Monday 21 November. Today is a biodynamically unfavourable day, which means that no fruit nor flower, root nor leaf, will be grateful for any ministrations. In the height of summer, these days are frustrating and irritating. At the darker end of November, as this one is, they are delightful and an excuse to put off putting the tulips in for another day. I know this sounds terribly remiss of me, but tulips shouldn’t be in the ground unless night-time temperatures are consistently below 10 degrees and, rather worryingly, there is no sign of this being the case. What we lack in cold however, we make up for in rain. I have never known a month like it. 

I go to a parish council meeting and all anyone wants to talk to me about is how sorry they feel for my thatcher. 

Tuesday 22 November. One of the core principles of regenerative gardening (I will get round to numbering them at some stage because I do like structure) is keeping the soil covered. A huge pile of wood chip has been slowly depleted as different parts of the garden and field have been covered. Some of it has been put down as mulch. Some as paths. Some has even been cooked into biochar and stirred into the compost heap. The beds by the studio, rather optimistically planted with red cabbages and leeks which I hoped would make Christmas dinner, now look very smart indeed. Looks are deceptive though; I can feel tunnels underfoot and I fear what this mulch might be doing most is keeping moles warm throughout the winter months.  

Wednesday 23 November. I don’t think my printer, George, gets my newsletter so thanking him here is going to be meaningless. However, a fervent recommendation from me for Ripe Digital in Wiltshire. They do all my printing*, read all my emails about balancing sustainability and textural opulence (all my non-seed work is now printed on GF Smith Mohawk card, and I am in love), check with me when I have sent them something that is clearly not going to work, and then put a box of perfection on my doorstep within twenty-four hours. This time, hundreds of incredible Christmas cards (they came out better than I could have imagined) and some gloriously matte postcards.

*When I say all my printing, I don’t mean my seed envelopes. They are still done by me, by hand, on a Canon inkjet printer in the shed at the end of my garden. I would never do it any other way. 

Friday 25 November. I photographed nasturtiums last week and then left the plants out of water. They do something funny if you ignore them; they put out more flowers. Even hanging on a nail by the fireplace, even with all the leaves wilted and limp, there are new, chocolate-toned flowers appearing every single day. The fact that they are now entangled with fairy lights was unplanned. 

Saturday 26 November

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I blinked and found that it had got dark. We dash out to walk and step out into a storm. Hammering rain and a gale that blows my hat off. We trudge home and both me and the dogs need drying with towels. The rest of the night is spent watching YouTube videos on worm farming. It looks harder than it sounds.

Sunday 27 November. A day of rest. I have been mulling on the idea of having a day of rest each week in 2023, a day when I do not open my computer or the Instagram app. But I do not know where I begin and Gather ends, so I also do not know where work and life meet. I make and style a Sunday lunch and my mother joins us.  

I know it isn’t work because I don’t photograph it.

An evening walk under first a salmon-pink sunset and then a deep, leaden sky. If I didn’t know better, I would say it felt like snow.