You gotta roll with it*

*In keeping with the zeitgeist I am offering up an appropriate soundtrack for this post. I am, as it happens, typing away in the kitchen whilst Keith cooks and I have to say he is not indulging in any Oasis nostalgia and purports to be singing some 70s rock. It is not entirely clear what it is.

Last week brought, I suspect, the last hurrah of summer for this year. We had a series of the most glorious sunny days which brought out clouds of butterflies and made the few salpiglossus that survived my tender ministrations in the greenhouse glow like jewels in the gravel garden. A good omen, I thought as Keith and Lachlan drove off to take Lyra to have her stitches removed on Tuesday morning. They had not been gone long when a monsoon commenced. I scampered around under the plum trees and gathered up a rather miserly haul of mirabellas. (This is the second year we have had very few. The harvest used to be huge, with the back green turned glowing orange overnight as they all fell at once. I am somewhat stumped as to the cause. However there are a few young self seeded trees here and there on the back track so perhaps these will take up the slack next year). Having a half tray of eggs to use up, I decided to turn my gleanings into plum curd. This turned out rather well but after bottling up I had a small amount left over. I decided to invest the last 3 eggs in some sponge and tried my hand at a Swiss roll. I have been scoffing this in less than dainty slices ever since. At this point I was on a roll (like what I did there..?) so I moved on to decanting out the whitecurrant and grapefruit vodka. Again, as if by magic there was a little too much to fit in the available bottles. Luckily, Lachlan arrived home and fixed this problem for me by adding ice and tonic.

We had been rather nervous that Lyra would take a bit of a backward step when the cone of courage came off, as she had been using it as a helpful battering ram. However, Wednesday dawned bright and she seemed in good spirits so Lachlan and I hauled her off to the riverside. She had a whale of a time, stepping out confidently without the lead and even breaking into a pell mell run in the long grass at one point. We were jubilant, and much amused to see here rolling gleefully like a pup in the cut grass – until we observed that she had sniffed out an enormous fox poo and was now liberally coated in it. A trip down to the river for a paddle did little to improve the situation. We went the long way around in the hope it would air dry slightly before the drive home. It did not. Lyra and I waited patiently watching a heron patrol around a large pile of sand and horse muck left over from Civic Week whilst Lachlan covered up his distressingly pale upholstery. We drove back with the windows open. I had been fretting about whether the grooming parlour would be traumatic for Lyra now, not being able to see what was coming. Well poo-gate forced the pace and a thorough dunk and shampoo when we got home didn’t appear to cause too much distress. If anything, it was a little easier than in the past as one could sneak up closer with the bucket before discovery.

Another monsoon descended and Lachlan took himself off to a Landrover festival (I know…..). Left to our own devices, the next day, Keith, Lyra and I managed with great efficiency to combine a trip to the butcher’s in Norham with a walk along the tweed and a giant slice of cake at the Victoria Hotel. With a view to counteracting the cake I then set to digging up swathes of the long border and moving things around. (This is the time of year when I can no longer ignore all the plants that are in the wrong place – The peonies which declined to flower have taken a step forward and two campanula lactiflora which are hell bent on reaching the stars have been shuffled back. They may survive). In the course of all this plant migration I weeded over an area where there are daffodil bulbs and decided, by way of experiment, to improve the soil and overplant with some Japanese anemone I had earlier rescued from Keith’s tender mercies in the rose bed. I do hope this works, there’s nothing like a second season in the same spot. Double bubble.

Lyra was unimpressed by the gardening. She seems less inclined than before to simply lie under a tree. I suppose she can’t now watch the world go by, which is a little sad. She has developed a tendency to disappear when my back is turned. It is a little unnerving when she wanders off for an explore so I have been jumping up and down from my weeding station to see where she is like a jack in the box. It feels rather like when the children were toddlers, constantly looking out for looming hazards. Walking over a small bridge at the Hirsel today, I noticed that Lyra could easily get under the rail to plunge into the river and made a note to remind Lachlan that she would have to go on the lead before crossing. (Actually, I think I may have improved somewhat. When my two were toddlers hazards were usually identified only after Lachlan had demonstrated the risk with a near death experience. Ishbel, bless her, was much more sensible and never attempted to jump out of a window or jam her fingers in any sockets.)

This morning when Lyra and I stepped out for a walk there was the distinct tang of autumn in the air. On either side of the track to the woods, flowers were exploding into fluffy seed heads and there was a great clucking and scuffling in the undergrowth. Progress was slow as Lyra examined every tuffet minutely for traces of pheasant. Thankfully, none were flushed. I kept the lead on – I’m not certain yet whether the urge to chase will prove greater than the bold girl’s sense of self preservation/tree avoidance. The real test will, of course, be the old enemy – squirrels. We took a less travelled path back and, as we climbed up to the car park, it struck me that it was on this path that I realised Lyra’s sight was going. Just over three weeks earlier she had frozen on the path, afraid to move forward. Now she was skipping brightly ahead and I was struggling to keep up.