The cruellest month
[Yes, I know the cruellest month is April, but this particular January would give any other a run for its money I reckon.]
Monday 25th January. The last week of January. Can you even remember Christmas? I can't. And New Year's day feels like a decade ago. I do the only thing I can do to cheer myself in the darkest days; I buy fifteen new varieties of sweet peas to trial this summer. You can tell I was in need of a lift when I chose them because amongst the usual mutedly tasteful ones you might expect me to go for, I include the rather startlingly salmon Watermelon.
Wednesday 27th January. I spend the day writing. The first chapters of a course about how to plan, plant and grow a cutting garden that brings joy. India and I record a video about whether you absolutely need a polytunnel, what happens to a greenhouse in July, and why men don't seem to like bearded irises at all. I find writing addictive although I do wonder about people who have been doing it forever. How does Carol Klein find something new to say about softwood cuttings every time she is commissioned to write an article? This is not a seasonal photo, but India inspired me so much with all the talk of irises that I cannot resist including it. It was taken on the 9 May 2020 which, by my reckoning means that there are only 98 days until these beauties are out again.
Thursday 28th January. The grey sky finally bursts and we walk in the drizzle. The sounds are deadened by the rain and there is a peaceful silence. On a clear day, you can hear the racecourse commentary from the back field. Now it is traffic; Taunton racecourse is doing its bit as a vaccination centre. I am grateful that the chill is gone from the air and it is warmer. I lean on the bridge over the goyle and look at where the wild garlic is going to be and spy the green shoots. A false hope as it happens, for I know that there are lords and ladies in there too and they will emerge first. But hope nevertheless.
Friday 29th January. Did you see the moon? I would have missed it except for going out to the studio to record another interview with a flower world celebrity on a Friday night. The moon hung huge, low in the east, touching the top of the quince tree in the mill's garden. It was the colour of gold and, in that perfect moment, I was so grateful that I had been there to see it.
Saturday 30th January. Not drizzle now but rain. The flower field and the orchard drain well but the field at the end of the lane is sodden and we trudge through puddles up to our ankles. Hugo turns black within five minutes and light relief is provided only by Morag finding a golf ball. She is usually a very steady soul and watching her play like a puppy lifts the spirits. She carries it all the way home and puts it very carefully on the top of a pot of tulips.
Sunday 31st January. As above. Only with sleet. February can only be better. I light the fire and dream of roses and hammocks and the wood oven and dry dogs. My episode of the new and wonderful podcast Leaven is out today. I find listening to myself talk excruciatingly uncomfortable so if you tune in, let me know how I was.
