Month: April 2024

Squirrels and seedlings

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Our poor old cherry tree is dying. It was a sad conversation to have had this week but there is no denying that it is on its last legs and almost certainly in its last year. Judging by the size of the girth, the tree has lived for several decades and given the abuse it has obviously suffered in the past from horrendous pruning, it’s done well to survive so long; the abundant crop of fruit we had a couple of years ago is typical of a cherry tree’s last fling and so it seems it is coming naturally to the end of life. It’s a shame because the other cherry trees we have are all much younger and less productive but hopefully they will step up to the mark now, especially as we are nurturing them as much as we can. As if by way of a poignant reminder that in death there is life (the compost heap is my favourite example of this), what a wonderful surprise to discover that deep in a hollow branch, a red squirrel had secretly made a nest and given birth to four kittens!

On Saturday morning, I was doing my usual trek up and down the Plant Trail as quickly as I could before leaving for a shift in the charity shop; I was taking the most direct route (tiptoeing past the song thrush who is still sitting on that ridiculous nest) and on the fourth pass, a movement in the cherry tree caught my eye and stopped me in my tracks. There were four tiny squirrels swinging about in the branches like the natural arboreal acrobats they are, with not a care in the world. I shuffled quietly backwards, heavy tray of plants still in hand, to call Roger who came armed with the camera and managed to take some lovely shots. They had no fear of us whatsoever so we were able to stand and watch them at close quarters ~ it was difficult to tear myself away.

The new bench seat was the perfect spot to sit quietly and watch them, so astonishing in their tiny perfection, so entertaining in their energetic antics. They are most certainly off the top of the cuteness scale which is a good thing since they have demolished what scant blossom and leaf buds were on the tree; mama squirrel obviously knew what she was doing, providing them with an in-house larder! Within a couple of days they were down at ground level, exploring the garden and putting the nesting birds on alert, and in no time at all they will be gone, off to make their own way in the wide and dangerous world. The annual mortality rate for red squirrels in France is around 50% with the first year of life being the most hazardous, but the survivors stand a chance of living to twelve years old. I’m wondering if there might be a second brood later in the year, especially as this one was so early, and glimpses of an adult squirrel around the nestbox this week suggest the possibility of more kittens sooner rather than later. To be able to spend time at close quarters with such beautiful creatures is an absolute privilege and one I shall never take for granted.

Another privilege this week was the chance to walk to the Mont des Avaloirs (aka the Everest of the West), the highest point of land for hundreds of kilometres in every direction. This is the steepest walk I’ve done in 22 months and is the sort of thing I need to be doing regularly if I’m going to manage a bit of hiking in the Pyrenees this summer. One of the main attractions of the walk at this time of year is the abundance of wildflowers in the verges, they are absolutely stunning both in their diversity and beauty and definitely not to be missed. I know I moan and grumble about some of the destructive practices that go on locally but still, despite everything, nature in all its glory is hanging on in there. What I did find stunning (in the wrong way) is that some folks had taken a mower to the verges stretching either side of their property and cut all the flowers off! This perception of ‘tidy’ drives me insane; I know we’re all different but I will never understand why someone would choose a strip of mown sterile grass to a blaze of native blooms buzzing with insect life and full of the scent of spring. Truly, there’s nowt so queer as folk.

Back at home, the Plant Trail seems trickier every day; the plants are becoming heavier and more numerous as I continue to prick out the next wave of tender seedlings so that my trips between house and tunnel take ever longer (admittedly, not helped by the need to stop and watch squirrel babies). The tunnel is bursting and I’m struggling to find room for everything so I have buckets and trays strewn all down the path and pots crammed into any available space in order that everything can enjoy some sunbathing time. Like the cherry tree, I think the potting bench is on its last legs; well, actually, the trestle legs are fine but the old door sitting on them to make the bench is cracking and threatening to fall to pieces. I live in dread of it collapsing under the weight of everything, the ensuing chaos doesn’t bear thinking about. I must confess, there have been evenings when I’ve been tempted just to leave everything in the tunnel overnight but then I remind myself how furious I would be to lose food plants through sheer laziness, especially when we wake to this in the morning . . .

