SUNSHINE AGAIN!

SUNSHINE AGAIN!

Today the usual gentle gurgle of water had grown into a gushing river hurtling down the ravine below one of the walls in the garden. We’ve has such torrential rain over the weekend, but it seems the weather has turned, because it was zero degrees C when I arrived. This was a relief. It meant we would be able to work on the soil while it was still frozen without causing damage to its structure.

The very first rays of the morning sun light up the wall and begin to melt the frost beneath…

Today the usual gentle gurgle of water had grown into a gushing river hurtling down the ravine below one of the walls in the garden. We’ve has such torrential rain over the weekend, but it seems the weather has turned, because it was zero degrees C when I arrived. This was a relief. It meant we would be able to work on the soil while it was still frozen without causing damage to its structure.

Our muck is seriously great and perfect for spreading in such a cold temperature; before long it was hat, scarf, gloves, coat off – in that order! Adrian and Martin were also dressing down as they removed loads of scrap from the centre glasshouse. Now we can really see the shape of the glasshouse emerging and begin to envisage it as a light, airy centrepiece full of delicious seedlings.

An incredible frost had blanketed everything. As soon as the sun touched it there was more razzle dazzle than diamonds. The borage looked particularly exquisite with its star shaped flowers that according to plant literature, flower in June and July. Our borage is still in full bloom. Sometimes I think that being in the walled garden is like a second spring. On Friday I was weeding beneath the espalier fruit and smelled something delicious. Chamomile. My mum used to make me a special shampoo from its flowers but it’s also edible and soothing hence chamomile tea. Isn’t it funny how a smell takes you right back? I remember walking the back lanes of Dawlish as a child of about eight. My mum met a friend who offered her a corner of a small field to develop however she pleased. From then on we spent many happy evenings and weekends there. All I wanted for presents were things like raspberry canes, strawberries, trowels and gardening gloves. Mum died when I was fourteen and I remember the shock that the things we had planted together, still grew. But I digress.

Within the walls of this garden feels such a content place to be. Tony was singing from his perch on the ladder and I could hear the gentle tones of Martin and Adrian as they worked together, punctuated by bursts of birdsong. The robin loves our rich compost; it’s so crammed full of worms that it must be the bird equivalent of the highest quality chocolate. Every time the robin lands on my fork or by my feet there is the little thrill of ‘The Secret Garden’ except I’m not a reader turning the pages of a book about discovering a secret garden, I am on the inside, part of the garden itself. Priceless.

The lovely stars of borage droop down beneath the frost.
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