Today was the first solidly dry and sunny day for an age. This was a stroke of luck as I had entirely forgotten that Stuart (the Rat Man) was coming bright and early to spray the carpets against moths (Stuart is a chiel o’ pairts). This entailed chasing out the cats and taking Lyra out for an hour or so whilst the spray dried. We took ourselves down to the Hirsel and spent an hour marvelling at the trees in the sunshine (I have taken so many photographs a separate leaf peeper post is called for…) and another half hour in the courtyard with a coffee. The cats glared accusingly at me when we got back and I packed up a barrow of tools under gimlet stares from the patio table. I had lined up a little light hoeing and cutting back in the sun when Laura halooed and gestured to her boots. On receiving my text with the dread news that hoovering is now banned for 12 weeks (we will be submerged in Lyra fluff by Christmas…) she had resolved to help me with some heavy garden jobs I had tentatively mentioned before the floods commenced. We spent the next three hours wrestling out a clump of orange hemerocallis, dividing the beast, replanting and potting up perhaps a third and consigning the rest to the compost heap. By three I was, not to put too fine a point on it, Kerry Packered. Clearly I went to seed during the rainy season….
It was all rather inevitable I suppose. We have woken most mornings recently to grey skies and the steady thrum of rain against the window. Outdoor chores were performed (if at all) in fits and starts darting between showers. Lyra declared at least two days “unfit for walking” and, after her daily business was transacted, turned decisively for home under the envious eyes of Rick and Alison’s very muddy Shetlands. The Aga has been hugged and indoor tasks enthusiastically embraced of late.
A friend sent us a box of glorious quinces. These, unlike the crabbed, green knobbly efforts I usually come by, were large and golden, gifting instant indoor sun. Transubstantiation in the jelly pan and double boiler trapped the glow and my pantry shelves are now warmed by bright yellow quince and lemon curd, amber jelly, dawn pink syrup and glowing garnet blobs of quince cheese. (The last of these I set in half globe moulds and, pace Mum, they resemble AA breast implants – booblets for Christmas this year). On a roll after the quinces, I moved on to blackcurrant jam and gooseberry curd in the hope of making some space in the freezer. Curiously, whilst the pantry shelves are now overflowing with preserves, there is still no room in the freezer. It seems to be some sort of reverse Tardis. I half suspect that when I haul out the last bag of jam plums, from at least three years ago, the frost bitten face of a centurion from the lost Ninth will emerge.
On walkable days Lyra, mum and I splooshed in wellies up the canal of the back lane but rarely made it past Butterlaw corner. The lane became a strangely liminal space as the ditches overflowed, with the waning afternoon light shining almost more strongly up from the puddles than down from between the gathering clouds. In a moment of serendipity the pearly sheen of the brand new paddy field behind the hedge illuminated a blackbird in flight and all along the hedge darkening haws sparkled with upside down halos. Where a rain window of more an hour or so was dangled before us by the Met Office we might risk the cow circular to commiserate with the soggy, shaggy beasts, or a stroll by the lake to admire the ever circling swans and wave to Wally, the goose which has joined the bevvy. This was our limit.
Gardening was largely limited to the odd dash to lift a few dahlias between downpours. Gifted an entire fine afternoon a few days ago I ran out to collect up cherry leaves before they turned to fetid slime. Five trips to the leaf bin later, the glowing pinky orange leaves were still falling steadily into the space I had “cleared”. My commitment faltered and I wandered off to spy out interesting fungi and make mental lists of jobs for another day. The broken branch of the willow has become a source of fascination, requiring much lingering on the back lawn. It is a rorschach test for my mood. I see something entirely different each time it catches my eye. Trudging up from the compost bins under a darkening sky it was a Louise Bourgeois spider. After triumphantly storing away the last of the long border dahlias, it was a dancing sprite.
Even in the sun the gardening days are shorter now. By three the lure of soup and cake cannot be resisted. The wellies are heaved off, coffee brewed and serious calories ingested. (I have uploaded a couple of new recipes which turned out rather well for anyone in the same boat. ). I rather like this delicate balance of outdoor and indoor, requiring only a shower or blink of sun to tip slightly, but never quite overturning. And here I am again wishing the season I am in could stretch on and on to let me enjoy it properly…..