It’s highly unlikely to freeze in the tunnel at this time of year but being in a frost pocket, the temperature can still dip low enough to do some damage so I’ve been covering the potato foliage as well as basil, zinnia and morning glory plants as none of them appreciate the cold. Anything tender would certainly perish outside although I have started hardening the courgettes and cucumbers off during the day ~ with the wind in the north, the south side of the tunnel is well-sheltered ~ and as the temperature is set to climb towards the weekend with no further sign of frost, I’m hoping to finally get some plants in the ground. The cucumbers have tendrils and are trying to climb up each other and the courgettes are threatening flowers so they really, really need to come out of their pots. One thing I have noticed this year is how healthy everything is looking even after spending several weeks in the same container and I think this is down to having made my own potting mix this year; it’s less free-draining than commercial compost so I’m having to be careful not to over-water but there is obviously plenty of nutrition in the mix. Definitely one to repeat next year.

The (only) good thing about a frost at this time of year is that it melts very rapidly and after so many gloomy months, it’s been lovely to enjoy some sunshine again, even though the wind has been bitterly cold. We’ve been able to get a fair bit done outside especially now the ground is drying and it feels like we’re pretty much ready for the planting season to begin. I’ve been lifting perennial weeds and mulching round plants and any beds that aren’t earmarked for direct sowing (I need the soil to warm up quickly there so will only mulch once we have visible seedlings), also scattering compost wherever I feel a little extra nourishment is required. There are inevitably a few failures in the gardening year and it’s the experimental Styrian oil pumpkins that take the prize for being the earliest, the seeds rotting rather than germinating despite being sown under the same conditions as the squash which are romping away. It’s a tad disappointing but also a blessing in disguise as now I can use the planting mound we’d created for them to house the Asturian squash which will free up a Hügel bed for courgettes, in turn leaving more planting space elsewhere. I am quietly relieved because I’ve been fretting about not having enough space and Roger has been sheet mulching yet another bed extension this week to create more room for plants.

Enjoyable though it’s been to be so busy outside, on many days it’s been a case of in spite of rather than because of the weather, the bitter wind in particular making things miserable. On one such afternoon, I decided to down tools and sow some tomato seeds instead; we leave this task as late as possible in order to avoid or, at the very least, mitigate against the perennial problem of blight but it still feels slightly odd not to be surrounded by tomato plants at this time of year. I saved a fair amount of seeds from last season and I haven’t bought anything new but still I managed to find nine different varieties to sow. Mmm, that’s quite a pile. I then remembered the gift of tomato seeds I’d been sent by an inspiring gardening friend several months ago: I’d chosen three blight-resistant strains from her list but she sent me nine different varieties which is typical of both her generosity and enthusiasm for growing food. In these circumstances I always feel it would be rude not to grow the seed so that makes eighteen types of tomato now (potentially, anyway, as some might not germinate). No wonder I’m in a panic over space! I haven’t broken the news to Roger yet, nor the fact that I have six courgette plants where two would suffice, 36 peppers, 20 aubergines, 15 melons and more cucumbers than I can shake a stick at . . . but I console myself with the fact that if we are snowed under with plants or produce, I can always take the surplus to the charity shop. Sounds like a plausible defence to me. 😉

With the tomatoes sown, next on the list are the beans and I’m feeling a tiny bit excited about that given my personal quest this year. To recap very briefly: having been unable to register for the ‘Share the Bean’ European citizen science project because I don’t have a smartphone, I have decided to carry out my own little bean-growing project while at the same time, trying to encourage others to grow, save and share seeds with someone else this year. In this way, I’m hoping to spread the gardening love plus help to preserve and extend seed diversity and inspire others to explore the growing possibilities in their location. I have ten different varieties of bean to grow, four of which are climbers so putting up their poles in readiness is a job to be tackled fairly soon. My plan is to keep a record of their progress in a simple spreadsheet and take lots of photos, of course. I don’t want to get hung up too much on data but it will be interesting to compare growth and yield under whatever weather conditions this summer decides to throw at us and I’m hoping to have plenty of beans to dry and share with others who fancy a go with them next year. I might just have a few tomato seeds to give away, too. 😂 One of the gift tomato seeds I have sown is a Danish micro dwarf variety called ‘Lille Lise’ which comes with a rather lovely story attached: the gentleman who developed the strain has specified that the seed must never be sold but only given as gifts throughout the world. Now there is a man after my own heart!

