So much news
Monday 11th May. Frost is forecast. Such cold snaps are unusual here once spring has sprung, and unheard of this late. Wary of trusting my judgement over the BBC weather app, I bring in anything tender. The greenhouse bench is thick with squash and cosmos and too many tomato plants. I sowed a lot of a variety called Christmas Grapes because the picture made them look tiny. Turns out the tomato fruits are tiny, but the plants are the normal six foot size and I have about fifty of them.
Tuesday 12th May. The quince tree is old enough to hang the hammock on, but in its six years it has only fruited properly once. Apparently it likes damp soil, so I water it religiously every day. Despite this, and its being full of blossom in April, I am not hopeful of the fruit harvest. The fuzzy little fruits behind the falling blossom seem patchy and brown, rather than the silvery, furry yellow swellings that I expect. They fall at the slightest touch when I inspect them. More research suggests that they do not like to be near apples, which is unfortunate as it is close to the line of apple espaliers that separates the orchard from the flower field. Or that it may be only partially self-fertile, and need another quince to set fruit properly. I am reluctant to explore this, as I have no idea what I would do with the crop from two abundant quinces if it were to work, so I determine to stop poking the fruit. More fruits seem to stay on after this, although I do not believe the issue to be fully resolved.
Wednesday 13th May. The morning feels warm, and there is no sign of frost on the ground. The air is golden in the early sunlight and I regret being so trusting in the pronouncements of meteorologists. It is only later in the day that I see that the dahlia leaves have been blackened and the runner beans crumpled. The cold must have come and gone in the night. The dahlias have overwintered in the new beds now surrounded with chestnut paling and I am sure they will recover quickly and grow on. More of an issue at this stage of their growth is slugs. There is a time when the slugs’ eating and the dahlias’ rate of growth is so finely balanced that nothing seems to be happening. As the soil starts to warm up, the dahlias put on a spurt and then nothing can stop them. Except deer, obviously.
Thursday 14th May. A cup of coffee in the paddock is now a habit after lunch. On brave days, I drink it in the hammock, but am so often joined by a spaniel that it is rarely safe to do this. There is a far-off hum of a chainsaw, or maybe a mower, and it takes me some minutes to notice that the greenhouse and asparagus bed are under a dark, circling cloud of bees. They seem intent on something and not interested in us, so we just watch them for a while. When I come back an hour later (I drink a lot of coffee), they have gone and the air is clear. The noise, however, remains. I follow the sound and find that they have settled on the fence post just outside the greenhouse door, in the middle of a lilac tree. They are on the south side of the fence in the back field, making the most of the afternoon’s warmth. I am offered a neighbour’s old hive, and helpful suggestions are made about cardboard boxes, and how to capture the swarm in a sheet. Discussions are had about where the hive might be placed and which of my flowers they might like and from whom I could get a suit. I do not know much about bee-keeping, but I know it is an endeavour fraught with the potential for heartbreak and difficulty and deadly bee diseases. After Monty Don’s loss of Nigel, I cannot bear such emotional jeopardy. After some tricky post-tapping and manoeuvring by more experienced bee handlers than me (expert advice was sought, I understand), they have found a new home.
Friday 15th May. Book release day. I love doing these newsletters so much that I have started writing as a psychologist, as well as a flower-grower and gardener. I could not and would not have had the confidence and the drive to do this if I hadn’t had such a wonderful response from you with this project. Every week, I get such beautiful, supportive, kind emails about how this account of my week brightens up your Sunday night and it made me think, maybe, just maybe, writing is something that is part of who I am. This is my craft too. If you are interested in taking a look, my first book is here. (The website is a very much a work in progress, please do not judge me.)
You can also come over and follow me on my new instagram account here. The flower studio/writing room is going to feature heavily, and there will be flowers.
We light the wood oven in the orchard to celebrate, and eat pizza and drink champagne. As dusk falls, we go inside and watch Gardeners’ World, and marvel at how people can film themselves, and whether camera crews are out of a job.
Saturday 16th May. I studded some peony plants in the meadow with the intention that they would flower in May and float elegantly and spectacularly about the rising wild flowers as they put on their spring growth. By the time the peonies were over, they would be overtaken by ribwort plantain, ox-eye daisies, and the tall, fine stems of the wild carrots. I had not anticipated the red campion which thuggishly turns everything pink (I hate pink) and is at least four foot tall now. It was only because I was passing this morning that I noticed the first Coral Charm peonies had come and gone.
Sunday 17th May. Those of you who have been following closely will realise that I am coming up to a year of these Sunday night journals. I say coming up to, because although this one is numbered 51, I think the first one was called ‘mid-June’ and was all about roses so one of us has lost count somewhere.
Much love,
G x
