And come home with twenty sacks of compost.
I needed cheering up.
I had spent the morning dealing with the planning application for our building project. The particular page that was queried was sent on 6th December. And only now was an errant line pointed out as ‘missing’. A figure. The estimated depth of a foundation. The revedence d’archéologie préventive in fact. And the answer is 0 – 30 cm.
If the whole thing falls over because of that one line I will be a grumpy bunny indeed.
Far better to stick my head in the sand, or rather my hands in the sacks of compost and get mulching.
It’s marvellously soothing.
My potager is pretty weed free. It is scruffy. And in need of new edges and more gravel for the paths. But at least I was able to start mulching the beds without recourse to major maintenance.
But I sure could use some new chestnut poles and branches to redo the supports.
Oh, I did do some maintenance. I have decided the dahlias can go all over the potager, instead of crammed into the far end cut flower garden bed.
So that meant dividing the tubers and repotting them in the giant buckets I use for pots. Then sinking them back in the ground and mulching over the top. You can see why they were eaten like potatoes. Very plump tubers indeed.
The plants have been overwintering in the cellar for the past two months. So they’ve had a marvellous time away from the threat of mole rats and beasties.
I’m the only beastie in their life. And I was very gentle indeed.
And seven beds mulched was as far as I got when this happened.
A light snow flurry and I raced indoors.
Seven beds down, ten to go.