Monday 29 March

A day of blessings. I wander in the field. I am torn between seeing the work and the weeds, and seeing the miracles and the marvels. Asparagus. The first absolutely perfect spear of asparagus. The moon is so big and rises early. We walk the pig walk although the pigs have gone, and have been replaced by tiny lambs. 

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​Tuesday 30 March

The orchard's second mow. Carefully around the narcissi and the snakehead fritillaries which cluster around the base of the trees. They don't know that I have my eyes on that space because permaculture principles says that the ground at the base of trees is precious. Not only that, but each blade of grass is scooped up and laid in the big compost bays. The heat that they give off kick starts the magical decomposition that makes the black gold that is compost.

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​Wednesday 31 March

The sun is shining. The sky is oh so blue. I get my hands in the soil and I weed. I hoe and I pull. The difference between gardening and farming is more than scale; it is in the intimacy of the act. I touch and I nurture every inch of this ground. I know it and it knows me. I know the hard ground where we ran out of compost three years ago and it missed its deep mulching. Where the turf was lifted and the field bindweed still persists. The patch where the ammi has self-sown in a perfect line. The raspberry that is making a bid for freedom by sending runners into the neighbouring pasture. On a day like today, with the warmth of hope on my face, a spaniel asleep in the hammock, and the setters rolling on the daffodils, it is paradise.

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​Thursday 1 April

A neighbour for coffee in the field. As I wait, I idly manage the espaliers. Moving a tie on a wayward limb. Loosening those where the branches have matured and swollen. And then I see it. Mistletoe. There is mistletoe on four of the eight tree. The lime trees at the front have been thick with it for as long as I can remember, but the electricity people declared war on it last winter because the weight it adds to the ancient branches causes them to fall and snap the wires. I have a moment of profound gratitude on seeing it. More than that maybe, a sense that the place where intentional gardening and natural growth has softened and blurred. I feel accepted and enriched somehow. You can't make mistletoe grow on your trees. You can't choose it, it chooses you.

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Friday 2 April

Good Friday. I spend the day with nettles. I have mentioned before that my ground is fertile and it throws up nettles with ease and enthusiasm. Half are lovingly layered into the compost heap. Half are put into a tub for making fermented plant juice with molasses. I can still feel the tingle and the sting on my hands and arms as we light the fire for pizzas. Wood fired ovens need bringing into life gently at the beginning of the season. You cannot leave them for six cold, damp months and expect them to leap into action and cater for a party without warning. Lots of little warm up fires over some weeks is required to get them into great shape. We will be eating a lot of pizza this spring.

Saturday 3 April

A harvest of daffodils for the kitchen table. I pull the tulips that have been overwintered in the glasshouse and put them in the tallest jug I can find. I chose each variety carefully for a sophisticated palette, but they all appear to be an identical shade of Queen of Night purple. I count my blessings that they are not a cheerful pink or other such awfulness. Hugo hogs the hammock and I lie under the cherry tree instead. The number of bees, wasps and hoverflies swarming around the blossom is mesmerising. Life appears to be emerging and moving more freely. The buzzards that usually swoop and stack over the wooded hillside opposite venture over the field. I wonder if there is any chance that they could catch the mouse that ate all my beetroot. (I have managed to solve this problem by putting the heat mat somewhere inaccessible, but this is an uneasy truce. I thoughtlessly put a germinated tray of creme brûlée phlox on the lower staging and lost at least half, their growing tips having been nipped off.)

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​Sunday 4 April

I grow tulips in the crates over the winter, and then pull them out in time to plant up tomatoes. I find the grow bags that are sold in garden centres so utterly unsatisfactory. (If you are not following #peatfreeapril, then please do.) Tulips hold most of what they need in the bulb so I recycled some old compost from last year's tomatoes when I planted them up. Imagine my delight when I pulled out the tulips and found a generous crop of tomato seedlings germinating underneath. I have no idea what variety they are, but all the ones I grew last year were lovely, so I don't suppose it matters. I have potted them up into a much richer and fresher compost and they are looking very fine indeed. if it wasn't for the nettles (please see above), I might attempt an entirely non-interventionalist form of gardening where I just let everything grow wherever it wanted to grow, and sow wherever it wanted to sow. 

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Wishing you a very happy Easter and I hope the sun is shining where you are. -3 is forecast for the middle of the coming week so be careful what you plant out. I'm off to make the most of the last of this glorious spell with a pizza...

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Much love

G x