'There and Back Again'

I write, not just as a volunteer gardener at Sarehole Mill, but donning my other hat, as a founder member of Shire Productions, a theatre group who have long been associated with the Middle-earth Weekend held annually at Sarehole Mill.  (www.middleearthweekend.org.uk).  

We are very pleased the group are associated with this pre-Christmas and pre-'Hobbit' film event at Sarehole Mill.  Come with us on an unusual journey.

 ‘There and back again’.

Readings, poetry and songs by J.R.R. Tolkien in Moseley Bog starting from Sarehole Mill, Cole Bank Road, Hall Green, Birmingham B13

2.00 - 4.00 pm.  8th and 9th December 2012  

Join a winter afternoon walk to Moseley Bog and feel the magic of 'the Old Forest' that inspired JRR Tolkien. Members of theatre group Shire Productions will join you on the walk from the Mill to the bog and lighten your travels with songs and anecdotes.

Once there, surrounded by ancient trees, you might meet  Thorin, Bilbo, Lord Elrond and other characters from The Hobbit.

Tolkien’s stories and songs will come alive through his readings, poetry and songs and on the way back again, magic lanterns will light the path for you.

On your return at the Mill it will be time for a well earned 5th breakfast of hot drinks and sweet cakes.

 Start at 2pm from bridge at mill car park. Please dress appropriately for a winter afternoon in December. Cost £6 (including 5th breakfast), children under 16 free.

Booking is essential as numbers are limited.   Tickets available from the on-line box office (www.bmag.org.uk) or phone 0121-303 1966.

Come in costume if you wish.

8. There's Wild Things in them thar Woods.

Before visiting my son and his family in the States recently I had been mulling over the difference in terminology between our country and his current home.

His ‘yard’ is at least five times the size of our ‘garden’.  To me ‘yard’ has always been (apart from the measurement) associated with my Nan’s home where a toilet outside was reached by crossing the yard whilst stepping over the blue bricks between the two homes that shared this facility, and which featured newspaper threaded with string and hung on a hook.  Not to mention spiders (see Blog ’Towards that Time of Year’). There was nary a plant to be seen apart from the occasional dandelion seedling desperately reaching for the sun.

Then, lo and behold, there in the home in Massachussetts was an article from Bill Bryson’s Book ‘I’m a Stranger Here Myself’ where he talks about this very point, his wife being English and a keen gardener and Bill Bryson being neither!

He describes the American homes surrounded by woodland acreage and with yards having huge lawns acting as a buffer between house and trees.  This is my son’s ‘yard’ exactly.  I am still coming to terms with it.  I help out when over there with gardening projects which mostly includes taming the woodland.  This will be an ongoing project for as long as they live there.  In fact it will be impossible, so taming the fringes to stop it encroaching is more achievable.  I love doing this and my son and daughter-in-law encourage me.  They are no fools!

Around homes over there, are borders full of hosta or irises which seem to flourish and evergreens such as rhododendrons.  Things that more or less look after themselves. Cedar chippings  are commonly spread on these beds to stop the weeds.  It smells lovely, but the colour is like bright terracotta pottery and not in my opinion pleasant to the eye in any quantity.  My son and his wife have made the decision to eliminate this and I have helped, removing the chippings and using it to make several paths weaving in and out of the woodland instead, where it eventually takes on woodland coloured camouflage.

My son has a ‘tractor’ to cut the grass.  Even using this it takes about an hour to cut the lawn, not to mention hoovering up the leaves.  The woods look lovely at this time of year with the wide range of colours.  This is after all New England.   But as in this country, the leaves on the ground in ‘The Fall’ look like soggy cornflakes, and they have a lot of them.  This American description of the season is of course well known to us over here despite our use of the word autumn.  This is possibly because we used it here as well until about the end of the sixteenth century.  When the pioneers left for the New World they carried on using it.

They have humming birds migrating through, crickets and frogs join together to emit a strangely exotic chorus on warm summer evenings.  It is unfamiliar to my ears, used to the benign but less varied species in this country and generally holidaying in northern climes.  There are wild turkeys in them thar woods, not to mention fisher cats (some kind of polecat), snakes, deer and the dreaded poison ivy.   Deeper in, trees keel over and branches fall with regularity in highwinds.

It is, nevertheless, and despite my daunting description to the contrary, a great place for my granddaughter to play and explore—the lawn area is, as mentioned above, extremely large!  She is still tentative about the deep woodland, hence the little paths on the edges along which she feels safe, and our attempts to push back the encroaching trees.

