Monday 8 March

There are white violets in the hedgerow under the bullace tree. I try to photograph them, but some things are too magical to be captured with a camera. There are other signs too; the girls take a dip in the stream, something they never do in the winter. A bowl of snakeshead fritillaria looks utterly glorious. (I cheated, I do have them planted in the orchard around the trees but they are weeks away yet. I bought some in pots.) There are double narcissi everywhere. I put a branch of plum blossom in the studio. I want to feel the rising joy of spring, but I don’t. I don’t know about you but I just feel exhausted and flat. Another psychologist said that this is everywhere right now; everyone is just depleted. The blackbird that sings in next door’s apple tree has never failed to lift my spirits before but this week, I can’t feel anything. 
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Tuesday 9 March

The hawthorn has broken leaf. The landscape is not green yet, but the woods that cloak the hill are not quite as resolutely brown as they were. The wild garlic and the willow say it is spring but the gales that sweep in today suggest that there are still some bitter days to come. I am not generally one for country sayings, but ‘cast ne’er a clout til May is out’ is one worth listening to. It means don’t pack away your winter clothes until the hawthorn blossom is fully out. Hawthorn blossom, unusually, comes after the leaves and although I can see buds, it certainly couldn’t be considered out. I sleep in a jumper and two pairs of socks and I can hear the howl of the wind coming through the crack in the casement. 

When I say sleep, I mean I lie awake worrying about the greenhouse.

Wednesday 10 March

The greenhouse is, mercifully, still there although next door's more flighty one has disappeared over the wall into the churchyard. The big seed sowing is still a week or so away and only the tomatoes and some stratified larkspur sit on the heat-mat. However, in the mornings, I just stand in it feeling the warmth in the still air. Waiting. We are all just waiting. 
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Thursday 11 March

Clearing the kitchen garden means a harvest of leeks. The Musselburghs have stood majestically over the winter and the last of those went a little while ago. A row of a very small variety, Nipper, which I grew as an experiment to see how long a packet of leek seed remains viable at the bottom of a tin box (a long time, it appears) has also weathered the winter and I dig them all up at once. They are not elegant, pencil thin, fine dining leeks by any means but they were never intended to be left in the ground for six months or more, and they make a substantial meal. Flora Shedden’s new potato, wild garlic and leek frittata, if you are interested. Highly recommended. I made it to last the weekend so I wouldn’t have to cook again. It didn’t. 

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Friday 12 March 

Biodynamic flower day. Strong sunshine and sharp showers. Proper hammering, damaging rain. It is for just this reason that I have half my tulips in crates under glass. They aren’t far enough along to be truly damaged but this rain was menacing. The dog walk is a wet one and I roast a tray of the last squash with chickpeas and rounds of red onion. Pepper. Flakes of chilli. I told you it wasn't spring yet. 
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Saturday 13 March 

Hail. Proper hammering hail. There’s a theme to this week. I pack orders and watch hailstones bounce off the table in the courtyard. I didn't manage to get any flower seeds planted on yesterday's flower day and the calendar says that it changes to a leaf day at 0800 this morning. I go out in my pyjamas and fill tray after tray will compost and seed. I know, I know, I said I was going to wait another week or so. I haven't. 

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Sunday 14 March

We did it. Finally, after months of being too busy, or being thwarted by the weather, or at work, or having other, more urgent things to do, we went into the field and we did stuff. Turned the compost heap. Built sweet pea frames from twiggy hazel. Weeded. (I have a patch of couch grass which I am going to try and attack with Mexican tagetes.) I struggle with the narrative that gardening is therapy or, at least, therapeutic. I don’t find it therapeutic, although I accept that this is more to do with me than it is the act of gardening. However, a day in the fresh air, with my hands in the soil and dirt under my nails feels like something. Maybe I can feel the place where waiting becomes hoping. At the very least, there are leeks for tea. 

Happy growing, 

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G x