Slip sliding away

We are in welly season. We celebrated Lyra’s 6th birthday with a sunny walk along the river in Norham only to find that the “low road” had been converted into a foot deep duck superhighway. Choosing the better part of valour, for once, Mum and I took the high road rather than wade through. Even there it was distinctly slithery in parts. Today, I am afraid, I did not display the same level of common sense. There was a light frost and a sprinkling of snow overnight and a thin film of ice had formed over the wheat field. With the confidence of a woman in her best wellies, I left the path and plodded over to the field margin, bending down to get an artistic angle. With a, quite literal, sinking feeling I then noticed that the finer soil at the edge of the field had turned to a dense quicksand. Shuffling did not assist. Like the Titanic I began my inexorable descent slowly and then very quickly indeed. I just managed to lob my phone at mum before listing terminally to port and sinking up to my waist in soupy, icy mud. She hauled me out, chuntering about the many ways in which I would expire from exposure on the way back to the car. I am, apparently, now a live medical experiment. Can you get chilblains on the bum? Well watch this space – more news as the situation develops.

Lyra is very perky at the moment. The chill in the air seems to suit and she is taking her walks at a canter. A few days ago, encountering a fallen tree across the path, she decided to add showjumping to the mix. She sailed over and then swaggered off with the supreme confidence of a blind dog who got lucky and missed the section where the jump was a double. All the trees in the wood are bare of leaves now. On bright days their silvery trunks glow in the afternoon sun, lighting up the darker reaches. When darkly slick with rain, bright spots of lichen appear and delicately pleated ruffs and wrappers of fungus in creamy white and amber. Squirrels are everywhere, darting to and fro, checking on their hoards and tantalising Lyra with the sounds of their clambering. Explosions of pigeon feathers on the track tell of a fox, or perhaps a buzzard. In the trees there is a raucous chattering and squawking. Not crows I think, a higher pitch, perhaps Jays? And then there is a confirmatory flash of dove grey, pink and white. I am most insufferably pleased with myself all the way home and my walk takes on a Lyra swagger.

A dry day on Monday gave me a chance to do a little moving and reshuffling. Most of the Irises lifted to let Chris get at the couch grass have been moved down to the quadrant bed, against the back wall, The two oak trees there, grown from acorns collected by the Brownies of Nottingham, caused too much competition for water for the usual planting in our long dry summer this year. It is, therefore, all being rejigged to be more drought tolerant (and less demanding on the weeding front). I am planting bulbs mainly, with irises at the front and a few late spring numbers. If there are spaces, I might sneak in a few miniature rhododendrons, but I am going to wait till the bulbs are up to work out properly – for once – where the gaps are. I also managed to re-home various large hemerocallis, a few euphorbia and some crocosmia along the back track using the tried and tested “double bonus” method, planting them where a giant weed needs to come out. What with all the shuffling and moving, I didn’t get all that many bulbs in so the now sprouting remainder have been preying on my conscience. I decided today, after the great soaking, that it was time to put my back into it. Despite the on and off hail, it was actually quite pleasant and by the time the hail turned to slush I had reduced a huge box by about half. If the day is fair tomorrow the beginning of the end of gardening for the year will definitely be in sight! This will make space for the carnage that is the Christmas prep…..