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I’ve finally finished the first draft of my new book, meaning I’m both exhausted and delighted. Of course, there’s still a lot to do; some stories will be rewritten, some culled, and some given just minor tweaks, but I’m feeling good about it. This is perfect timing as we come into spring, as hopefully, with some drier weather and better walks for small dachshunds to come, we’ll be spending a lot more time out of the house. Don’t get me wrong, I love my little house, but I also crave the outdoors.
These mornings I wander around my garden first thing, regardless of the weather, taking note of the changes. Snowdrops, their small white heads so beautifully divided, the three elliptical petals pointing downwards, stark against the dark green profusion of leaves which sprout from otherwise bare, uninteresting soil in neglected pots. Then there’s the joyful Narcissus ‘Tête-à-tête’, which come back every year; their bright, yellow trumpet heads, a profusion of tall, well-kept ladies in their spring bonnets, mingling with the odd grape ivy, a splash of purply blue against the green.
There’s something so exciting about the expectation of spring in the garden, though I confess, it’s always tinged with a little disappointment, as – inspections over – myself and the sausages count our losses.
The wet weather has compounded the losses over the last two years as the frost has rotted some of my giant agapanthus (again!). It seems I can’t win with these lovable plants, their giant purple heads bigger than my own when they’re happy. I’ve tried putting them away for the winter in a greenhouse, leaving them in the garden (which is sheltered) and doing nothing except moving them to the most protected spots or wrapping them up, all with limited success. Maybe I’ve just gotten my timing wrong: when to cover them up and pop them back out! All I know is I’ve lost at least one. Last year, I lost three, and the others didn’t flower, which broke my heart.
I pootle about, inspecting pots for signs of new growth: tiny green shoots emerging, cutting back all the old dead growth that they’ve been hiding underneath.
Of course, I’m no gardener, and I never have been. Growing up as I did, with only a balcony at the top of a block of flats, I had no garden history, but I’ll never forget the first time I lived in a house with a garden. It sowed seeds in me; it amazed and delighted me so that, moving forward, I knew I simply couldn’t live without a garden.
Okay, having started with a lawn, I quickly learned that when owning dogs, it wasn’t ideal. In my first house, my three German Shepherds and one Jack Russel turned our small lawn into a re-enactment of the Somme in a matter of weeks. That said, being outside where I can sit privately and watch the world go by is incredibly precious to me. Though I have two small beds of hardy shrubs and a small tree, my garden is full of pots of panicled hydrangeas, scented roses, peonies, agapanthus and hardy geraniums (cranesbill).
Then there are the pots and wall tubs, which I love to fill with a riot of colour; perennials and annuals grown and bought locally, which I plant every year. Precious to me is my slow-growing Ginkgo biloba tree in a large pot that was given to me as a leaving gift by my neighbour, a kind, serious young man whom I befriended in those final years in London and who worked as a nurseryman at Kew. It’s actually bequeathed in my will, so valuable is it to me as my own tree of life and new beginnings, brought here where I knew nothing and no one, my first tentative steps into a new life alone.
Six Ginkgo trees, scorched and stripped, survived the atomic bomb at Hiroshima to produce new buds the following spring, a symbol of resilience and survival despite the death and destruction caused by mankind. Who wouldn’t treasure their own Ginkgo, given as a gift?
My garden is quirky; not neat and tidy like some, more higgledy-piggledy, some might even think neglected, though plants growing in paving cracks are carefully tended and loved. I have antique coffee grinders filled with violets and trailing lobelias attached to the fencing, and a tree mural on the house wall with hedgehogs, butterflies, magpies and a fox, which I painted during the pandemic.
I have old French enema jugs along the walls, filled with Saxifrage and Bacopa next to old, tarnished mirrors, their mercury glass speckled and foxed with degradation. An old, wire birdcage used as a lantern hangs off the ornate metal arbour arch, which is strung with fairy lights. There’s a plastic crow called Nigel who lives in a rose pot.
Nigel appeared one morning on my doorstep, and to this day, I have no idea where he came from or why, but he has lived happily in my garden ever since. And then there’s Robert, a tall, carved wooden stand with a copper bowl attached to its top, which I fill with flowers. This was a gift from a friend who said it ‘spoke to her’ at first sight, and she knew it should live in my garden.
There are the birds: blackbirds, wrens, dunnocks, sparrows, great tits, bullfinches, greenfinches, chaffinches, collared doves, magpies, crows, and – my absolute favourite – robins, all seen regularly in my garden. Their songs brighten my days, though I chase off the corvids, Bear being excellent at dissuading them by barking loudly at them.
All these things remind me of time moving forward, and my morning inspections signal the changing of the seasons and the home that I have made for myself here.
On another note, I’ve also had good news: I’ve finally been put on the waiting list for a new hip! Though I’m sure, like all people who live alone, there’s a sense of trepidation. I’m surrounded by good friends and neighbours, and I can’t wait to get some of my mobility back. I’ve missed walking more than anything else over these past three years.
Anyway, roll on springtime, dryer days, and liquid sunshine, ‘come hither’, I’m ready and waiting!
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