Spring

Spring came at last.  The bulk of the meadow I had not touched and here the grass was growing. Lovely long wavy grasses.  Everywhere daffodils sprang up.  The most gratifying daffodils for me were those which had been buried for years under the brambles.

As spring came on, a buddleia which I had rather stupidly planted in my narrow flower bed alongside the house, when it looked small and pretty, became a monster.  After some thought, I dug it up and planted it on the meadow.  Just at that point the dry spell arrived.  I spent at least two months going out every other day and watering the trees I had planted and that buddleia. I am sure my neighbours must have thought I was obsessed.  My husband, who is not a gardener, stayed indoors and escaped notice.  However, the buddleia is still alive although it hasn't flowered.  Perhaps next year.

The little fruit trees produced leaves and a small amount of blossom.  They have been struggling a little, not only with the dry, but with the muntjacs which have been nibbling their leaves.  The taller plum trees each have a little crown of leaves which are just out of reach of the deer, but the cherries are looking very bare.  Still, the deer have to eat something and I just have to hope the trees will survive and get stronger as they get taller.

After the daffodils, spring brought to the muddy patch, with its precious seeds, an abundance of sticky weed, goose grass, or, to give it its proper name, gallium aparine.  It was everywhere, in great swathes, and my fear was that it would prevent all those little plants from coming through.