I am guessing that I have had nothing to say over the last couple of months, nothing of note anyway. Writing doesn’t come easily to me, a scant surface of words can flow relatively well but words with meaning are rare. Therefore a journal like blog is what I am resolved to do as no amount of  waiting brings forth pearls of great wisdom,  or volumes of Beckett like brilliance, I will never be like Alan Bennett or even Jeffery Archer, though any position that is significantly opposed to the later is fine by me.

Sometime in early autumn I broke my little petrol lawn mower by believing it invincible and attempting to mow too earnestly through the deep undergrowth. The poor machine was bundled into the boot of the car and carted off to the local mower hospital, new starter motor and blades and several pounds poorer I returned with a brightly buffed Huskervana. As the winter seems to have turned a corner and the ice and snow cleared I am tempted to drag the mower out from its hibernation and clear a few Walnut leaves using its double cutting action. Surely this mild enthusiasm for outdoor activity is, like the emerging Snowdrops, the first signs of spring.

Visiting open gardens is almost always a pleasant event, especially if the host serves Elderflower cordial, even the drifting hordes of lilac scented ladies do little to dispel the pleasure, though the stout dames in denim maxis, sensible shoes and overly snug shirts pulled unnervingly tight across their ample bosoms often send me scuttling off. But I was wandering around our garden yesterday and thought I too readily accept what I believe to be the truth, this is that others tend their garden to perfection and so set the pace by which we should march. I had been ‘twittering’ earlier in the day and discovered that Yoko Ono was now a follower of my tweets [don't get excited she follows everyone that follows her], on her profile she had written ‘I think it’s better to dance than to march through life.’, could it be that in gardening there are marchers and dancers?. The marchers being the Open Garden set, and the dancers, people like me, for whom gardening is a private activity, it is a process of self discovery, making amends and healing, a reciprocal relationship with the beautiful and unendingly fantastic delight that is the small, hard seed that sprouts into life and silently aches in its desire to live, to grow and to set seed, to make its mark.

I have converted part of the flower boarder close to the house into a small raised bed. It is constructed out of found ‘stuff’ from round the garden and house. The wood for the sides is made from a long old oak board, possibly from the house that used to sit in the garden, and two pieces left over from shelving, the sides are secured in place with sawn up poles from a redundant Habitat wardrobe and some cane hoops that last year supported the Delphiniums. I have used canes found in the railway carriage for the back and stout twigs for all other stakes. The compost is sadly bought and the string is not string as over Winter it vanished and is probably shacked up with all the missing odd socks. I have use plastic wires to line up the veggies and netting bought many moons ago to protect it all from those pesky birds and cats. The veg. are French beans at the back, a bit early but I have also planted some seeds between them for later plants and have a few more to plant out that are currently living in the sun shelter. In rows from the left are Carrots, purple ones, onions and 3 La Ratte potatoes.

May brings forth most of my favorite flowers, the poppies, poached egg plants, violas, aquilegia and hints at what is to come with the buds on the Daisies and Campanula. The chaos and glorious riot of colour that is mid-Summer for me is completely upstaged by the beauty of May and June when the birds sing their little hearts out and the air is filled with the gentle buzz of the worker bees. On Friday I began to mow the lawn with the Huski as the ride-on is a little under-the-weather, I decided that I would mow paths around the garden to areas that are interesting, the veggie patch, the secret circle garden at the farthest point from the house and for practicality the septic tank. I love the contrast in long and short grass, the wild meadow against the tamed walkways, it creates a sense of adventure, a story line leading off into the darkness under the trees, and then turning the journey back home to safety.

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Yesterday morning I woke at 4.45am, pinned to the bed by the considerable weight of our 18 year old moggy, he had secured himself a slice of duvet, a snaffled corner, the last remnant left after sofa man had unconsciously pilfered an 80% share of the market in an early hours takeover bid. I was wedged in a slither of space fit only for the likes of Viccy Beckham or Kate Moss, of which I am neither, and so had had all atoms of oxygen squeezed painfully out of my airways. I decided that I would slope off into the spare room and find an alternative quilt for what little remained of the night. I say night, but the sun is up early in May and the sky was bright with strands of red and gold, a soft mist lay on the Fen and the birds chorus of joyous banter rang loud in the still air. I tried hard to recapture the unconscious state but the world and its scabby inhabitants had conspired against me, I was officially awake.
I got up at 5am, fed the cat who had risen to take advantage of my wakening and who, much to rub salt into my wounds, returned back to take up my place on the bed. I made a cup of tea and pondered the washing-up from the night previous. Diving my delicate, sleepless hands into the water, the warmth and the Fairy bubbles charmed me into a state of contentment, the rhythmical swirling of the water brought ideas rushing silently out of the grey layered horizon, I wondered was this the time to sculpt? to bring forth order from the formless mass, to tame the chaos? Placing my ponderings into perspective, the reality of the creative commitment was obvious.
I finished the dishes, wiped dry my hands and headed off into the garden with my best shears and a stout broom. Latin names of plants often baffle me and as I have become more of an intuitive gardener common names have escaped me, so the bush of unknown type, bush-x, which sits on the boundary between the flower border and the patio isn’t available to be described as anything other than bush-x, or bushy-x-verdeminimus. This taxonomic vagrant had sprouted wildly rambling shoots, adding to and mingling with the rest of the petulant plants that charge through this fenland jungle devouring all sense of order in their path. It needed bringing in-hand. I began with what my hairdresser has oftentimes baffled me with, a rough cut, a general all over trim, carving a degree of formality out of its casual chaos, then cutting deeper and moving all round I began to see a sphere, a formal simplicity, geometry in this wildness. Its perfection limited only by my imperfection, a soaking up of my cognitive surplus, this was time well spent, gardening and art in simple harmony, rapid fluid thought, physical activity and emotional contentment.
I had finished the assault by 6am, the patio swept and back inside to lovingly glance out at my little patch of order in the world of rapmant madness.

Our apple trees are heavy with delicate blossom, the plum and pear have lost most of their flowers and are now unfurling their beautiful new seasons leaves, it never ceases to amaze me how such dark, hard forms that survive the harness of Winter can so tenderly cradle Spring in their arms.
Yesterday sofa man took to the ride-on and mowed the majority of the lawn which had grown so long that pheasants could hide in it and I was afraid that our old cat might uncharacteristically stray more than 20 yards from the house and get disorientated. Even though it has only been cut on a high setting a newly mown lawn is a comforting sight, greener and happier, the blackbirds frantically dart across it listening for worms which come to the surface as the mower vibrates them up through the soil into the beaks of waiting birds.

Cowslips are one of my favorite plants, they are delicate and beautiful, strong and invasive, perfect. They pop up in the path and around the brickwork at the edge of the herb boarder out the back of the house. Wild and free they set their roots without question, knowing that they are within their rights to wander as they like unchecked about the garden.

The plan is to tidy up this garden a bit over the next few weeks and hopefully the weather will be as lovely as it has been today. The mad Pampas monster needs a haircut and the rugrat ramblers need thinning out, its looking a bit unkempt and unloved at present. I have started by digging over last years potato plot and constructing the beginnings of a climbing frame for the peas and beans. Will I grow courgettes this year? maybe, the little yellow ones raw in salad are outstanding and something you cannot buy on the high street or any local farmers market round here.

Kingdom: Plantae
Division: Magnoliophyta
Class: Magnoliopsida
Order: Ericales
Family: Primulaceae
Genus: Primula
Species: P. veris