Garden flowers

I have turned into an 830pm gardener. It’s my perfect hour for getting on.

I wrote down a list of things I have done this week at the witching hour. A night raid on the mulch pile at the municipal depot.

I have hard pruned an oak tree up at the bank above the courtyard.

I didn’t plan on attacking it with such vim. But I was promised a bit of work from Bernard in the form of strimming. So I wanted to have it ready for the morrow.

That promise is drifting into next week. But I have a lovely tree and space under the canopy ready for a re-design.

I’ve picked broad beans, peas and lettuce each night for my evening meal which ends up as me perching on an armchair catching up on emails and the news around 10pm.

I have stood stock still watching a HUGE wild boar delicately eating mulberries under the tree on the lower terrace.

(My photos are merely dreadful and hardly illuminating. You can’t see how big the beast is from the hiding spot behind the jostaberries.)

And I have also noted all the things I’m not doing in the evening: washing hair, washing up, hanging out washing on the line.

So on that stinky and slightly itchy and grubby note, I give you a few more of Neal’s lovely pictures.



How does he manage to turn my New Dawn roses so pink? I always see them as white. But he assured me that there was no filter, nor fiddling. Just a sunset shot at the right angle.

The macro lens makes a difference. That and being a damn good photographer!

He had a wander up to the potting shed and snapped quite a lot of the succulents in the pots I have lining the path.

I gave up on pelargoniums or anything else years ago. These beauties never need watering and still look handsome.

And what a difference a damp spring will make. I’m not even ashamed of my stachys. Last year they looked parched and limp and I was threatening them with the compost heap.

Normal service resumes next week. Words and pictures. Average pictures. Unless I have been gored by that boar.