Monday 28 March

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A morning in the hammock. A red kite floats lazily high up over the village. I am used to buzzards in the woods along the side of Pickeridge Hill but they rarely stray this far. Closer to the earth, bees circle above me, dipping in and out of the petals of the cherry blossom.

Tuesday 29 March

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The tulips. Oh the tulips. I had dismissed them as a horrendous shade of pink but as I look closer, they are softer and more subtle than I first gave them credit for. And fear not, the deep, velvet reds are coming.

Wednesday 30 March

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As the day ends, the predicted rain finally arrives. I have been waiting for it all day. It was forecast but it never came. The afternoon in the greenhouse was silent. (Sowed more Nicotiana and cornflowers.) The evening dog walk was dry. Only as the evening grows blue do the heavens open. I am glad of it. It has been so dry.

Thursday 31 March

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The storm has swept through, and the morning is clear and cold. A light frost in the pocket of wildflowers by the gate to the field.

Friday 1 April

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The wheat crisis has reached rural Somerset. For as many years as I can remember, the back field has been pasture stitched with herbal leys, long rooted plants that reach deep in the earth and feed sheep with a diversity of minerals and nutrients. I saw the sprayer go over the chicory and the clover on Tuesday, and by Friday night, it is drilled with what I think is spring wheat.

Saturday 2 April

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I can only control what I can control, and I create two more long beds for salad leaves to stock the honesty box I am planning for the summer. There are patches in the flower field which are thick with meadow plants (we dug out the meadow last year, but not quick enough to stop it seeding everywhere). I have never seen so many ladybirds, ever. The busy-ness of my autumn and the inadvertent leaving of ground cover has benefited someone. It takes twice as long to do anything because I weed around them, leaving islands of habitat in the middle of the beds.

Sunday 3 April

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I rescue the best of the narcissi to stop the girls rolling on them. The pheasant’s eye are in full bloom, many of them damaged by slugs, some of them damaged by setters. Some of them are absolutely perfect and sit on the table for Sunday lunch. You still have to go a long way to beat a N. ‘Minnow’ though. Pictured below.