There’s nothing that gets gardeners quite so envious as the quality of each other’s compost. “Whoooaar, look at that!” they say, and they then think of their own miserable efforts. They might even rub it thoughtfully between finger and thumb, like an Edwardian Bradford millionaire testing a bit of shoddy. But so long as compost does its job, as often as not mixed into a planting hole, then any compost is fine. Better in than out.
When old books talk of planting holes, there’s always reference to “well-rotted organic matter”. Is it just me, or does this sound like some ghastly euphemism involving body-snatching or sewage? The organic matter that dare not speak its name. What they meant was good, honest manure. The muck that