A sloe hand: An easy touch
Monday 27th January. A day in Wales. A sad day. It is right that I feel the sadness; a psychologist without empathy is a frightening prospect, but there are times when it is hard. I arrive home to a huge bag of biodynamic compost, a fat pillow of a bag. It is soft to the touch. It feels full of life and yet so peaceful. It is a comfort.
Tuesday 28th January. Every day now, there is something new to see. The quince on the windowsill has blossoms so perfect they look unreal. The sloe, a white froth, starts to bubble and pop. It is vulnerable to poor weather and very quickly looks tatty so I am grateful for a few calm days. The mystery plum is sugar pink, although I forgive it because it is so elegant.
If you didn’t get the reference in the subject line, this should help.
Wednesday 29th January. A day of dreams coming true. TOAST. (It is written in capitals apparently, I’m not shouting, although I also sort of am.) It seems so surreal, and yet so utterly perfect. I will write more about this soon; it is still a bit fresh for reflection.
Thursday 30th January. The first tulip leaves are pushing up in the big pots in the courtyard. There is an espaliered pear with calamagrostis around the base, and some tweedia that may or may not flower again after a damp winter. Before planting the pear last winter I filled underneath it with my favourite tulips, a double white with streaks of green. I am glad to see them again. I check for growth on the double narcissi. They seem not to have liked the clay next to the studio and some have been lost over the winter. Even more dangerous than the clay is the voles. I use pots as much as I can and lay wire netting over the top. There is nothing more painful than seeing the devastation of spilt soil and empty holes. The loss of hope for a colourful Spring. I am vigilant.
Saturday 1st February. Sun. Blue skies. A full day in the field. I am a terrible flower farmer because I lack the capacity to be ruthless. I make some progress them come across a patch of the most perfect ravenswing seedlings, their first leaves a bruised purple, the colour of damsons. I love the way they mix with foxgloves and the first peonies, they remind me of Chelsea and style and glamour. I weed round them, even though I know they are in the middle of what is going to be the dyer’s garden. Some poppies have self sown underneath the amelanchier, so I weed round them too. I look at the nigella seedlings and think how well they are doing in their self-sown spots, right where I was going to put my grasses collection. There is a puddle of aquilegia in the asparagus bed. I cannot bring myself to move them. I leave the field and go into the house garden. I weed the oxalis out of the rose bed, underplanted as it is with bracken-orange pheasants tail grass. Not even I can feel sorry for oxalis.
Sunday 2nd February. Candlemas. Shaking awake the website. Coming alive. Such a tension between getting on and getting ahead of the season. I feel a bit overwhelmed by the tasks and decide to make the most difference with the least effort. The bit of the garden seen the most is the courtyard outside the kitchen window. I cover the trestle table with gritted pots of muscari, a trough of crocuses, even a pot of white parrot tulips. Not much is showing through yet, but even looking at the order make it feel like the season is where it should be. There is even a box of salad leaves kept in easy reach.