Despite the dodgy weather, there has been much to celebrate in the garden this week. The asparagus is not remotely bothered by frost and we are eating it daily, along with the first new potatoes and peas from the tunnel which are always such a treat. The whole patch is teeming with life and it’s been wonderful to sit having a tea break and watch bees busy in the strawberry and currant flowers, swallows swooping through the potager at eye level, goldfinches bathing in the pond where the first gauzy damsel flies have appeared this week, parent blue tits in and out of nestboxes with beaks full of tiny caterpillars (how hard they work to raise their broods), pied wagtails bobbing across the mown grass and an unashamedly cheeky robin sitting on my bucket and weeding fork wherever I’ve been working. The apple blossom is racing out and its heady perfume fills the air along with the likes of clematis, lilac and laburnum whilst along the hedgerows, the soft snow of hawthorn blossom is appearing in sweeping drifts.

I’m particularly thrilled with the wildflowers we have on the patch now, the numbers and diversity increasing with each year; true ,we don’t have the bluebells, orchids and cowslips like the verges but there are plenty of other simple beauties to delight both us and the resident insects.

It is without doubt a time of flowers and I’m determined to enjoy their transient beauty as much as possible, whatever the weather is up to. After all, in the blink of an eye it will be tomato time and then the gardening fun will really start! 😉

Running to stand still

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Note to all my kind subscribers: whilst sorting out a glitch for one follower in my site management yesterday, it seems that WP has now decided to put everyone on the email notification list and I can’t see any way to undo that. I know how annoying it can be to see your inbox fill up with unwanted notifications, so I apologise in advance ~ please press the ‘unsubscribe’ button if you don’t want me pestering you! 😊

It’s that scrabbling, scrambling time of year when suddenly there’s a million and one things to be done in the garden and not enough hours in the day. I keep casting an eye over the state of the house and the ever-growing pile of clean laundry in need of sorting then head outdoors, anyway; there are just too many things to be doing outside so any vestige of guilt is disgracefully short-lived. 😆 My blog writing also descends into a complete pickle with everything lagging way behind as old news and photos stack up like the laundry ~ deciding to toss in an extra post simply because I’d had a lovely walk didn’t help matters, if I’m honest. Neither did the weather shifting dramatically from winter to summer overnight before I’d even had time to think about digging out some cooler clothes, yet alone do anything about it, but thankfully at least my shabby patched old gardening shorts were to hand. In general it’s been a crazy, full-tilt, rollercoaster sort of week but we’ve also found time to sit and enjoy the garden at was is a truly beautiful time of year when the sun shines. There have been a few surprises, too, including the appearance of a stunning iris which must have been here before we arrived but hasn’t flowered in the last three springs. It’s gorgeous, a perfect fleur-de-lys for our French garden. Note to self: plant more, lots more!

I often joke that much of my gardening life these days revolves around hauling organic matter from one place to another but at the moment, it feels like I spend a good part of my day shifting plants back and forth instead. Normally at this time of year, providing overnight temperatures are nudging towards double figures, it is safe to leave the tender plants in the tunnel tucked inside their bucket cloches. However, as if proof were needed of the current slug overload, on the second morning of doing this I discovered several of the small plants had been well and truly nibbled ~ even with the lids on the buckets! 😲 Honestly, those slimy ones: their rudeness knows no bounds. Yes, of course I always plant far too much (in part, for this very reason) but we can’t afford to lose pepper and aubergine plants, especially as they are not too far off being ready to go into the ground. I do have a later sowing of the Greek ‘Tsakoniki’ aubergine as the first lot failed to germinate and it won’t do any harm having a staggered harvest, especially as we usually crop right up to November . . . but even so, having nurtured three other varieties thus far, I’d quite like to benefit from some fruits. I also have some much younger Peruvian yellow pepper seedlings grown from a gift seed but these are a chilli variety and there are no more sweet peppers following on behind. Added melons, cucumbers, courgettes and Cape gooseberry to the mix and there is nothing for it but to carry all my little plants back up to the house every night where they can relax in a slug-free zone.

