Written from a patch of sunshine at the top end of the garden. The day before our middle daughter’s 22nd birthday (she is in Finland) and 15 days since my father died aged 87.
I’ve been attempting for at least the third time to secure the end of the garden thus inhibiting my dog’s desire to wander. It always feels wrong if I’m in the garden and he’s shut in the house. He’s been a good companion to me during the period of my father dying. He waited patiently in the car for me every time I visited the hospital and adapted to staying in four different friends’ and families’ houses.
I woke up this morning with the urge to plan my crops for next year. This will be very different to my previous growing patterns because of a warmer climate, less space and use of a greenhouse.
It is now the end of the day and a conversation with my neighbour over the hedge that I was cutting resulted in my borrowing a roll of her husband’s chicken wire to secure the end of the garden, on condition that I return it in the spring when he will need it for planting his peas. It is, miraculously, exactly the right length.
