Full moon and decision-making
Monday 22 March
Much of my headspace is taken up with finding the point of balance. Flowers and vegetables. Borders and beds. Rows or tapestries. It feels like a reflection of the times; is beauty more or less important when our survival is threatened at every turn? I pore over pictures of Charles Dowding’s plot at Homeacres and the perfect glasshouses at Fern Verrow and dream of romance and the sensuality of tumbling roses on hazel domes. But, on Aaron Bertelsen’s recommendation, I have sown a hundred ‘Crimson crush’ tomatoes (blight resistant and thrive outdoors) and I will need somewhere to put them. I have rows of emerging beans for planting out to grow and harvest and dry and use for stews over the winter. What use is aesthetics if one’s tummy is empty? I don’t have answers to this, although I may inadvertently end up with everything crammed in together. A true cottage garden for my seventeenth century thatched cottage.
Which all just goes to prove that there is absolutely nothing new under the sun.
Tuesday 23 March
A flower day until 1800 and then a leaf day. Chard. Phlox. I put some dahlia tubers put into big pots and put on heat so I can take cuttings. And then I remember that I haven’t got enough room for the dahlias that I have already in the ground. Many of them have survived the cold winter in the ground which I wasn’t expecting. Abundance.
Wednesday 24 March
On the subject of dahlias, they don’t always come up the colour you expect. I have a number of yellow ones which I know I would never have ordered in a million years (although these turned out to be the best for dyeing by a country mile, so maybe it was fate) and this week the big tank in the courtyard has been producing purple muscari. I had convinced myself that this was some terrible mistake when ordering but apparently I did indeed order a variety called 'purple ice'. After a few days, I realise I really like them. Or maybe I am just very very good at making the best of any situation.
Thursday 25 March
Hugo’s birthday. He is eight. Traditionally, each of the dogs gets a pork pie with a birthday candle in it but last year, he got really sick and we had to navigate attending the vets in the hardest of lockdowns and I can’t quite bring myself to risk it again this year. We can’t even sing happy birthday to him because this sends the entire pack crazy with pastry lust. Even with only three birthdays a year, they know that that song is the theme tune to pork pie pleasure. (I have not included a birthday photograph of Hugo; he and I are suffering the most with this lack of access to hairdressers and we are both looking distinctly tatty.)
Friday 26 March
Blue sky. Hail. Blue sky. Were you expecting this? I wasn't.
Saturday 27 March
A walk around the orchard. There are stone fruits and pip fruits, even an autumn flowering tree which is still very much holding its own. The trees were chosen for their harvested fruit, but the staggered blossom is as much of a pleasure in their grey days. The plum was first and possibly the most perfect. The Victoria plum tree is not substantial, but it is absolutely smothered. The sloe is taking over now in its characteristically hazy, cloud-like way. The pear has burst into bloom in the last day or two. There is a hint on the apple espaliers. The cherries are covered in buds. The quince has silvery, soft, downy leaves in little swirls. Also, much weeding.
Sunday 28 March
Full moon. Light in the darkness, although softened by clouds tonight as if its brightness might be too much for us, overwhelmed as we are. Losing an hour of sleep seems a bit much, on top of it all.
I hope that, wherever you are, you are safe, as well as can be expected, and holding on to some form of peace and nurturance.
G x