Given we’re talking the best part of 100 plants in buckets and on trays, it takes me several trips to do the move morning and evening and I’ve calculated I walk roughly 1200 metres or three-quarters of a mile each day. Roger says I could do with a trolley or cart to make things easier (I don’t like to use a wheelbarrow as they tip) and although I know he’s right, I don’t actually mind all the to-ing and fro-ing too much. It’s good exercise, after all ~ and I’m very grateful to be able to do such things comfortably again ~ but it also keeps me respectful of both the fickle nature of weather and the potential of future food these young plants represent. I don’t like to generalise, but I think there has been a serious loss of connection and understanding in modern society between people and food, so for me it’s essential to maintain a personal awareness and deep sense of gratitude for the gift of fresh, healthy, homegrown food packed with flavour and nutrients. When I reflect on the bountiful harvest I hope we will enjoy this year, then safeguarding our plants is a pleasure rather than a chore . . . even if it does result in a fair bit of welly wear. At least the peas in the tunnel can stand up for themselves and we now have the sweet green delight of the first tender podding varieties to supplement the Swiss mange tout which are still going strong.

It’s not just the tender plants that need a bit of cossetting, either, since the slugs are tucking in to practically anything they can get hold of at the moment. I daren’t leave the trays of hardening-off brassicas and lettuce outside on the ground or in the tunnel at night, so they are now living between two picnic tables: one in full sun and rain during the day and the other under the outdoor shelter after dark just in case the wind picks up overnight. Both areas seem to be slug-free so fingers crossed there will be some decent plants to put into the garden over the next few weeks.

As for plants in the ground, they are taking a fair bashing from slugs and snails between them. Thankfully, the garlic is untouched and both the white soft-necked and pink hard-necked varieties are looking good and growing strongly. It’s believed to be an unattractive plant to the slimesters because of the allicin defence compound it contains so I’m beginning to wish I’d planted it around and amongst other things: perhaps that’s one to think about for next year? Purple sprouting broccoli is one of our key crops at this time of year and I have never seen the plants so badly attacked, both the leaves and sprouting heads; as with everything else, I grow more than enough and some of the plants seem to be standing up better than others so we certainly aren’t short. It does grieve me to see them looking so tattered, though.

The same is true of the pre-sown broad beans that I planted out a few weeks ago, they looked so healthy for a while but have since been chomped to within an inch of their lives. The good news is that they are tough, resilient little characters more than capable of growing back even from a sheared-off stem but the flip side, of course, is that the harvest will be delayed as it will take them time to recover. This is another reason why making full use of the tunnel is essential to our food security; despite Roger currently removing hundreds of slugs from inside on a daily basis, the broad bean plants in there had grown well beyond the vulnerable stage before the slugs of doom got stuck in. With the added warmth and protection from the wind, they have romped away happily and are promising a good harvest; the sweet perfume of their flowers meets me at the door and the bumblebees are busy rummaging about and helping things along a bit. Well, I suppose that makes up for the destructive slug business.

The sudden spike in temperatures meant having both tunnel doors open for a few days to prevent it becoming unbearably hot inside: I didn’t want to see the beans, peas and potatoes go into a state of heat exhaustion having nurtured them to this stage. I did manage to clear the spent winter salad crops before the warmer weather arrived and barrowed in a mountain of compost to feed the soil again before planting the summer vegetables. I’m hoping the lack of jungle and increased heat will help to clear the slugs, out too, although I was chuffed to see a toad sitting happily at the entrance of a hole in the soil (I’d been blaming voles for that one!), I’m hoping it’s been filling its boots during the slime bonanza. In the way that things typically go at this time of year, the temperature has now seriously dipped, the wind has swung into the north and there’s a worrying possibility of overnight frosts. The tunnel doors will stay tightly closed and I could be down there spreading newspaper over potato plants every evening once again plus carting all the tender plants back to the house, even the ones in bucket cloches. I joked with a gardening friend that it might be easier just to go and buy veggies from Super U . . . but where’s the fun in that? 😂