I thought our garden was a decent size.  Big enough to be interesting but manageable.  It takes me, however, a little time to adjust when we return from a visit.    There is more variety in our garden perhaps.  Our lawns take about an hour to cut with the hover mower.  Which reminds me, they have not been cut since before we went over to visit and now it is raining. 

Wish we had a tractor.

The Gardener's Tale

When I published my last post on 25th August I was unaware that my Mom would pass away early that evening, during my visit to her.    She was 95 years old so it was not unexpected but still a shock when it happened.   Unfortunately this was followed a week later by a very good friend, also a gardener.  This has not been a very good summer one way or another but gardening has, all my life, helped through difficult times.  At the moment though I am bereft of anything to say, so I am publishing two stories from the blogspot of an extremely talented writer who also happens to be a nephew of mine. Phil Sawyer wrote the first article in response to the death of my Dad, (his Granddad) aged 97  in December 2008.  Last Sunday Phil posted a second article for Mom (his Nan).   Mom and Dad were remarkable people and the stories are very moving. I, therefore, with his permission, pass them on to you in memory of gardeners who have been close to you also. 

Thursday, 11 December 2008
The Gardener's Tale
 The Gatekeeper leant on the handle of his spade and let out a deep sigh. These gardens were causing him no end of concern. He was busy enough with his normal duties; all this digging, planting and weeding was too much.

It wasn't as if he could see any result for his labours. The gardens were unkempt. Leaves were strewn across an unruly lawn. There were plants in the borders he certainly hadn't remembered putting there. And it wasn't as if he wasn't busy enough with his normal job. Keeping the Register up to date was work enough.

"Gatekeeper," enquired the Master when they met later that day, "can you tell me why our garden looks as it does?"

"I'm sorry Sir. I try, I really do. But I can't summon enough enthusiasm for it. And I've been so busy recently, what with manning the Gate and everything. We've had a lot of people coming through, so the garden has fallen by the wayside."

The Master was thinking.

"Your problem," he said, "is that you don't have enough love for the garden. You can either do it, or not. There is no in-between"

"What do you suggest we do, Master?"

"You mentioned you'd had plenty of people through the Gate in recent days. I've been looking closely at them." It seemed the Master had someone in mind.

Six months later and the garden was perfection. The neatly edged lawns practically glowed emerald. The borders were a riot; a symphony of chrysanthemums, dahlia and begonia. The heady scent of roses wafted gently on the breeze. The Passion flowers were a nice touch, thought the Gatekeeper.

The Gardener stepped back from his wheelbarrow and straightened his tie. A smile broke across his features. It had been some years since he'd felt like this. "What do you think, then?" he asked.

"This is truly wonderful, " said the Gatekeeper. "Well done. The Master chose well. What's your secret?"

"You must love what you do. I must say, Gatekeeper, this takes me back. I never thought I'd be able to do all this again. It's like I'm young again."

"This place does that to you. If you want to, you can look after this garden as long as you want."

The Gardener's smile broadened: "Well, thank you. If you don't mind, I think I will. This place is like heaven."

Now it was time for the Gatekeeper to smile.

In loving memory of Alfred Sawyer, 1911-2008. Happy gardening, Granddad.

Sunday, 16 September 2012
The Gardener's Tale, part two
The Gardener leant on the handle of his fork and drew a hand across his brow. He liked the fact that he was busy these days. It was a good thing; the results of his labours were clear to see. But he couldn't help thinking that something was missing.

The sound of footsteps on the gravel path made him look up. The Gatekeeper was approaching.

"Good morning, Gatekeeper. I hope you like the garden. I'm just planning some bulbs for the spring. Should be a blaze of colour."

The Gatekeeper seemed pre-occupied."Gardener, I need to talk to you," he said, the beginnings of a stern expression forming on his face.

"Is there something wrong?"

"No. Well, not really. The garden is beautiful. It's much better than I could have hoped. How long have you been here?"

"It's difficult to tell, Gatekeeper. But this will be fifth time I've done a winter planting-out, if that helps."

"You've truly put your heart and soul into this. But I can tell that there is something you're missing."

The Gardener looked down at the neatly-mowed lawn. His words came slowly."You're right, Gatekeeper. I love this little patch, and you've been very generous. But sometimes I wish I could share all of this..."

