Rough winds do shake…
May already: although it doesn’t feel like it yet. A few warm, sunny days towards the end of April were balm to the soul – and to the garden, which put on a growth spurt (mostly of nettles). Last week, however, swept out the month with snow and hail. You can get all seasons in a day at this time of year.
Yesterday morning, it being the May Day bank holiday, my husband suggested we plant the rose bushes which I bought recently in a fit of extravagant optimism. I think he was looking forward to a morning’s pleasant labour together in the spring sunshine. It was sunny when we went into the garden, certainly…but by the time we’d fetched the spade and the sack of manure, a sudden squall had got up. It’s not that easy trying to dig a two foot hole while holding onto your hat. The emptied plant pots went bowling across the grass, along with my husband’s cap. Meanwhile another couple of slates slid off the castle roof onto the garden path…sigh… At least the rain, the first in several weeks, was welcome; although we wouldn’t have minded if it had arrived an hour later.
It is satisfying to have got the roses planted, whatever the weather. Two generations ago there were rose beds dotted all over the garden: before the First World War, apparently, my husband’s great-grandfather had two gardeners whose job was just to tend the roses. Changing labour patterns in the middle of last century took the total number of gardeners from eight to one: perhaps inevitably, most of the flowerbeds were grassed over to make maintenance easier. I’ve always had a soft spot for roses, however, and wished we had more, despite their reputation for being high maintenance. In planting some new ones (actually relatively ‘old’ varieties like soft pink ‘Gertrude Jekyll’) into one of the remaining beds, I’m hoping firstly to bring some more romantic prettiness to the expanse of lawns, and secondly to save myself the job of having to plant out dozens of bedding plants twice a year, as was done in the past.
We shall see. The great thing about this time of year in the garden is that it’s still full of promise: this year, you tell yourself (every year) will be the best ever. Look how tidy and healthy everything looks!
Actually that moment of perfect promise lasts about five minutes. This year it was two weeks ago on Thursday. The tidying up of the winter borders was finished; the beds were dug over with rich brown earth; the fresh new leaves were just beginning to look as if they meant business. Then came the two days of warm sun – and lo, the next time I looked, every flower bed and path was bristling with weeds. And then last week’s snow and frost put paid to several tender seedlings (though not the weeds, obviously), including my son’s neat little row of nasturtiums, planted out optimistically early. We will have to start again with those.
Such is the joy of gardening. It is the triumph of optimism over experience. At least the busily growing weeds, and all the planting still to be done, keep me from idleness. And oh, look, the apple blossom is coming out against the western wall of the garden. Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May – but I’ll still hope for apples come September.
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