Maybe I’m a bit of a masochist (or perhaps I just fuss too much over the plants?) but if I needed a reminder of why it’s worth all the effort and pain, it arrived this week in the welcome duo of rhubarb and asparagus ready for the table. Both tend to be acquired tastes but I love them, they are such a celebration of the season, so it’s stewed rhubarb with oats, yogurt and honey for breakfast, and asparagus with everything for dinner at the moment. The latter is in its fourth year and finally at a point where we can officially harvest it; I took no notice of that particular rule and ate lots last year without, it seems, having any detrimental affect on the plants whatsoever. It pays to be a rebel sometimes, but even I am beginning to wonder if thirty plants were a few too many given the mass of spears we are cutting every day. I might have to experiment with freezing some but in the meantime, coupled with young peas and purple sprouting broccoli, I’m unashamedly and unapologetically tucking in.

With a to-do list as long as my arm, it has been important to prioritise the tasks in order to make the most of the good weather. On 8th April we decided to plant the potatoes as the soil had finally started to dry out enough for us to get busy; we have planted potatoes in sodden mud before now but only out of absolute necessity. Like planting onions, this is easier done as a two-person job and we soon had a good system going, Roger dibbing holes and me placing a chitted potato in each one. We planted four different varieties, I have to confess that after the first couple of rows I became bored of counting but I think we planted about 100 which, with the eighteen early plants in the tunnel, should keep us in spuds for a while. We’ve never had a brilliant crop here so this year we’ve given them a designated bed with rich soil and in full sun and hopefully they will do the business . . . as long as the slugs leave them alone, of course.

Seed potatoes ready to go . . . the fact that we’d both discarded our gardening coats suggests the temperature had risen a fair bit since we’d started outside!

As well as potatoes, I’ve been planting some horseradish, lettuce and summer cabbage in the hope they will survive the temperamental weather in the forecast and the inevitable attention of slugs. The cabbages are the most at risk so I wondered if I could use my earlier observation about the garlic to an advantage; being far too lazy busy to faff about boiling up garlic bulbs to make a liquid drench, I simply crushed and chopped a pile of past-their-best cloves of our stored garlic and sprinkled a bit round the base of each plant, followed by a thick ring of wood ash. My theory is that even those slugs hydrated enough to make it across the scratchy barrier will be met with a blast of garlic deterrent strong enough to send them packing. This is based on no proven scientific evidence whatsoever but so far, so good. I’ve also been sowing another wave of seeds including courgette, squash, oil pumpkins, lettuce, parsley, celeriac (for the third time, it really doesn’t want to germinate), Tuscan kale, beetroot, thyme, various flowers and cauliflower ~ yes folks, I must truly need my bumps reading to even have considered wandering down that particular nightmare path once again, yet alone setting the wheels in motion. Me? Grow a decent cauli? Yeah right, and there’s a crock of gold at the bottom of that rainbow, too . . .

I wasn’t planning to raise more globe artichokes this year but here’s a cautionary tale where relying on perennial crops is concerned: we appear to have lost as many as two-thirds of our established plants over winter, their roots literally rotting away in the wet conditions. The ‘Violet de Provence’ have been worst affected and I guess there’s a bit of a clue in the name ~ the sunny south of France we are not! Even the reliable ‘Green Globe’ has taken a real bashing and although I keep checking for signs of new growth, it’s very much in vain. What’s really frustrating is that the plants were all still relatively young and should have been at peak production this year but it’s not to be. I’ve decided to grow ‘Géant de Laon’ this time, a rustic variety which is highly frost-resistant so I’m hoping that means paddy field-resistant, too; since the French city of Laon is at an even more northerly latitude than we are, logic tells me this might be the best bet although only time will tell. In the same vein, we’ve also lost two crowns of rhubarb which is slightly maddening given the wretched stuff can happily live for ten years or more and is usually fairly indestructible once established. We do at least have three plants that are cropping well so I can always split them during the dormant period to replace the others and hope for a slightly less wet winter next time.

