I love this time of year. All apart from the low lying sun that makes driving an eye-watering nightmare.
The days are getting longer. The sun blissfully higher. And the garden is waking from its winter slumbers.
Some shrubs are busily, early flowering, like this osmanthus, covered in tiny white trumpets -
It's a season full of promise - the daffodils will soon burst yellow, their dancing heads heralding spring. And, annually, reminding me of my Scottish 'Gran' who - bucket in one hand, scissors in the other - would decapitate all the spent, crisply-browning blooms. She was small and bent and dainty in her sensible shoes. This was her job. Even when slow and frail. And she did it every spring to ensure healthy blooms the following year. In a few weeks, I'll persuade Littlest (bribe her, probably) that it's a job perfect for her. I'll give her an old pair of gardening scissors and tell her about my Gran, whom she never met.
Apart from the daffodils, the rest of the garden is suddenly and predictably bursting into life - one warm day is all it takes. Insects appear. Birds, confused, bustle about, unsure if it's time to begin nest building or to feed greedily for the next cold spell. It is, after all, only March. There will be more frosts. More snow, perhaps.
Snow?... Snow drops!
and primulae
and catkins
all - and many more - joining the spring pageant outside.
If only technology could send you the heady smell of honey from the osmanthus
and feel the heat that was on our backs
from a sun that casts long shadows
It's a time of year when gardeners can choose to either sit back and watch or begin their campaign for garden improvement, nurture and domination. The former has definite benefits - you can sleep, in the sun. Snore even. Nonchalantly chew on the wood of plants that didn't survive the winter.
Or sniff around the rhubarb and nibble the emerging stalks. But the result of this approach is utter defeat beneath the growing, exuberant, unchecked spread of weeds.
The alternative might be back-breaking. But ultimately rewarding.
When finished, this will be my renovated strawberry patch.
I just need to figure how to prevent the mice and bigger, four-legged, collared beasties from getting the strawberries first.
... a cat - to catch the mice and provide chasing-entertainment for Four-legged-friend and Bertie Baggins, thus distracting them from the yummy fruit
... a fence, a fruit cage, or a fence AND a fruit cage
... something pungent between the rows of strawberry plants - onions, garlic, lion poo, southernwood
... a scarecrow (... unemployed graduate in need of a summer job?)
... !?
The days are getting longer. The sun blissfully higher. And the garden is waking from its winter slumbers.
Some shrubs are busily, early flowering, like this osmanthus, covered in tiny white trumpets -
It's a season full of promise - the daffodils will soon burst yellow, their dancing heads heralding spring. And, annually, reminding me of my Scottish 'Gran' who - bucket in one hand, scissors in the other - would decapitate all the spent, crisply-browning blooms. She was small and bent and dainty in her sensible shoes. This was her job. Even when slow and frail. And she did it every spring to ensure healthy blooms the following year. In a few weeks, I'll persuade Littlest (bribe her, probably) that it's a job perfect for her. I'll give her an old pair of gardening scissors and tell her about my Gran, whom she never met.
Apart from the daffodils, the rest of the garden is suddenly and predictably bursting into life - one warm day is all it takes. Insects appear. Birds, confused, bustle about, unsure if it's time to begin nest building or to feed greedily for the next cold spell. It is, after all, only March. There will be more frosts. More snow, perhaps.
Snow?... Snow drops!
and primulae
and catkins
all - and many more - joining the spring pageant outside.
If only technology could send you the heady smell of honey from the osmanthus
and feel the heat that was on our backs
from a sun that casts long shadows
It's a time of year when gardeners can choose to either sit back and watch or begin their campaign for garden improvement, nurture and domination. The former has definite benefits - you can sleep, in the sun. Snore even. Nonchalantly chew on the wood of plants that didn't survive the winter.
Or sniff around the rhubarb and nibble the emerging stalks. But the result of this approach is utter defeat beneath the growing, exuberant, unchecked spread of weeds.
The alternative might be back-breaking. But ultimately rewarding.
When finished, this will be my renovated strawberry patch.
I just need to figure how to prevent the mice and bigger, four-legged, collared beasties from getting the strawberries first.
... a cat - to catch the mice and provide chasing-entertainment for Four-legged-friend and Bertie Baggins, thus distracting them from the yummy fruit
... a fence, a fruit cage, or a fence AND a fruit cage
... something pungent between the rows of strawberry plants - onions, garlic, lion poo, southernwood
... a scarecrow (... unemployed graduate in need of a summer job?)
... !?
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