Wills the Cat

This is Wills, Lord and Lady Mantle’s cat.  Although I have tried very hard to become his friend, he is so far resistant to my charms. Incredible I know. If he is feeling particularly tolerant I am permitted to stroke him for a short while, although this cannot compete with the affections bestowed upon him by his loyal servant, the Lord of the Manor.  Much to Wills’ despair, I refuse to abandon my wooing and these continual attempts are treated with utter disdain.  I have become used to his cruel rebuttals.  Not really.  They are very hurtful.  Furthermore, today he was in a particularly fine strop as their ‘ships had been away and he was feeling slighted. In a very vocal manner.  To my uneducated ear it sounded like foul feline cursing, although far be it for me to cast aspersions upon his, up to this point, faultless character.

He may be grumpy, but look how beautiful he is, his slick black fur against the verdant grass.  I wonder what he was thinking as I took this photo:

a) Seen any mice head this way?

b) Shouldn’t someone be mowing the lawn? My delicate little pawsies are getting damp.

c) Not you again! Go away and leave me alone or I will call the police.

d) I have made a terrible mistake and beg you to forgive me.  Please be my best friend, for ever and ever.

I think I know which it was …..

Start

We have eventually broken ground at Nancy Nightingale’s.   A rough border shape was marked out, and we began the task of removing the terrible turf.   As we were wheelbarrowless (a terrible affliction) the sods were piled into a trug and transported across a 100m assault course (including steps) to be formed into an igloo at the end of NN’s mother’s garden.  Whether permission had been asked for this structure I am not sure, all I do know is that she insisted we wore balaclavas. As suspected the soil isn’t great, claggy, low humus content, rocky, a bit icky looking.  Strangely it was absolutely packed full of worms, who I would imagine are desperately trying to escape. We have been removing the larger stones, and bricks, and wood, and rags, as we work.   It was slow going, back breaking work, but playing Name that Tune and Chuck the Rock into the Pink Bin certainly helped us along.

By the end of the morning we had completed almost half, I measured the garden using sophisticated satelite data and out of 16 Gilly Paces and we have completed 7.  During this time Nancy developed an unnatural affection for the half moon, so I have loaned her it until my next visit, in case she gets the urge to continue on her own. Can’t imagine it would be half as fun alone. Who would she play games with ……

 

Dafty Duck

Spring is definitely in the air.  Time to cut back, tidy all the detritus, let the new shoots emerge unhindered by the last year’s has beens.  At The Farm on Thursday I was merrily pulling defunct crocosmia foliage when I had the distinct feeling that I was being watched.  Then I spotted the culprit, so well camouflaged I was almost upon her, Mrs Duck.  She didn’t move.  Not one iota. Her beady eye watched my every move, but she was not shifting, not even an inch.  This made me wonder, in fact made me certain, she was sitting on a brood.  Right outside a holiday cottage, which is going to be occupied in a matter of a few weeks.  Perhaps 200m from the pond.  Oh dear. This probably isn’t the best place to set up a nursery.  We looked up timings, 28 days from lay to hatch.   Apparently they rarely leave the nest except for a quick snack and a leg stretch.  We might just get away with it before the Easter hoards arrive.  Otherwise there will be warnings and vigils and great expectations.

But now I am worried.  She is vulnerable here. Foxes roam, stoats are active.  She can’t be moved. It is all down to fate now, and that fickle queen isn’t always kind.

Saxifrage

saxifrage

I have absolutely nothing to say.  Except if it doesn’t stop raining very very soon I’m going to have a hissy-fit.  And also, here is a saxifrage.  It is getting fed up too.  Although, to be honest, it doesn’t look that way.   In fact it looks very pretty, for a delicate little plant that is getting soaked to the cellulose every day.  Perhaps I should try harder to put on a brave face.

Flamingo

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“Are you a Softie Walter, or female equivalent?” I asked my singing teacher, Nancy Nightingale. “No, I don’t mind getting wet and muddy at all” she answered with a trill.  “That is just as well” I replied.

Rain stopped play last week and I refused to let it happen again.  The weather folk at the Met Office had done a swerve overnight and “cloudy but dry all day” had morphed into “pouring with rain until later when it might just carry on raining anyway.”

But we had seed to sow and bulbs and tubers to pot up, and I wanted to get on.  So we soldiered on.  First we put together the plastic green house, a miracle of engineering.  Then we filled it with planted up dahlias, lilies and tigridia and pots of sown marigolds, sunflowers and cosmos.

I had given Nancy a comprehensive shopping list to get us started on the road to horticultural glory, which she had dutifully followed to the letter.  This list was not as complete as I first thought and there were a couple of omissions.  It is tricky when someone is starting from absolute zero, with not even a shed to have nothing in, no tools, no pots, no compost, no gloves, no nothing.

“Oh” I remembered “And you will need a watering can.” “Don’t worry” said Nancy “I’ve got one.”

This is the watering can.  A pink flamingo.  The water comes out of a hole half up its beak. Interesting.

We will have to get a more substantial one, once we get going and the border is planted. But in the meantime, this cheeky chap will be just perfect.

Cope

Prunus × incam 'Okamé'

Prunus × incam ‘Okamé’ is just a babe, no more than 30cm tall, but that hasn’t stopped it flowering prolifically.  It was enjoying the spring sunshine today as much as I was, and that was a great deal.  After last night’s riotous, window-shaking, sleep-depriving storm it was all the more appreciated.  It seems that calm can follow as well as lead. This flowering cherry will reach 4m-8m in height given ideal conditions. The thought of a tree that size, fully clad in these pretty pink blooms is almost too much to cope with.  But I will be brave.  I will manage.

Some Daffs for St David

Daffodils

I would like to wish a happy St David’s Day to you lot across the water.  Yes, you know who I mean. The Welsh from Wales.  On a clear day I can see your shores from my window; the mystical islands of Worms Head, the fabled Pembrokeshire coast and its equally gorgeous sister, the Gower peninsula. Misty lands that come and go with the weather.  Sometimes I wonder who is looking back at me.  Then I pull the curtains.

Efallai y bydd eich cennin Pedr yn sefyll tal a bod eich cennin byth yn rhydu. Hapus Dydd Gŵyl Dewi!*

* If it is nonsense I blame Google translate!