I showed up at the community plot with a knife that looked confident and hands that did not. Paco-not-Paco handed me a lemon rootstock and said, very cheerful, “You’re up.” I considered hiding behind the rosemary and then remembered I am trying to stop doing that.
Early September. Warm but not savage. Bark still slipping if you tease it. I wiped the blade with an alcohol wipe because I have learned that “I cleaned it last time” is not the same as clean. The rootstock was pencil thick, green and alive under the skin. Good sign. I took one breath, then another, and made the T cut. Two centimetres down, one across. Bark lifted with a sticky little sound that felt like permission.
Budwood from a one-year lemon shoot. Smooth, green, not tired. I sliced a shield with the bud sitting proud, cambium thin as a whisper. Then I did the thing I knew not to do. I talked. The bud sat in my palm while I explained something to Clare. Edges went a bit dry. She cleared her throat. New cut. No speech. Bud slid under the lifted bark, eye pointing up like a periscope. Parafilm on, snug but not strangling. Label in pencil because pens lie when the sun gets involved.
Aftercare written there and then so I couldn’t reinvent it later: light shade if we get a hard afternoon, soil barely moist not wet, check in ten to fourteen days for callus, rub off anything that sprouts below the bud, cut the stock back above the bud in about a month if the bud stays plump. Simple words so I would actually follow them.
I wanted a second go before the nerves could rewrite the day, so we found a rose cane that wanted a job. Rootstock about the same thickness as the lemon, scion to match, last season wood. I trimmed thorns where they would catch my fingers because swearing at plants does not help. A long slanting cut on each piece, about three centimetres, clean and flat. Tongue cut on both, not deep, just enough to lock. The two halves slid together like they planned it. Cambium met on one side, which is enough. Tape on, edges sealed, label with date and my name. No mystery later.
What worked: slow hands, clean blade every single time, no touching cut faces with fingers, not letting the bud see the air for longer than it had to. What didn’t: the first bud that sat in my palm while I tried to be interesting, the wrap I pulled too tight before I stopped myself, the five extra thoughts I did not need.
Short notes if you want to try this in heat like ours. Pick a cool morning. Cut clean and long enough to give contact. Keep the shiny side of the bud alive by moving, not by talking. On citrus, the bark has to lift without a fight. On roses, match diameters and give the joint a stake so wind does not undo your good work. Wipe the blade between trees. Ten seconds now beats a sulk later.
Halfway through the session my head did the usual jangle. What if both fail. What if I’m just dressing cuts on plants I don’t deserve. I sat on the low wall behind the compost heap and watched a bee fall into a fennel haze and roll out again, dusty and busy, and it reset me. Not everything needs a full thought. Sometimes you just line up the layers and close your hands.
Back to the lemon. The bud looked right. Glossy, not wrinkled. Wrap still snug, not choking. I ran a finger along the stock to feel for any swell below the cut and rubbed off two cheeky shoots before they got serious. Clare walked past with an olive branch and gave me the single nod she gives when she is happy and doesn’t want to make a fuss. Paco-not-Paco said I should show the beginners next month because now I will remember the part where you go quiet at the right moment.
If you want a checklist, keep it small enough to fit on a plant label. For citrus T-bud: bark slipping, bud shield fresh, bud up, wrap gentle, label now. For rose whip and tongue: long matching cuts, tongues locked, one side of cambium aligned, tape and seal, stake the union. Aftercare for both: even moisture, soft shade if the afternoon bites, check at day seven for gaps, again at day fourteen for callus, take the tape off later if it bites. Future you will forget, so write a date.
Why do this at all. Because waiting for perfect stock and perfect timing is how I lose months. A graft is a small promise with a clear yes or no. It suits my head. If the lemon takes, it gets a big tub near the kitchen where the wind behaves. If the rose takes, it gets a second chance by the path instead of the compost. Either way I practiced putting living layers together and not talking when the bud is in my hand.
I went home and moved a hedge line on the Mijas plan by two metres. The corner that always looks brave in spring gets chewed by the afternoon wind in July, so it is time to stop pretending. Two metres is not much on paper. It felt like honesty. I slept well for once and dreamed of a fat lemon the size of a child’s fist sitting where a label says my name.