And so it begins..

Gardening proper has started. Just a little bit, but definitely started. Keith and Mum have taken on the orchard pruning. It is like a scene from the operating theatre in General Hospital. Dr Keith surveys the patient then decisively calls out “Loppers”. Nurse Granny passes them up and stands by to mop up twigs. I would be a most unsatisfactory stand in, wandering off with the loppers to perform my own amputations during dull moments, so have left them to it. Having noticed the first hellebore flowers peeping through, I resolved to cut back the old leaves and mulch up. Of course, when the leaves are removed the weeds peek out so this has led to a further tasks. So far I’ve taken off three barrows of weeds in the tiniest area. The soil is so cold I’ve had to break off every hour or so to regain sensation in the finger ends. Largely, “breaks” involve either barrowing mulch or wandering around identifying additional jobs and looking for signs of life. We have a good couple of inches of bulbs of various types peeking up now and a bright speckling of aconites and snowdrops.  My last remaining witch hazel (a red one) is on the cusp of blooming and I can safely guarantee that in a few days I will be wandering round desperately looking for spaces for another couple…. It is companionable work. A fat robin has taken to accompanying me on all my garden tours, knowing full well that I’m guaranteed to pull the odd weed in passing, possibly disinterring a “liggly lurm”. Blackbirds abound, darting here and there, clucking emphatic instructions over their shoulders and a couple of days ago I spotted two, inordinately fluffy, long tailed tits (like furry pom poms on lolly sticks) sunning themselves in the little wooded area at the back. If I can find the moral fibre to start, it’s actually a rather lovely way to spend a couple of hours and fully justifies an afternoon hogging the fire with coffee, cake, my knitting and a bloodthirsty thriller.

Down by the river it is still decidedly squelchy. With a week or more of dry days, the water has gone down a little but is still racing along high over the cauld.  All along the banks the dry stalks of the summer’s five foot jungle have been washed down by the floodwater and the trees on the bank are now sporting wraparound teepees and curious woven baubles. Lyra has been thrilled to rediscover so much territory, racing along to snuffle in interesting heaps and paddle at the edge. The highlights of her most recent trip were two dead fish and what appeared to be a swan’s vertebrae. (As spoil-sport-in- chief I refused to bring these treasures home in the back of my mini and have fallen somewhat from favour.)  On the far bank, where the herons usually disappear into tall grass, all has been laid flat and I felt almost shamefaced watching a pair sitting there with the stunned, slightly dusty, air of a couple watching telly when the wall of their house fell down. Further along, Mum and I spotted the tiny white cedilla of “our” Egret. (it is in one of the photos for the truly eagle eyed). It seems to have fared a little better in the habitat stakes, with its bushes mostly still standing, though its preferred perch on the cauld is under water.

Yesterday we took to the fields, thinking the frost would solidify the mud somewhat. It was distinctly bracing, but Auntie Veronica’s hat and snood combo continues to perform excellently. All along the lane on the way back there were thick shards of broken ice where a van had passed and when we got home we were greeted by two rather cranky cows jostling to get to the water through a tiny patch of broken ice in the trough. Not three days before, the coos managed somehow to detach the water supply from the trough so I was not slow in setting to to break up a larger area.  Troughgate was, not to put too fine a point on it, an utter shambles. Mum spotted the new ornamental fountain through the library window in the morning, no doubt fairly promptly after its installation by the coos. Once this was relayed I donned wellies and went off to investigate to find the area by the trough, which had already got a bit churned up in the rainy weather, a complete swamp and icy water spraying everywhere. The cows had all run off to the manger, feigning nonchalance, whilst furtively looking over their shoulder. The unspoken words “it wusnae me” floated in speech bubbles above their horns. Raymond and I spent a soggy hour looking in vain for a stop cock in the undergrowth next to the trough. Keith, who I thought would know where it was, had gone to Edinburgh and proved out of mobile reception. Lachlan phoned several branches of Keith’s hairdressers (to no avail as he was at the opticians) and I tried Drew (who used to live here) and the plumber. No joy – Keith remained out of contact, Drew drew a blank and the plumber eventually called back to confirm there was actually no localised stop cock. Anne, by this time, had managed to unearth the main stop cock next to the road but this looked likely to cut off the whole row. Whilst we dithered, Lachlan donned wellies over his PJs and managed to reconnect the hose with brute force. He continues to bask in the glory and I have requested a guided tour of mains switches, stop cocks and what have you in case of future events during the football/rugby season when him indoors will be off on jollies with greater frequency. …