Happy Easter!

Before you look down, look up!

meaning, don’t expect your seeds to romp away when the weather remains unseasonably cold; a pertinent italian saying that I saw on the Franchi Seeds website (take a look, great seeds, informative and a good narrative), run by a cheerful Italian accordian player, now that’s a painting waiting to happen!

So... instead of harumphing at the passivity of my tomato seedlings, I had a mooch outside. Fur collar turned firmly up against the cold and ignoring the odd snowflake, I scoured the garden for signs of spring.

I found lambs tails quivering on the hazel, 

pink silk rosettes clipped to the prunus, 

and velveteen pom-poms stippled on the willow.

The Jungle Telegraph

The latest four recruits to the hen house have settled in very well. The white one lays a big white egg, the two small brown ones lay small brown eggs and the large brown one.... is a cockerel. 

To the untrained eye it’s very difficult to tell young cocks from hens, although I’d had my suspicions about "Fifty" on account of his strapping yellow legs.

I do not need another cockerel; patriarch Johns Junior is very protective of his hareem, very attentive to their needs and very possessive. He rules the roost.

So I’d been mulling over the two salient options for my unwanted bird: re-home or roast.

Within hours of whispering my predicament to the breeze, Yan the genial farmhand arrived on my doorstep at dusk. Grinning from beneath his woolly hat, 

“Cockerel make very good soup!” was his opening gambit.

With a torch, to double check we’d got the right bird, and some string to lash those yellow feet together we crept up to the hen house. Moments later I was waving the duo down the drive, “Fifty” unaware of his destiny and compliant in the crook of Yan's arm. 

Considering the sudden dip in temperature this week I’m rather envious of Yan and his steaming pan of hot chicken broth. I should really learn how to wring a chicken’s neck myself.

Daily dose of Bach

Well we’re on the cusp of March and there’s a hint of optimism in the air. Chirpy birds are busy tugging moss from our roof for their nests, my tomato seeds, snug at the bottom of the airing cupboard, have just germinated and my “Speedy Salad Leaves” in the greenhouse have finally set off at a tortoise’s pace.

I will be glad that the see-saw ride of February is over. I have relished occasionally being flipped high into the tantalising spring sunshine. Greenhouse temperatures have soared temporarily and some borders have got dug. 
What I haven’t enjoyed, is the irritatingly frequent and crashing descent back into sub-zero temperatures.

I have tried to embrace the beauty of winter. I have listened to the soothing musicality of snowflakes falling through the dry leaves of the beech hedge and noticed the percussive rattle of icy winds tugging at the palm fronds outside the kitchen window.

But mostly I have been “overwintering” in my studio with hot coffee, a warm radiator and the melodious encouragement of Radio 3. 

"Bees come out of their hives,

the partridge begins to pair,

the blackbird whistles and the field and woodlarks sing."

J.C.Loudon 1882 Encyclopedia of Gardening

Mixed Messages

A chicken’s footprints never fail to make me smile. 

Because they never point to where they’re going. 

Only from whence they've come. 

Obviously a conspiracy.

To outwit the fox with a cunning equal to his own! 

February at Blue Hill

With thanks to Blue Hill Farm

Snow Diaries

tuesday...
Minus twelve. But a sunlit blue sky was enough to tempt me out. 

Walking past a field of sweetcorn, leaves like crumpled parchment and cobs robbed of kernels; I disturbed a woodcock. 
From the sanctuary of the dried stalks, the bird suddenly shot skywards, its distinctive long black beak like a confident pen stroke, inked across a sheet of Basildon Bond blue.

wednesday...

Still inhabiting a monochrome world, pierced only by the yellow of a blackbird’s beak, the warm orange of a robin’s breast.... or me lumbering up the garden to feed the chickens in the mis-matched layers of every single jumper I own!

friday...

Looking towards Gardener’s Cottage the snow covered field is bounded by a line of monumental oaks. In their prime at this time of year, when you can trace every meandering branch to its twiggy end. 
As if on the up-beat of the conductor’s baton a flock of pigeons scatter from the canopy of one oak, and convene again, after a spirited cadenza, on the next.

sunday...
Right on cue for the annual R.S.P.B.'s Big Garden Birdwatch, the kingfisher posed for me on a low branch over the pond, the green patina of its back gleaming in the sun. 
Total bird count included a jay, blackbirds, green woodpeckers, a coot, pigeons-a-plenty, pheasants, bullfinches, and a wren, all equally vocal over the sudden welcome rise in temperature. Goodbye snow.

Snowshine

 Cold but exhilerating. 

And there comes a point when your finger can't even feel the shutter button any more.

So what will the chickens make of it?

"A Gard'ner's work is never at an end; it begins with the Year and continues to the next." John Evelyn 1664 The Gard'ner's Almanac

I woke to the most delicate of snow flurries this weekend. Having suspected that my two rows of garlic had rotted in the squelch that calls itself a vegetable garden, the relief at spotting tiny green spears piercing the frozen soil inspired a frenzied clearing out of the greenhouse.

Thankfully, temperatures inside the inhospitable accommodation were slightly above freezing and the combination of a beret and a bucket of scalding soapy water safeguarded my circulation. 

I was not alone in my happy pursuit. A hibernating frog opened a grumpy eye when I unwittingly pulled back his mossy bedclothes. I just hope he’s ravenous when he wakes up properly, then he can dine like a prince on any bugs that I’ve missed.

Bad light eventually stopped play. That was my cue to warm up in front of the fire with a pile of seed catalogues and all the ambitious intent an empty green house provokes!

New Year, New Calendar

Unveiling one of my favourite projects from last year... a dozen watercolours for the lovely folks at Blue Hill, New York.  

They grow their own vegetables, rear their own animals and serve them up in their own beautiful restaurant. 

If you can't book a table, at least pour yourself a glass of wine and tuck into their inspiring website. www.bluehillfarm.com