Ace of Spades

IT never fails to amaze me just how versatile and transferable the skills of a gardener are and how often they come into play in the most unusual of situations. This week they came into play at a sad time for the Press family. It was the funeral of my father's eldest brother, my uncle, who lived near Bristol.

My father comes from Irish Catholic stock, so it was a large gathering.

We all travelled from our various points in the country and descended first on Tesco's car park (easy to find), and then made our way to the town's Italian bistro. It was a sunny day and the bistro had the biggest beer garden in town. Sadness was momentarily forgotten as sunlight danced through the leafy canopy above us and the cherry petals fell like confetti in our hair, our coffees and our thoughts.

Press gang gathered, it was time to make our way down the street to the church. Unfortunately, as we are all tall with wide shoulders, were all smartly dressed in black and striding out of an Italian restaurant, we seemed to recreate something resembling a Godfather scene.

Uncle Terry was a well known man.

He was mayor of the town for several years, a local political candidate and a time served RAF man. He even undertook a secret MI6 mission, but we only found out about that after his death. He seemed popular, and that was reflected in the packed church.

The service was interrupted only by the gleeful squeakings of a family of swallows nesting in the church roof, reminding us that even though we were mourning death, new life is not far away.

It was at the cemetery though that things took a turn for the different. It wasnft the Tornado fly-past by the 13th Air Squadron, but the Jamaican and Irish tradition that involves the family filling in the grave instead of just leaving a gaping space for the grave diggers to attend to. The shiny shovels were lined up on the mound of soil. No one really wanted to start the process, as at first thought it seemed just a little strange, but soon, all the young fit men were taking it in turns to throw a few spadefuls of crumbly earth into the six foot deep hole.

I held back, not knowing if it was fitting for women to join in, but soon, my brother handed me his spade. I strode forward and thrust metal into red earth.

Oddly, there was something satisfying, comforting and closing in the action. I filled spade after spade and could slowly see the grave filling up. The challenge was on and the spade slipped easily into the large pile of soil. A tap on my shoulder reminded me that other people wanted to take part. I reluctantly handed over the shovel, and was pleased to see that one of my younger female cousins wanted to have a go. I had shown that it wasnft only the men that could help in sending off a family member. I was told afterwards that everyone was actually waiting for me to show them how to do it properly, being the gardener and all.

In the end, I think that just about every able-bodied person standing around the grave had a hand in filling it in. It took at least 45 minutes, but there was something cathartic in the heat and sweat that built up in shovelling the soil.

Uncle Terry was put to bed.

The horticultural experience didnft end there though. My brother had blindly booked us into a nearby hotel for the night, as the drive back was fairly lengthy. It tuned out to be a resurrected mansion lying in the grounds of an extensive arboretum.

Next morning, my mother and I spent an hour or so exploring the wonderful array of unusual trees. We skipped between Chinese limes, Persian ironwoods, dove trees, nutmegs and hickories. The Caucasian elm had us foxed. You know what it's like in an arboretum. You approach a tree and try and guess what it is before you get to the name tag. We simply couldn't pinpoint the large tree that had soft, oak-shaped leaves, but that suckered so much that it made its own protective hedge.

We had never seen the mockernut before either. This is a Canadian tree that has hairy but fragrant leaves that change to a deep buttery gold in autumn.

The name comes from the fact that the nut is formed large and round, but with no edible centre. It is a member of the walnut family.

By chance we had found ourselves in the middle of a very rare collection of trees. We wondered how many visitors to the hotel had even bothered to wander from the car park to investigate the nearest tree. Being a business-biased stopover, we guessed very few.

The death of a very dear uncle had been a sad family affair, but it had brought about new horticultural discoveries and awakened our eyes to alternative ways of saying goodbye.

Jobs this week

Give spent daffodil, snowdrop, tulip and hyacinth bulbs a good watering with a liquid fertiliser. And remember to let the leaves die down naturally before cutting them down. The feed will help boost the bulb growth, ready to burst back into to life next winter/spring.

Dead head camellias as the flowers fade. If some of the petals have turned brown, remove them too. Be careful not to damage any new growth just below the flowers though. Give the plants a good water with an added ericaceous feed.

Open greenhouse vents on warm sunny days, but remember to close them again at the end of the day, as there is still a remote risk of plunging temperatures at night.

Brigid presents Ask About Gardening every Sunday on BBC Radio Cleveland 95FM from 1-2pm.

Questions will be answered on the day by emailing brigidpress@bbc.co.uk anytime during the week, and texting 07786-200995 or phoning 01642- 225511 during the show.