"I think I know what you mean," said the Gatekeeper. He was thinking. Then he raised his head and looked the Gardener in the eyes. He spoke softly, almost a whisper. "I think it's time, you know."

Months later and the garden was a blaze of colour. Each bed was planned to perfection, every pot a riot of colour. The Gatekeeper was unsurprised; this was another triumph for the Gardener. But he could tell that there was something extra at play.

The Gardener's dwelling, now that was a different matter altogether. The Gatekeeper hadn't really noticed this place before, but he found himself drawn to it now. It had been somehow transformed. He couldn't really put his finger on it, but it was a home now, not just a place for living in.

The Gatekeeper was sitting on a long sofa. French windows opened out into the garden, a gentle breeze moving the apple tree branches to and fro. He could hear the trickling of a water-course, while the smell of baking wafted in from the kitchen. It was almost as if the garden and the house complemented each other. He looked around. There was an armchair next to the fireplace, knitting patterns and balls of wool strewn across it. Quite the largest aspidistra he had ever seen nestled in a blue and white pot in the corner, while a herd of small china hedgehogs marched steadily across the mantelpiece.

"Another cup of tea, Gatekeeper?" asked the Gardener's wife from the small kitchen.

"No thank you madam." Secretly he was hoping that another jar of pickled onions was coming his way, but he didn't want to press matters. "Are you settling in well?"

She bustled in through the doorway, drying her hands on a small towel."Oh yes," she said, "I've never been so busy." She motioned to the garden. "He thinks he knows it all, but every now and then he needs a little supervision. Plus his cardigans were were getting a little worn at the elbows. There's always something that needs doing." She chuckled to herself.

"The garden does look lovely."

"Oh, I know. All the colours. Reds, blues, yellows. I never thought I'd be able to see them like this again. It's been wonderful, you know. Just how I remembered it."

The Gatekeeper leant back and regarded the Gardener's wife. "You know, madam, in my line of work I get to meet lots of people. Scientists, mathematicians, people of logic. If you were to ask them what one plus one comes to, they'd say it was two. But seeing you and the Gardener together, I'm not so sure any more."

Her eyes shone brightly as she replied. "Yes. Sometimes, one and one are worth more than that."

"Just one question, though. Why have you got the number 198 on the front door?"

She grinned. "Ah. I can explain that. You might think you know everything there is to know about paradise, Gatekeeper. But me and Alf, we'd been perfecting this for quite a while."

"That makes sense," said the Gatekeeper. He noticed her looking intently at him. "What's the matter?"

"Oh, nothing. I'm just trying to figure out if you're a 42-inch waist or a 44-inch. I've got this spare wool, you see, Gatekeeper. I think you'd look quite smashing in a nice cable-knit."

In loving memory of Edith Sawyer, 1917-2012.  Enjoy the colours, Nan.  Hope you and Granddad are planning the spring bulbs together once again.

 Last, from myself:

Yellow was the last colour to go as sight faded.
Spring flowers were always the best.
Yellow daffodils unfurling quickly from green.
Autumn with yellow and gold chrysanthemums.
Yellow summer sun bringing light and warmth
through the window.
But life has been long,
and lately the journey was hard.
Flowers always helped.

 

Our Gardening Club.

Following the renovation work on Sarehole Mill that started in March 2011 and the creation of new gardens, volunteers on an ad hoc basis also tackled nettles, wrestled brambles, and untangled ivy to clear space for wildlife planting.  This continues, as do the brambles and nettles.  Perseverance is the order of the day.

This summer a regular gardening club started. Volunteers mainten the existing gardens and we are establishing new ones around Sarehole Mill.   Gardening tools have been purchased for our use.  We meet twice a month until the end of October and intend creating a garden oasis of appropriate woodland plants and wild flowers alongside the mill pool and around the mill itself.  Details of the club are on the website www.shirecountryparkfriends.org.uk. 

We are lucky in having The Shire Country Park on our doorstep in Hall Green.  Actually our doorstep is within The Shire Country Park, running as it does from the Solihull boundary in the South, along the River Cole Valley to the Ackers Trust in the North.  Along this natural ribbon of wildlife, enthusiastic volunteers take part in conservation work days enhancing and preserving the various sections of river margins.  Sarehole Mill Gardening Club is one of the groups under the umbrella of Sarehole Environmental Action Team that serves the River from the Mill along to the Stratford Rd via Greet Mill Meadows.   Each section of river has its own group, and they are shown on the above website if you are interested in joining them or just browsing the activities.

