birdsong and sadness

Monday 21 February

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Were we expecting hail? Because hail is what we have. Sheets of hard, white ice falling from the sky. The dog walk is short, and we dash back to the warm of the house.

Tuesday 22 February

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A biodynamic flower day so I sow yet more sweet peas and another line of cobaea. The earliest ones are out in the courtyard and I have let them sit there through gale, hail and storm. They are looking thoroughly wonderful (as in strong and robust looking) as a result.

Wednesday 23 February

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The lengthening days are noticeable now. The sunrise is so incredibly glorious, we head out for a morning dog walk (in the winter, the hounds are only walked the once because they have to be washed with copious amounts of cold water and I can’t get them dry if I have to do this twice a day).

Thursday 24 February

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The first sloe blossom. The first cherry blossom. Nothing yet on the pears or apples but the hedges will slowly change from the dancing gold of the hazel catkins to slices of frothing white.

Friday 25 February

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As we wake in the morning, the birdsong competes with the sound of Radio 4. We listen with horror and disbelief to the news.

Nothing seems meaningful after this and so I will stop my journal here this week. This weekend, I have sown some tomatoes and moved some seedlings from the windowsill to the greenhouse. I have tried not to refresh the news too often, but I cannot escape the feeling of hopeless sadness. The sunshine and the sounds of the earth coming alive again seem to jar with the dreadful news.