Last weekend brought a heavy frost to our hilltop, painting the surrounding fields in white. Advertisements
We have had little opportunity to work in the garden for a week or two now, though a few more spring bulbs have been plunged beneath the cold sticky clay in snatched moments.
When we lost Willow, one of our sibling pair of two-year old cats, earlier this year, her brother Xander was devastated – as indeed we were.
We step out of the plane, blinking and stretching in the bright light and sudden blast of heat, and make our careful way down the set of metal steps that have just been driven up.
… Verbena bonariensis, stems of which have suddenly shot up to about 6 foot tall around the garden and are just beginning to flower.
We woke yesterday to discover that our lovely, gentle, happy cat Willow had been hit by a car just a few metres up our country lane. We buried her in the garden that she loved so much. Devastated.
At the start of February, as the buds began to burst on the pots of Carpinus japonica sheltering along the side of the house, I knuckled down and spent some hours researching sources of local coppiced wood; drawing and calculating dimensions for a suitable frame structure to support our planned screens.
April is the cruellest month. So began TS Eliot in The Burial of The Dead, the opening section of The Waste Land, published in 1922. All very apt 90 years later, as I struggle to comprehend a world without my beloved Dad.
We would take long walks together every Sunday afternoon, just the two of us.