Of course Sarehole Mill café is very conveniently placed along the River Cole for those who enjoy the less strenuous but no less important activity of taking refreshments within attractive surroundings.  

We have had several workdays since the Gardening Club started, the first one with  just two volunteers who became totally drenched.  I was well covered but with my hood over my head, I could not see what I was doing so I decided it was easier to just get wet.  (Again)!  Since then, workdays have been, remarkably for this summer, sunny and much enjoyed by the 8/10 volunteers who regularly attend. 

During one session we learned that judges for the Britain in Bloom Competition were visiting the mill and its surrounds.   In what I can only think was a mad rush of blood to my head, I offered to drive out (somewhere) to fetch lots of ivies of various strains to plant at the mill.  I am not a bad driver.  I just don’t enjoy it very much.  As far as I am concerned, it is useful and I try not to travel too far outside Hall Green.   Some people might even describe me as a Sunday driver.  I am not!  I drive like that every day of the week.  I am though, a very good passenger and my map reading skills are nearly always perfect.

However, now I have a sat nav and it is great.  It was a wet day to start with and then became wetter and finally the rain became a deluge.  Drivers passed me in wild clouds of spray but undaunted I concentrated on the gentle voice explaining where I should go next. The infrequent pinging, called to mind plane journeys.  I expected small packets of pretzels to materialise.  Then magic, I was there and the rain stopped.  Fibrex Nursery houses the national collection of ivies.  I had not been aware there were so many different kinds being used to tackling the common ivy that grows up trees and down dales.

Back at t’mill, we planted 70 odd ivies, cleared up dead leaves and rubbish, planted more ferns, weeded, swept up and had coffee.  Lovely!

Apparently the judges were impressed!     More anon! 

Towards 'That Time of Year'.

In my research on spiders, it being that time of year when male spiders are on the lookout for females and, in what has turned out to be a vain effort to achieve tolerating them through familiarity (which has singularly failed), I have been looking at information on Cellar Spiders.  You know those spindly creatures with tiny bodies and long legs.   They often hang there quivering with excitement at the thought of their next meal.   I find I can just about accept them so it seemed a good place to start.

Apparently a million people in the UK are arachnophobes.  Which means I am one in a million, which is nice!  Apparently ‘it’s the way they look.’  Well yes, that could be it.  8 thin legs and unpredictable behaviour is off-putting on anything as far as I am concerned.  Strangely enough, I find them inoffensive in the garden.  They can skip merrily across my hands (admittedly in gardening gloves these days) (the hands not the spiders), tear across my feet and even, should they dare, start climbing up my trouser legs.  Not for long mind you.  I do, however, brush them off carefully rather than jumping up and down taking wild sweeps in the air.  Perhaps it is because I can accept them in the garden, which I consider to be their natural habitat, which we happen to be sharing.  However, in the house (even though they consider it to be their natural habitat) we are on opposite sides of the web so to speak.

Now I have been informed that spiders do not wish to hurt you and are just seeking the shade.  This is logical.  I can believe this.  However, logic goes out of the window when a shade seeking missile, obviously one that has been practising for gold, aims straight for you and ignores completely all the other shady places en route.

There are about 600 different species of spider in the UK, and 8 of them are house spiders. In the garden you more easily come across a wide variety of spiders of different sizes and colours.  This worries me not.    In fact the range is quite interesting.  It is possible to crouch there watching them and even wondering where they might be off to.  Of course, even there, it is better if they wandering away rather than towards.

In the house it is a different matter.  I have become better over the years at tackling them.  The ones I carefully remove wrapped in a cloth are bigger than they used to be.  I draw the line at those monstrous things that thunder over the carpet towards you.  I remember well the time I was sitting on the floor watching television when ‘the beast’ emerged and headed straight for me.  The spider shot up the fire surround, missing me, as I was jumping onto the sofa.  It was touch and go who reached the highest point.  I hang there momentarily quivering.  Which brings me, rather cleverly, back to cellar spiders.  It appears that these spiders enjoy being in cellars, obviously, but also any undisturbed place. 

This troubles me and indicates I am spending too much time in the garden and not enough with the fluffy duster.

Rubble at t'mill (1)

The last time Sarehole Mill had any extensive work carried out was in 1969.  Wear and tear has worked its wicked will on the buildings but now funding has been granted to give the mill much-needed tender loving care.  Toilets were installed a few years ago in the old stable block and a cafe is now in regular use.

