I’m cheating with the photo. I worried all my village pictures hadn’t turned out so am making do with an autumnal shot of the barn garden instead.
It has been well and truly planted up with its underground magic supply of bulbs.
As has the village. Two days after Lisa and Antoine left (leaving behind a marvellous stock of sweet wine, foie gras, and quinces) I seem to be spending all my time at the village planting up and plunging in.
At least I have the most elegant picnic to enjoy in between bouts of weeding. Actually I didn’t bring the wine with me. Although it is divine, I did wonder whether being found swigging from a rather good sweet dessert wine that close to a church was a hanging offence.
The state of the plants are pretty dreadful. (As are the photos.)
Neglect about covers it. But I took my mighty mattock to the problem and had the dying anamanthele lessonia grasses up and the weeds removed in one brisk afternoon.
I had forgotten that the village gets the full blast of the mistral wind. I was freezing crouched over the strip of land between the car park and the church.
Then it was a ‘simple’ matter of replanting the area with 30 of my better eragrostis curvula grasses (hardier by far) and then seeding the whole sorry mess with February Gold daffodil bulbs and zillions of grape hyacinths – muscari armeniacum.
I know I need to mulch the entire area. But that can wait. The plants are in, so my halo is shining.
And now I can get back to the fun stuff of bulb planting in my garden. Only 1000 to go.
Have a poached quince: breakfast of champion gourmands. You don’t get the shot of a huge dollop of proper crème fraîche (d’Isigny) over the top. I’m pretending it’s sensible yoghurt, but really. Crème fraîche is just so, so much better.
Sets you up for a day of planting.