Very Small Mercies

It was just as well that there were piglets and tree surgeons at the Farm today.  There was little else in its favour.  Wet, muddy, cold, miserable.  And I’ve got a stinky cold and a leak in one of my boots.  This has made me even wetter, muddier, colder and more miserable than usual.  A gorgon. Unlike the little piggies, who are absolutely adorable, although still quite shy.  I am looking forward to scratching their rusty backs and feeding them apples.

The tree surgeons amazed me with their aerobatics and for a while I forgot the constant mizzle/drizzle/rain whilst I studied their craft.

A bonus was the antics of Misty the lamb, who’s mum sadly rejected her.  Watching her snuffling her breakfast, catkin tail wagging furiously, put a smile on my face.  For a moment.

ps  You will be pleased to know that Mrs Duck is sitting firm.  This is even more incredible as not 3m away from her nest the builders have been jack hammering a trench, the debris lifted by a clunking digger and put into a rattling tractor for removal.  Let’s hope it is worth all her trouble. And earache.

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.