New slates will replace damaged and friable roof tiles.  Water seeping its way through the brickwork has been denied entry.  Access to the first floor and the milling machinery is now by a sloping wheelchair-friendly path around the back.   The original access is still available for those nimble enough to climb up the steep and narrow ladder should that be your desire.   I have been known to ascend that way myself, on occasion.  Fortunately for me, you cannot descend that way.  A one-way system exists to see the mill machinery and the new exhibition: ‘Signpost to Middle-earth’.

Creating the new path meant removing overpowering, overgrown, laurel bushes and dark and
 uninspiring trees and roots.  This left behind empty beds except for the crops of Edwardian house-bricks buried within, not to mention remnants of greenhouses past.  The cleared beds became The Gaffer’s Vegetable Patch and Sam’s Flower Garden, reflecting J.R.R. Tolkien’s connections with the Mill.  

Last year, 2011, on one particularly rainy day, I took it upon myself to plant the flower bed,  with many, (that is many, many, not to mention muddy), perennials that would, hopefully, attract bees, butterflies and birds.  And they did!  The bed was transformed.  Unfortunately, current weather conditions have not favoured the bee-hive that has been installed at the mill.  But the flowers were quite wonderful and the vegetable patch flourishing.  A variety of shrubs were planted in a desolate bed alongside the mill path leading to the back of the mill.  Subsequently, a fernery leading to a tiny woodland was started and a woodland path was cleared through a holly cave leading to this young, but enthusiastic copse featuring, in the spring, young and enthusiastic bluebells.

More plans are afoot.  The mill pool is to be dredged at long last over the autumn/winter.   The mill wheel has only been able to run for short bursts. Deep layers of silt in the pond were stirred up badly when the wheel was running.  The aroma was interesting.  Acidic, not to mention aggressive undertones, with a tad too much oxidisation.  Next year, milling can start again and flour produced for sale.  Plans are in hand to restore the bakery.

Before

After

     
Draining the pool had a knock on effect.  Not least because I have not seen the crane that was a frequent visitor.   Hopefully he or she will return when conditions are favourable.  The lesser spotted woodpecker was undetered though.

Current Condition

Because the silt removal will mean deeper water, the pressure on the old wooden sluice gates will be stronger.  These are, therefore, being replaced even as I write.  Watching the mill pool during the months since it was drained has been fascinating.  It was, to say the least, quite appalling how much grey slimy silt there was.  The amount of water must have been about 6".    As it dried (earlier in the year), it looked like an old oil painting with its ancient glaze fractured.  Then came the rain and now the sunshine and it is currently sprouting quite amazing and, I think, attractive growths of bright green and yellow plant life across the whole surface.  Well worth a visit in its own right.

After the summer season is over the mill will be clad in scaffolding and the silt lifted from the pond.  We should be patient, however, for come the spring the mill will emerge from its cocoon, like the butterflies we are trying to encourage.

The mill is open until the end of October from 12.00 to 4.00 every day except Mondays.  There is a charge to look round the mill but the grounds are free to wander around, perhaps after a cup of tea and cake in the cafe.

A Balsam Bashing Day

It has been Balsam bashing time along the River Cole.  Himalayan Balsam is an annual plant, growing head high, or in my case, even higher.  It has extremely pretty pink and occasionally white flowers. 

Do not, I urge you, be influenced by the pretty pink and white flowers.  This plant is a marauder swamping our equally pretty indigenous wild flowers.  The invader must be pulled up, cut down, bashed firmly, and with both feet, until the roots are squidged flat and the stems squelch, noisily and juicily.  Very pleasing!  Saves pounds in counselling fees.

The work should be carried out before the flowers form and the seeds spread.  One plant can produce 800 seeds.  These can be caterpulted by the plant up to 7 metres away.  Balsam being a damp loving plant, populate the sides of streams, which of course create a liquid highway for seed adventuring.  This presents another opportunity to wade in the water to pull up seedlings along the river-banks.  With the inevitable wet socks to follow of course.  Am I too old or possibly even too small, for waders, I ask myself?

Balsalm bashing has been an annual event along the River Cole over the last couple of years and it has been gratifying to see our natural wildflowers re-occupying their rightful place along the river-bank - confidently by cow parsley and nettles, more timidly from Ragged Robin or buttercup.

