Two Mirabelle Trees and a Man with Shovel Withdrawal

I’ve previously written about the mirabelle plums that Marie helped me identify. They may be small, but they’re incredibly delicious and have a subtle citrus note that ordinary plums simply don’t have. The marmalade turned out wonderfully. The only problem was that a mere three litres of fruit didn’t quite satisfy my ambitions.

The trees stand in the last section of our overgrown hedge. Or perhaps “hedge” isn’t quite the right word. Along the driveway it’s made up of wych elm and actually looks like a proper hedge should. The last stretch closest to the house, however, is more of a thicket where someone once seems to have had a plan before leaving nature to improvise the rest. Elm, maple, privet, lilac, bird cherry, serviceberry, elder and a few other things have gradually grown into one enormous tangle. Right in the middle stands a gigantic half-rotten tree stump that I still have about a thousand ideas for. That’s where the mirabelle trees are, squeezed between elms and maples in almost complete shade. In spring you could just make out a narrow strip of white blossoms in the hedge. It later turned out that only one branch had managed to make its way out. The rest of the trees remained hidden inside and seemed to have accepted their fate.

It therefore seemed perfectly reasonable to give the mirabelles a better chance. I thought the larger loppers and the brush cutter would probably be enough. Pär, who had been starved of digging projects ever since we moved here and was suffering from severe shovel withdrawal, saw the situation very differently. Before I’d even had time to think it through, my phone started pinging. First stump. Second stump. Third stump. After that, I stopped counting.

There he stood in 27°C heat, surrounded by thrips and an ever-growing mountain of roots. I considered helping for a moment, but he looked far too pleased for me to want to ruin it. So I went off and did what I do best – started yet another project.

While Pär kept himself entertained and seemed perfectly happy, I took the opportunity to take cuttings from shrubs around the property. Not from the ones we had dug up, but from plants that are already thriving here and that I’d happily have more of. From what I’ve read, this year’s growth gives the best results, so I cut 10–15 cm (4–6 inch) long cuttings, removed most of the leaves, split the largest ones and planted them in pots to root. Now all that’s really left is watering them twice a day and hoping they’re just as committed to the project as I am.

Marie also gave me an excellent tip. If you’ve found a bargain plant but haven’t yet decided where it’s going to live, it can stay in a raised bed for the time being. I thanked her for that piece of information and still hope Pär hasn’t quite realised what it means now that I’ve started talking about having a “plant nursery”. I have a feeling this opens up entirely new opportunities to buy plants without having to worry about such insignificant details as where they’re actually going to be planted.

After a couple of days’ work, the area closest to the house definitely no longer looks like a hedge. At the moment it mostly resembles a clear-cut with a few scraggly sticks left standing. I’ll admit it takes considerably more imagination than gardening knowledge to picture the finished result right now. At the same time, I know it was the right decision. The mirabelles finally have some sunlight, the privet hedge has reappeared and, for the first time, it’s actually possible to see what has been growing in there.

In my mind it’s already a small grove with fruit trees, flowering shrubs and carpets of spring bulbs that give way to ground covers once the flowers have faded. The old stump has a small pond around it, and the mirabelle trees are producing far more than three litres of fruit. Reality simply hasn’t caught up yet.

The only thing I’m actually a little worried about is the wonderful carpet of Siberian squill that greeted us this spring, followed by the daffodils. I hope they survived Pär’s enthusiastic digging. I suppose we’ll find out next spring whether the vision begins with flowers… or simply a lot of bare soil.