As well as remembering (just!) to fill in my planting calendar for reference, I’ve been keeping a note about the wildlife, too. The first swallows arrived on 31st March, exactly a week after the cuckoos and once again just squeaking in before April began; there are two pairs now looking to nest in the barn for the second year running which is good news. I’ve also heard the golden oriole’s unmistakable song but the chances of seeing that most elusive of birds are very slim. The garden is literally buzzing with bee life and I’ve been watching hairy-footed flower bees and violet carpenter bees feeding on the spring flowers and the sweet little red mason bees busy in their wall nests. On 8th April, I saw the first orange-tip butterflies and hummingbird hawk-moth and four days later, the first speckled wood butterfly; my weekly eBMS transect walks have well and truly begun. On 4th April, I saw a tree bumblebee on the gooseberry flowers, very exciting as it’s a species I didn’t see or photograph last year. Typically, by the time I’d done the hundred metre dash to fetch the camera, the bee had completely disappeared but the ever-reliable common carder was happy to oblige: they are already the most numerous bumblebee species in the garden.

One of my favourite new arrivals is a bench seat which Roger has placed under the crooked cherry tree and I’ve found myself gravitating towards it several times a day (just to help it settle in, you understand), mug in hand. Even in busy times ~ maybe especially in busy times? ~ it’s important to find a few moments to stop and enjoy this precious patch of earth, to remind myself that the garden is not all about the work we do and that we are just one small part of the web of life it holds. The seat is particularly lovely at the moment with the cherry in full bloom, shivering with the attention of visiting insects, and a carpet of primroses and daisies at its feet. I know I’m overdosing on cherry blossom at the moment but it is an ephemeral beauty that will be over in a trice so I make no apology; the view upwards through the branches is a delight.

When I was teaching, one of the most useful but all-too-rare opportunities I enjoyed was to stand back and observe the class as the children went about a set task. No preconceived ideas or judgements, no note-taking or box-ticking, no interaction but simply the chance to watch group dynamics and individual behaviours as an interested onlooker. I learnt so much! In the same way, sitting quietly under the cherry tree, I have seen some wonderful and fascinating things I would otherwise certainly have missed. For instance, the touching sight of a robin picking tiny worms out of a bed and gently offering them to its mate and a red squirrel (which practically ran over my feet) sitting on its haunches tucking in to something it had just dug up from a winter cache. Not quite so endearing was a pair of blue tits, brazenly diving into a great tits’ nest box and stealing the nesting material! I suppose it shows initiative but it’s beyond rude in my opinion. There seems to be a fair bit of this thievery going on so I’d assumed a pile of moss next to a blue tit box was evidence of more skulduggery until Roger and I watched a thrush trying to land on it several times, obviously nervous of our presence. On closer inspection, we could see that she has built her nest in the fork of the ash tree right up against the nest box (the blue tits are none too happy about this) and is now sitting on eggs.

I thought the pile of moss in the fork of the tree to the left of the nestbox was abandoned nesting material.

I’m a bit puzzled about her choice of location for a nest, partly because it is so close to the blue tits who were in residence first, but also because it is so exposed, particularly as it is definitely a case of ‘oak before ash’ this year. I am concerned that the marauding predators like jays and red squirrels will find the eggs or fledglings easy prey but that’s the way nature works; I’m doing my bit by taking a more circuitous route to the tunnel (hooray, even more miles) so as to minimise disturbance, although I’m happy to say the thrush doesn’t seem too bothered by us using the seat now.

The nest tucked up against the blue tit box with the female song thrush sitting on eggs; her head and beak can just be seen to the left, I didn’t want to get any closer with the camera for fear of disturbing her.

As well as being busy round the garden, I’m now working in the charity shop every week and enjoying every minute of it. It’s lovely to be part of such a friendly and happy team and I’m getting to know regular customers, making friends and even understanding a few French jokes which must be a sign of linguistic progress. During a recent morning stint, much of the talk was about le sable saharien, the plume of Saharan dust forecast to reach as far north as Mayenne as a result of the atmospheric conditions. In wet weather, such a meteorological event often manifests itself by leaving a coating of yellow dust over everything after rainfall but given the dry conditions this time, the only evidence that anything was happening was at sunset. What a sky! With all my tender plants tucked up safely for the night, there was nothing for it but to stand still and enjoy the moment. Plenty of time to dash about again tomorrow, after all. 😉

Loveliest of trees

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I’ve been trying to maintain my daily walking habit despite the less than favourable weather conditions. On many occasions, this has meant walking the same stretch several times over so as never to be further than a half a mile from home; a bit dull, granted, but better than being caught in some of the torrential storms we’ve been experiencing ~ even good waterproofs have their limits! I’ve found the almost constant gloom of latter weeks very oppressive, I know it’s a tricky time of year but it feels like everything needs the lift a little sunshine can bring. No question, then, on finally waking to clearish skies, no rain or wind and a very welcome hint of soft sunshine, it was time to head off for a longer morning walk.