What a year it has been for Goosegrass.  Turn your back for a moment and there it is, threading, climbing, lurking everywhere, drooping like fuzzy ribbons of green.  And sticking!  Especially sticking!

This is another annual plant.  It uses tiny hooks on its equally tiny fruit to catch onto passing animals, including humans.  It can of course, be gathered up in quantity and formed into a green ball to throw at one’s companions but that is surely for children.  Adults find it merely an added irritation accompanying this gardening season which is passing by wetly, cloudily and with just the odd day of sunshine to give us hope that the marigolds are not entirely past help.

Other names for Goosegrass are (and I quote with no added comment):

Beggars’s Lice, Catchweed, Cleaverweed, Bedstraw, Everlasting Friendship, Scratch Grass and last but not least, Sticky Willie.

Moseley Bog

Over the years I have become involved with conservation groups associated with Moseley Bog and along the River Cole.  Volunteers coppice woodland, pick up litter, dead hedge, pick up litter, scrape duckweed off ponds and pick up litter.

I find litter picking very satisfying.  I do use the ‘professional’ litter pickers but constantly squeezing the grips makes my hands painful.  Also it is difficult to aim accurately into a bramble patch harbouring a nest of empty cans.  Best wear strong clothing and gloves and plunge right in, I say.  What’s a thorn in the side compared to a bum thumb.  Of course being made redundant in the litter-picking department would be better.

I have become quite the expert at dead hedging.  It is very agreeable  opening up a glade with coppicing to let wildflowers have some breathing space and using the accumulating branches to fence and protect that space.  Mini-mammal highways!

At my age donning wellies and standing in muddy water is a particularly satisfying occupation.  Not something I thought I would be doing that often after age 10.    Forget the fact that you quickly become aware that your balance on rocks and stones is not quite as stable as it used to be and being only 5’ 2” means the water gets into your size 4 wellies quicker than someone who is 6’ 2”, wearing size 10 wellies.  It is fun and no-one is going to tell me off.   Might have to investigate wader possibilities.  Extra small!

Why would you be standing in muddy water, I hear you ask?  Or possibly not but I shall tell you anyway.  In Moseley Bog there are some burnt mounds with a river running through.  Well, not a river exactly, but on occasion, like most of this year, an extremely impertinent, fast flowing stream.  The action of the water washes away the small stones and pebbles that constitute the burnt mound. Current thinking suggests that burnt mounds were bronze age sauna’s.  These stones are old and cold now, but three thousand years ago they might have given you a pretty good blister.

Anyway, pretty nifty hazel fencing is created to line the banks through the burnt mound area which means volunteers wading into the water and holding posts whilst they are hammered in.  The posts not the volunteers.  Hazel rods are threaded in and around the posts and pressed together.  It’s like weaving but wetter. 

A hot sauna seems quite appealing by the time you’ve finished.

www.shirecountryparkfriends.org.uk.

Pottering About

I love gardening.  My Dad loved gardening.   I remember him giving me my first little patch of ground just outside the greenhouse.  Admittedly it was only 1 foot by 2 foot and full of candytuft but it was a start and it was mine. 

An early memory is being chauffered to the allotment in the wheelbarrow.  Such style.  Fortunately, I have never suffered from sea-sickness.   Of course I had to walk back, said wheelbarrow being full of goodies from the allotment.

In the meantime, I grew up, married, had children, watched children depart for university and jobs, hither and yon.  The bare patches on the lawn grew green.  Or blue, depending on how well the speedwell is doing in any one year.  Sometimes it’s dotted white with daises.  Now and then it’s green but that is the moss.

In the meantime I pottered in the garden.  Dad always liked bedding out plants.  Twice a year all plants were removed.  Summer bedding made way in the autumn for spring bedding.  I did the same.  For a while! 

Our garden is quite large.  Bedding out plants have been replaced with perennials and shrubs.  It’s taken 41 years to mature.  However, now, when I have the time, I find lack of stamina means I spend that time in short bursts rather than the, all day while the boys play in the sandpit, sort of time.

Consequently I work very fast and then ache everywhere afterwards.  But oh, the bliss of a hot bubbly bath, and oh, the stiffness when scrambling out afterwards.

I wear gardening gloves now.  It is of course too late.  My hands and lower part of my arms are covered in brown splodges.  There is no way they could be described as freckles.   Too much sun on bare arms! 

There seemed to be more sun then.