Thank goodness! The garden has FINALLY dried out. I was beginning to feel horribly overwhelmed by the mud, the wet and the rampant overgrowth. There’s nothing garden greenery likes better than warm, damp conditions, safe in the knowledge the gardener with her armoury of tools can do nothing about using them in such boggy conditions. It was taking on Sleeping Beauty’s castle proportions out there, you know, after everyone’s fallen asleep for a hundred years, including the gardeners. I needed a fairy godmother in the shape of a few dry days and a spot of sunshine.
What if it’s going to be like this every year from henceforth, I thought. How am I going to cope with a third of an acre of garden-determined-to-be-undergrowth every year? I’m not getting any younger, I thought. I caught myself perusing retirement flat complexes for the over 55s with communal gardens overseen by grounds staff, with neat little window boxes just big enough for a couple of Busy Lizzie’s and a pot of basil. Ah, look at those, I thought. No more wrangling a massive lawn mower into awkward corners, no more attacks from hawthorn hedges or Wild Eldric the Rose Border. No more cursing nettles and docks and brambles…
…no more sitting under the lilacs with a cup of tea, breathing in their glorious heady scent. No more tiddling around in the greenhouse transplanting seedlings and rescuing confused bumblebees and thinking how nice it is to have a warm greenhouse on a bit of a chilly day. No more gathering herbs to add to the cooking, nor sitting under the grapevine in late Summer nibbling her produce. Or watching the swallows darting in and out of the laundry, or admiring the wisteria…
Oh, come on! Get a grip! Retirement flats for the over 55s??? What on Earth are you thinking? You’re 58, not 78. I have some insane thoughts sometimes. This garden is my responsibility. It keeps me fit and healthy in mind, body and spirit. It is a joy and a haven and I’m NEVER giving it up, not until I am dead, and even then I’ll be buried here if I can get away with it.
Much progress has been made in the garden over the last two or three weeks. I’ve been like the Lara Croft of Horticulture and I think I can say, with a modicum of caution, that all is back on track. There’s a variety of flower and herb seedlings popping up in the greenhouse. Encroaching undergrowth has been given its marching orders. I’ve weeded, dug, pruned, swept, tidied and rearranged. I walked around and made a list of everything I want to do in the garden from regular maintenance jobs to new projects and cunning schemes. If Alan Titchmarsh turned up, I would not be ashamed to show him around.
What got me started on the Great Garden Wrangle of 2024 was the creation of this:
I’ve called it the Floramorium, in honour of my beloved Flora Bijou Mybug, who is buried here. She’s been gone three years now, and I still miss her. She’s on the left, under the stone cat ornament, and Sidney the Rabbit is buried up the other end. The problem was that revolting dog Nell could sense something was under the paving slab we put on top of Sidney’s burial hole and it was something she was intent on exploring in a ‘try and dig it up’ kind of way. Therefore, I spent a morning cutting back undergrowth and digging up weeds, then lugging various enormous stones from the middle garden to the orchard and arranging them around a large piece of cardboard. I then covered the space with a thick layer of plum coloured slate and voila! A dog-proof memorial tucked away in the corner of the orchard, such as all good stately homes have. I shall find a stone bunny ornament for Sidney, and put some pots of flowers in the middle. Once I’d made this, I felt (oddly) empowered to crack on with the rest of the garden.
What else? The swallows have returned! Five of them descended on 20th April (a week earlier than last year) and did aerial battle for ownership of the laundry nest. It was quickly decided and a pair have settled in, making repairs to the nest and generally getting comfy. They have a pair of wagtail neighbours nesting opposite in the wisteria. Wagtails are cocky little birds and they are driving Nell berserk with their blatant teasing. I can see into their nest from the landing window - it looks very fluffy and cosy.
I am learning Italian. It’s going well so far. I am using DuoLingo and a couple of textbooks because DuoLingo can be somewhat trying sometimes with its American-style over-cheerfulness and ‘good job!’ enthusiasm when you remember to match gender to verb. Why other European languages can’t stick to one version of ‘the’ and ‘a’as definite articles like us English do baffles me. Anyway, the textbooks offer less frantic learning opportunities using a good old-fashioned notebook and pen.
On the reading front, I’m currently working my way through a load of non-fiction stuff to do with archaeology and history. What I am learning is that human beings are, and have always been, generally vile and that nothing will ever change so best just to crack on doing your own thing in life and ignore the shit-stirrers and drama queens. On the writing front, I’ve got a big writing project on the go.
Today, here on the Three Counties Border in the West Midlands of England, it is warm, dry and sunny. I’ve already done a couple of hours work in the garden (I’m on a mission to eradicate ALL nettles) and, once I’ve posted this, I’m back out there for another couple of hours before lunch and my Italian lesson. I’ve got my eye on a VW camper van on EBay, so I might have a look at that and dream about how nice it would be to own it for pootling around Britain on mini-adventures…
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KJ