It’s cherry blossom season and I always find the fluffy green haze of new green leaves interspersed with the sugared dusting of white flowers in woodland and hedgerow make for a magical landscape. Having taken quite a battering from Storm Pierrick, which snatched the blossom from our garden cherries in flurries of limp confetti, I wondered just what would be left on the wild trees; not for the first time, I’m thankful that our blossom is staggered so that we do at least stand a chance of some fruit from the later varieties. The morning was chilly with patches of silvery frost on the grass in places and an atmospheric mist rising from the neighbouring ponds. With the sun on my back, the sound of joyful birdsong ringing in my ears and the promise of quiet lanes and woodland tracks to wander I headed off, the grey gloom literally dissolving in the sheer beauty of the morning.

The first part of my walk was a gentle rise, passing through a small hamlet and then climbing more steeply towards the wood. I stopped to pay homage to a single oak tree which always leaves me feeling bittersweet. It was part of a long row of mature trees that was recently felled in order to turn several small traditional meadows into a large prairie-style field of monoculture. Why this particular tree was lucky enough to be left, I have no idea; it’s very possibly on borrowed time, but I like to see it as a symbol of hope. It might be the last tree standing but at least it is still there.

Entering the wood, it was immediately all about the cherry trees, so stunningly beautiful decked out in their delicate white blooms. Being a Shropshire lass myself, I am possibly a little biased when it comes to agreeing with A.E. Housman’s poetic opinion of this ‘loveliest of trees’ (actually, Houseman hailed from neighbouring Worcestershire, but let’s not split hairs) but I think he knew what he was talking about and a reading of his famous poem can be found here for anyone who is interested. I’ve written before about how I am naturally drawn to trees that have a light and open, airy character and the wild cherry is a perfect example; not that it means timid or petite, mind you ~ some of our local trees are enormous.

I suspect that May will always be my favourite month but there is something slightly bewitching about these weeks leading up to it, the sudden headlong rush of growth and activity that heralds true spring. I’m not in the least surprised that the Japanese custom of shinrin yoku or forest bathing has become so popular as an activity deemed to promote relaxation and well-being and this must surely be one of the most engaging times of year in our latitudes to spend some time with trees. True, there is something unquestionably majestic and awe-inspiring about a full summer canopy but I love the sweet youthfulness of tender new leaves unfurling, soft as silk, each one exquisite in its perfection. It’s easy to wax lyrical about the myriad shades of green and yet there is also gold, copper, bronze, topaz, amber . . . a treasure trove of colour to delight the eye.

I must remember to look downwards, too, where the woodland floor is springing into life, the new shoots of ivy and honeysuckle lifting their eyes upwards, the silvered ferns and spongy mosses resplendent in fresh plumage. I love moss-coated rocks like this, for me there is always a whisper of something ancient about them and on close inspection, they are like miniature magical worlds in themselves. I particularly liked one set against a backdrop of brooding holly, still flaunting a few scarlet berries as if its dark evergreen presence should not to be forgotten in all this talk of spring.

There is a special quality to the light at this time of year, it is more diffident than the strident brightness of high summer; morning shadows are long, reflections muted and the gentle diffusion of sunlight through petals brings a demure luminosity softened at the edges. So beautiful, and well worth getting out of bed for.

Onward along the track and another tree I always stop to acknowledge, the largest pear tree I have ever seen in my life. There was nothing I could use to give an idea of scale in my picture but suffice to say, it towers hugely above me: truly a grandmother tree worthy of my respect. The blossom is dense, waxier than the cherry flowers, but sharing a similar subtle perfume and just as busy with visiting insects.

