An incoherent day.
Small steps; they look alike until they are all over the wall, and then it’s too late. Test pots good (get the dinky little rollers which – amazingly – actually work).
Sibirica; sometimes only for a single day before they go over.
Charity shop: supposedly 3D, but looking at the individual pieces with their shifting colour makes your eyes go googly. And disassembly is a pig, as the pieces jam together, making the image-bearing plastic delaminate from the cardboard substrate. Really glad it was a Bargain.
The image is fraudulent. 1) the clear soil denies certain thickets of roots that are impossible to excavate. Some of them are from the hydrangea petiolaris on the fence, but roots of nettle and bramble and bindweed are woven inextricably among. 2) what appears to be tilth is a thin skim of spent compost raked over the horrible clay lumps, gravel and fragments of concrete that pass for earth. 3) the slant of sunshine disguises that this is north-facing. 4) the fences shelter from wind, but also from rain, and this is dry – all the way to the bottom.
The petiolaris, God bless it, copes with anything, and can be left to get on. As for the new border “soil”, in such adverse conditions it is a question of throwing in everything you’ve got, and seeing what survives.
The blackbirds love me. Sorting out a hundred little plant pots is bunce for them. Not so for the toad hiding in one of them whose otherwise defunct contents I flicked into the garden.* Bit of a surprise to both of us.
Knitting in your sleep is all very well so long as you don’t start knitting to a previous similar pattern instead of the current one.
Undoing the section wouldn’t be too bad if it weren’t for the cabling. Taking the whole jumper back would have been even slower and nearly as difficult.
The tension in panel C is a bit wrecked …
* No toads were harmed in the making of this post.
By my count the bindweed is winning 108 to 4.
It took a while, partly because I have to cherish my back. Not digging up the linaria and roses while I go after the beastly stuff is a problem. And as the brontosaurus said, it only lasts a minute.
Looking among the assorted plant projects, to fill in where the wallflowers were, I found some half decent iris sibirica and libertia in middling pots, and some eryngium in little pots. Make a note, fellow not-very-keen gardeners: those plants have been neglected for more than a year, drowned or desiccated alternately, and starved, and they are still trying.
There is a pleasure in filing away papers, notes, drafts, books. I earned the day with an hour or two of gardening, and an hour or two of housework. Then – light, languid, almost convalescent – drinking tea, reading tosh, and talking to newts.
I have been indulging in Cyril Hare. His trademark plots each turn on some legal clause or condition, and his settings are an austere wartime or post-war England. Interestingly, this and An English Murder include various refugees and displaced persons in the cast of characters; does this reflect what post-war society really was like, or is it political correctness of the time, or just a taste for the exotic?
Small triumph: I did guess the murderer, though not the motive.
Outside, dealing with neglected pots. I had to cut this one off, and the plant lost big chunks of root, poor thing.
The wildlife is gratifying but reluctant to pose for portraits. A slow-worm tucked itself down into a warm spot:
I craned agonisingly over the water (newts are worth hirpling for) looking for small slitherings and turnings. There they were, in pairs and small clumps. One pair was seriously interested – at least he was interested, though perhaps she was not. But they were shy, and ducked when the camera came out.
When it isn’t being the Landslip Blog this tends to be the Old Walls Blog. Today’s old walls were a trifle melancholy, but also analgesic. (Click a thumbnail for the gallery)
Mixed feelings about returning to former occupations after the experiment.
The first batch of beach clay is drying off; the weather still chilly, so it is slow waiting,
while the next batch is slopping down:
Tackling the garden under the buds and catkins of the geriatric birch (surviving another season of gales)
The first grass cut is always wearing. It’s long and saturated and intractable, but there are consolations …
… their dancing presents a challenge to the amateur photographer.