I’ve just spent the entire weekend in the garden – I wasn’t wasting a second of this wonderful weather by being indoors, we’ll have the whole of the winter for that. So I’ve been digging and slashing and sawing and yanking and heaving.
You’ll guess I’m not exactly a refined gardener. In fact gardening was never really my thing. But I just love to be outside and to be busy. And this garden we inherited is so mature it verges on jungle so most of my tasks are taming overgrowth and reclaiming lost corners.
I’ve unearthed snail valley under stones and relocated earthworms. I’ve prised endless grassroots from what was supposed to be a strawberry bed. And I’ve wobbled up the top of too-short ladders hacking back rampant roses as thorny as barbed wire. So today I am scratched, stiff, stung and sore. But actually I feel great; far better than if I’d been trapped in the house all weekend. I even managed to coax the fork into rock hard earth and plant a few more bulbs and, even more surprising, managed to coax the teenager from out of her fug of technology. I think pestering her by throwing pebbles and bits of twig at her bedroom window did it.
And this morning, perching in a funny position on the chair trying to ease aching back and shoulders, I have a cluster of little late roses sitting on the desk, which I discovered still flowering among the overgrown ivy. They bring a bit of the outside in and their scent reminds me that the pain has been worth it!