Vermicomposting 2

Having come across more earthworms than New Zealand flatworms recently, I thought I might risk trying to make my own vermicompost. Kits are produced by a firm in Co Down. They are not cheap, but what Clive Edwards and Norman Arancon have to say about the product in Earthworm Ecology makes me willing to invest.

The kilogram of tiger worms, fed on kitchen waste supplemented by material from the garden, should provide me with a substance similar to peat with ‘excellent structure, porosity, aeration, drainage and moisture-holding capacity.’ It should contain adequate nutrients in a form readily taken up by plants.

Evidence has been accumulating that vermicomposts contain magic ingredients not found in commercial growth media with equal nutrient composition. These are plant hormones and plant-growth regulating substances, probably produced by the bacteria, fungi and other microbes whose activity earthworms increase, and probably stabilised by their combination with humic acids in which vermicomposts are rich. Hence most plants growing in them germinate faster, grow faster and produce better yields.

As if this were not amazing enough, it has been shown that vermicomposts, because of the diversity and activity of the microbes living in them, prevent a range of fungal diseases in a range of plants. Even more mysteriously, several researchers found they conferred protection against insect pests, including aphids and caterpillars. Other researchers reported decreases in plant-parasitic nematodes in their presence.

If this sounds too good to be true, evolution has been around a lot longer than man-made chemicals.

Vermicomposting 1

Recently I received an appeal from a charity set up by a fairtrade company. They planned to raise money for Indian women intent on setting up businesses to sell compost to farmers producing cotton organically.

By chance, just before receiving this appeal, I had been reading a chapter in Earthworm Ecology, written by Radha D. Kale of the University of Agricultural Sciences in Bangalore. It was about vermicomposting in Asia. Vermicomposting is the process of adding a suitable species of epigeic worm (epigeic worms are found in, or just below the litter layer) to organic matter. Kale believes, ‘the whole human race will benefit if vermicomposting technology is accepted and adopted.’

The Green Revolution came to India in 1961, staving off famine with its high-yielding varieties of wheat and rice, but the ever increasing amounts of chemical fertilizers and pesticides required to maintain crop yields left a legacy of degraded soil. In 1984 a vermicomposting technology was made available by the University of Bangalore but few farmers were interested because at that time fertilizers were heavily subsidised. By 1990 farming using chemical fertilizers and pesticides had become uneconomical and the advantages of vermicomposts, produced at minimum expense, were becoming apparent. By 2000 the technology had spread throughout India and into Bangladesh and Sri Lanka. It is included in the curriculum of Indian secondary schools, has spawned a cottage industry and has proved invaluable for the removal of organic waste generated in residential areas of cities. The Khadi Village Industries Commission supports farmers financially to establish vermicomposting centres in villages.

Regarding the appeal, I don’t have the wisdom to decide which is better: to send money to the charity, or to let Indians continue to do without interference what they appear to be doing so well. Perhaps, in their concern for future generations, they have something to teach us.

Himalayan balsam

Sunday’s walk to the river where she engaged in doggy water sports was the highlight of Zoey’s week. It was during one of these walks, probably in the late eighties, that I first spotted Himalayan balsam. The flowers, shaped like policemen’s helmets and ranging in colour from pale lilac to dark violet, dangled from slender peduncles and swayed in the breeze. As autumn progressed I watched their fertilized ovaries turn into five-ribbed green flasks. These became fatter until a point was reached when the slightest touch caused them to burst open along lines of weakness between the ridges. The five sections separated, each coiling like a tight green snail shell, and ten black seeds were catapulted out. To me this was a rare, interesting and exotic plant. I wanted to bring it back to surprise others, but once it lost connection with its water supply, it quickly wilted and the seed capsules lost their potency.

Zoey died, and, without the gentle, intelligent animal, there was no reason to walk among thistles along that straight, narrow stretch of silent, brown water. Himalayan balsam was spreading and became included in lists of alien, invasive species.

Last week, taking advantage of warm September sunshine after a summer of grey clouds and rain, John and I brought cameras to the river. The grass along the bank had been trampled and mined with pats by a herd of cows that had recently grazed there. The place had been transformed. A silver sally had grown on one side of the bridge. Its leaves glinted in the sun. Further along the bank two exotic trees, one with glossy dark green, the other with lighter palmate leaves, intertwined at the water’s edge. Himalayan balsam was present, but not abundant. It clung in small clumps to the vertical river side of the bank, but grew more vigorously around a drain that emptied into the river.

Yesterday we took the canal walk from Toome down to Lough Neagh, looking out for Himalayan balsam. Along the canal and on the shores of the lake we could see none, but there were clumps in swampy ground. The flowers produce copious nectar and John photographed a bee visiting one.