time.
They dissolved easily in luke-warm water before being sprayed liberally around the affected parts. I took the precaution of not breathing while spraying and almost fainted thanks to the combination of oxygen deprivation and the high temperatures which prevail in the polytunnel during summer.
Other, more benign means of eliminating the pesky infesters are also being explored. The simplest remedy involves washing the greenfly and their eggs off the leaves with soapy water.
As greenfly have no interest in tomato plants, we have soaked tomato leaves and used the infused water as a spray to throw the invaders off the scent. And, as previously mentioned, the local ladybird population is being invited to lend a hand and migrate into the tunnel to feast on the unwanted insects. Fingers crossed.