I’ve hardly been in the last few days. Despite the odd shepherd’s warning morning, the weather has been dry and fine and whatever indoor chores were originally on the list were firmly relegated to the back burner to make more space for rambling with Lyra in the morning and manic gardening in the afternoon. I am only getting to this today through gritted teeth as I huddle by the fire in two cardis with a red nose. Whilst walking the dog earlier, mum made the usual half-hearted mutterings about the dire consequences that flow from sitting on paths weeding after five. I made the traditional response about viruses not being transferred by damp bums and, honours even, we happily moved on to the optimal spot in her new garden for an additional magnolia. Sneezing or not, this is THE prime time for a garden reshuffle. March is the month when everything still feels possible. I have grudgingly given over today to snivelling and lemsip in the hope that the lurgy will blow through so I can recommence digging tomorrow.
Things are starting to come up at last, bringing some much needed hard facts to the planning table. I can see now which plants have run amok and need reigning back and also where shoots of forgotten treasures have ruled out “spaces” I had in mind as destinations for new acquisitions. This has not, of course, ruled out the new acquisitions (retail gardening commenced in earnest at the weekend when poor Lyra had to share the back seat with a sizeable young tree which did not fit in the boot (which was in any case full of shrubs)). Instead, it means that I need to buckle down and dig out some of the over-spreaders, thus reclaiming some territory. Michaelmas daisy, alstroemeria and achillea ptarmigan have had their cards marked! (though I’m rehoming some on the back track). There is also the slight problem of where to put the 22 dahlias Keith has potted up and my latest foray into lily bulbs (delivery imminent).
Much of my plotting and planning is done after I stack the wheelbarrow and wander up the hill in the evening light. I’m not sure that this isn’t my favourite time of day. Flowers always seem to glow, caught by the late slanting sun. I do try always to think about the direction of the light and shade when I’m planting. Copper leaved plants like continus and dark purple hellebores in particular look completely different when backlit, so I try to remember to plant them where the sun can shine unencumbered through the leaves/flowers rather than in front of other plants. It doesn’t always work, but when it does it’s spectacular. I have a small copper berberis (one of the many seedlings my big one throws off every year) strategically positioned in the shade garden which should, in a year or two, catch the evening light perfectly. Of course, mostly these felicities are a happy accident and I just take the credit. The shady track round the back of the hot bed is lovely at the moment with the sun streaming through pale hellebores. They were supposed to be all white there but, in the way of hellebores, they have been putting it about indiscriminately and I have acquired green, cream and pale pink as well. I was half minded to winkle out the pink ones until a few days ago, but then the glowing, dolly mixture colours stayed my hand. You can be too purist….
Out and about in the wider world things are stirring in the hedgerows. Elder leaves, like tiny red rubber gloves, are starting to appear on the bare branches and there are frothy clusters of flowers on the great Hirsel yew. We saw our first deer for ages across the river in Norham a week ago, nibbling at the emerging garlic. Yesterday, investigating a noise in the hedge behind me I came nose to nose with the leader of a sprightly gang of five. They thundered off joyfully in formation and somehow all I could think of was the cowboy films I watched on Saturday mornings in the 70s. The Hirsel loch is gearing up for mating season, with much preening and flapping by the adult swans. Last year’s cygnets are all in embarrassed teenager phase, averting their eyes. Our pond is, as ever, a hotbed of frog action. Swains are singing from dawn to dusk and the stream is all a wobble with spawn. I have spotted at least one silver fish and three of the golden ones in the ponds so it looks like the visiting heron did not sweep the coop before its untimely demise (I believe it chose the wrong carp pool to predate…). My fingers are crossed that the silver lad still has some of its friends as they put on wonderful synchronised jumping displays last year and I don’t like to think of it being lonely.
Anyway. it’s time for another lemsip….
