We spent an afternoon this weekend planting bulbs in two big troughs we have in the garden. One is a mixture of crocuses and tulips, the other is a combination of grape hyacinths and daffodils. The idea is that one lot (the crocuses for example) will come up first followed by the other (the tulips), giving us colour for longer next spring. Canny eh? Wish I’d thought of it but they came in a helpful pack from our local garden centre. The day I bought those bulbs the garden centre happened to be having a sale on shrubs so I came home with one or two…or four…and a couple of climbers…and some perennials. Then my Dad was up visiting and, Johnny Appleseed wannabe that he is, he brought a few specimens from his garden to plant in ours.
This house is supposed to be a ‘transit’ house; a house in between our last home and our new one. It’s practical and it’s not for long. But I just can’t resist doing something with the garden. Honestly, it’s bleak out there. It’s clear nobody has ever cared for it and surely humans need flowers as much as bees do.
Today we woke to a thick mist enveloping everything. Traffic reports on the radio described tales of fog-related travel woe. It seemed weirdly appropriate for the day the country would vote for or against independence. It was as if the weather was matching the secrecy of the polling booth. Neighbours became shadowy figures flitting through the mist. It made me want to whisper. When we got to the church hall that is doubling as our local polling station Little Owl wondered aloud where the boat was. I don’t think I can have explained it very well…starting with my pronunciation!
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