I love walking: it seems to me to be one of the simplest and most fundamental human things to do, and after so many bleak months of reduced mobility, I am delighted to be able to move with relative ease at last. The gift of walking is one I shall never take for granted again. It is an economical activity, too, since all that is really required is some comfortable footwear ~ and contrary to what the inevitable adverts would have us believe, that doesn’t mean wildly expensive hiking boots. When we lived in Asturias, we had several elderly neighbours who happily walked miles on steep mountain roads wearing their carpet slippers! It’s always a privilege to walk in stunningly beautiful places (I’m currently ‘in training’ for our trip to the wilds of the Spanish Pyrenees later this year) but I also love the fact that I can walk from home without ever feeling bored; I’m very blessed to live where I do and when I see a path like this one, I am automatically drawn down it. Who knows what adventures might follow?

I often see hares and roe deer when walking this route (Roger met a very large bristly boar on the same morning, I’m quite thankful not to have had that experience when on my own ~ they are huge and not to be messed with) but this morning it was the birdlife that dominated. How quickly we become reacclimatised to the call of the cuckoo, the warbling blackcaps and swooping swallows! The woodpeckers, too, were making quite a statement beating out their staccato timpani and I love the way each different tree responds with its own resonant note. Finally reaching the end of the woodland, I passed beneath another majestic cherry and an arch of trees sketching a latticed dome against the blue sky.

The next section of my walk took me along lanes in open countryside through arable farmland, the fields of oilseed rape flowering in startling patches of acid yellow amongst the green. This landscape is what I think of as ‘traditional’ northern Mayenne with small pastures, ponds, hedges and woodland ~ true bocage. Sadly, much of it is being eroded in places to give way to huge treeless fields better suited to monoculture crops and monstrous machinery but it does me good to keep things in balance. I rant and rage at the ripping out of hedges, the felling of trees and the interminable crop spraying but it’s important to remember that the traditional beauty still exists around us and, despite everything, the wildlife hangs on in there, too.

It’s a time of year when the roadside verges start to unfurl their glorious pageant of colour and next week, I’m planning a long walk with Roger along a lane that is notorious for its riot of springtime colour. I saw no orchids along this route but there were plentiful carpets of bluebells, stitchwort and cowslips to enjoy.

There was another lone pear tree, too, a mere whippersnapper in comparison to the one I had admired earlier, but every bit as beautiful for all that.

Is oilseed rape beautiful? It’s a crop that seems to have a similar effect on people as the taste of Marmite, love it for its bright cheerfulness or hate it for its screaming brashness and hay fever-provoking habit. I’m not sure what I think of it, to be honest, although I’m definitely not a fan of the rubbery rotten cabbage stink that will follow once the flowers have faded. What is interesting, having walked along two sides of this field, it that I didn’t see a single insect working the flowers: maybe, like me, they prefer the dainty cherry and pear blossom to this forthright flower?

Turning off the lane, my walk took me through another stretch of woodland, this time along a grassy track where carpet slippers would have had a good soaking! This is one of the best places I know for finding a wide diversity of fungi in autumn but the wood certainly has a very different feel to it at this time of year.

At the end of this track, I turned into our own coppice which is part of a much larger tract of woodland. Up until fifty or so years ago, it was a working quarry and the lower part is held within a bowl of rock; the abundant growth here is an optimistic reminder of just how brilliantly nature heals a space where human activity has ceased. The rock walls create clever acoustics so that the bird song is amplified and reverberates in rising and falling notes and melodies and I revelled in taking a few moments to close my eyes and simply listen. Roger has just fashioned a wooden bench from scrap timber which we must now take and place deep within the trees, our own tranquil little seat just perfect for a spot of shinrin yoku in the months to come.

Dragging myself away from the wood, I returned down the lane, through the hamlet and home again, stopping for a final blast of cherry tree therapy along with the honey bees. If I knew Roger (and let’s face it, I ought to by now), he would have coffee beans freshly ground all ready for a post-walk brew. He is up at five most mornings and heads off for a much longer walk than me, but it’s part of the ritual to enjoy a coffee together and chat about what we have seen along our different routes before getting stuck into the busyness of the day. Walking, coffee, chat . . . such simple pleasures but a very wonderful and precious start to my day. 😊