The weather is raw today and, basking in the virtuous glow of having got up early and gone to pilates in the village with Mum, I am now hunkered down in the library, log burner stoked, for the foreseeable. There have been rather too many similar days of late for my liking, and my moral fibre has proved insufficient to get me out in the mud very often. All around there are signs of spring, poised in the wings for a grand jetée across the garden stage, but instead of putting the finishing touches to the set, I’m quaffing tea and cake in the green room.
We have had a meagre three dry and bright days since my last confession (or so it seems anyway). On these, I set to with a vengeance in the library bed. With the herbaceous plants still slumbering, there was finally room to tackle the weeds that infested the strip by the hedge last year and with an inch or two of leaves from the bulbs showing, a welcome to signal of where not to dig. Several years of steady mulching in the spring is, I think, finally paying off and this year I did not feel I needed to apologise to the acers… It was really quite pleasant work and my fat friendly robin hopped in and out pointing out the bits I’d missed. I have provisionally earmarked a couple of spaces for annuals and, with a bit of jigging things around, maybe one of Keith’s new peonies (these are currently waiting patiently in pots for my inspiration to kick in). What I really want, though, is a big hamamelis sized space. There’s a huge yellow one at the back of the Hirsel and this has been waving its yellow fronds at me in a most enticing way for weeks. Perusing instagram, I have also noted a very fine pink pussy willow in a garden in Stevenage. This now feels completely essential. If cupid wanted to compensate for not managing to get a table for dinner on Valentine’s Day I would not demur…
With Lachlan back at Uni, especially on rainy days it seems, Mum and I have been once more “promoted” to dog walkers in chief. Lyra, however, has not received the memo as regards Mum’s elevation in the ranks of the Ruthven pack and has taken to sit down protests whenever she is holding the lead. Next door got in on the act one day, to demonstrate an effective hard yank. Madam was not to be moved and Anne was routed. Thankfully, I am still clinging to some shreds of authority so we have made it past the end of the drive. Along the river, we’ve been keeping a weather eye out for the snowy egrets. Lyra startled them last week and I have added a white dash to my traditional white dot photograph. Down in the Hirsel there are carpets of snowdrops and here and there the bright spear of purple crocus buds. At long last my favourite snowdrop path in the woods is (more or less) passable and we had a glorious wander through yesterday. Lingering by the stone bridge to watch two drakes attempt a pincer movement on a distinctly reluctant duck, the winter heliotrope gifted a faint whiff of Mr Kipling almond slice.
On the home front, the annual odyssey of marmalade making has commenced. Keith has made one batch and announced that there’s two more to go. This, though, has made barely a dent on the two huge boxes of seville oranges in the porch. Last year, by misreading the website, Keith sponsored a seville orange tree as well as ordering a box. Pip Fountain, has now begun to fruit. Bags of oranges have been handed out along the row and down the hill and the Victoria at Norham is fast set to become a trading hub. I have a litre of Orange vodka festering nicely in the (recently reorganised) pantry, the cake du jour is flourless orange, a tray of eggs is just waiting for curd making to commence and the bold boy is set to source an industrial quantity of salt for preserving a few tomorrow on his way up to the rugby.
