On this supposedly bleakest day of the year, we need hope, and the place to find it – albeit with difficulty – is the garden. Wading out through the mud left by partial flooding, off to the chicken run two or three times a day, to the poor hens, locked down, their food under threat from squirrels, I can be sure of a welcome. I stand on patrol wrapped in double duvet topped with a raincoat, to shoo away the fat, furry pests. Squirrels will ultimately rule the world: their persistence, bravery and guile gets them into a netted run through a chained and levered feed bin to three meals a day.
My poor little flock, perched on a network of branches to keep them dry, are bored stiff and look out on the garden with the same dreamy look as I have on the world in general. So I make do with my garden. I find clematis cirrhosa, hellebores, and rosemary flowering, even salvias and bidens safe from frosts. Bulbs are appearing, and those planted in the house and garden room: the hyacinths, narcissus and orchids are flowering.
I have plans: a new front hedge of sea buckthorn (from Pomona Fruits) to replace the dying privet that acts as support to festoons of ivy, but first I need to rescue all the cyclamen that cover the hedges’ feet to transplant down under the oak tree. But mostly, I’m grateful for the outside space, the fresh air and the sunsets, and the possibility of looking forward to better times, in the garden and in general. Keep safe.