Mulberry madness

An early snowfall and the mulberrries just aren’t ready.  The only sound on the mountain this morning was the clunk, clunk, clunk of green leaves falling to the ground underneath the mulberry tree in the courtyard.

Green frozen leaves. You can just hear them all shrieking, but we haven’t had autumn yet.

I came out early with a broom to shake the snow off the olive trees in front of the house.  We would never have planted them, but our previous owner was determined to prove doubters wrong. We are too high for olives at 55o metres above sea level. But they cling on rather darlingly to their cold winter life.

And after seven years I have learnt now to knock the snow off without standing directly underneath. You would think I would have learnt that one rather fast.

I also thwacked into the giant rosemary bush at the top of the potager steps, and then just couldn’t resist wading through the fresh snow in the orchard and up the pool track. Delightful.

The sun was trying to shine and the snow was perfectly fluffy and crunchy and I only came in when I realised my toes were frozen.

But the other mulberry on the farm – one of only two surviving from the original silkworm producers, is also fetching in the snow.

I never tire of this tree. It perches on the edge of the first terrace below our house and leans at a juanty angle. If you came across it for the first time you would think it is about to collapse in any high wind.  But it clings. And has done for hundreds of years.  A remarkable old tree.