Lost in a garden transformed by the efforts of a man in viral lockdown

‘THAT’S lovely, Medders, really impressive.’ I am happy to bask in the glow of Hermione’s praise as we stand in the Side Garden examining the fruits of my labour. Given the current circumstances (let’s not mention the C word), these labours have been intensive of late. Previously, May often dawned before all the spuds were planted in drills which often appeared rushed and haphazard. Previously, the ground on which the spuds were planted normally retained a scattering of weeds and dead leaves. Previously, the drills which housed the spuds invariably wobbled alarmingly off kilter.

But this year, all the seed potatoes were in place before the end of March. Moreover, with plenty of time available in lockdown to attend to detail, the drills are military straight and of uniform height. And the increased man-hours devoted to the task means that each bed is free of docks, redshanks and other intruders.

It is not only the spuds which have benefitted from the increased availability a gardener frequently marked absent in the past. The young tomato plants are coming on well in the cold frame – thanks for asking – along with the courgettes. Hopes are high that the cucumbers will fulfil early promise and there is reason to believe that we could have chilli peppers come August...

‘ That’s lovely, Medders. The soil in those potato drills looks perfectly dug, without a weed to be seen. And not even old Euclid himself could find fault with the straight line of that drill…’

At this point I am squirming with pride. The delicious but short-lived pride which comes before a fall.

‘…So tell me now, are these British Queens or Kerrs Pinks?’ End of squirming. Start of frowning.

‘Good question, dearest.’

‘So what’s your best answer, darling?’

‘Queens, no, Pinks.’

‘Or Roosters perhaps?’

‘Definitely not Roosters. I stuck the Roosters over there in the bed beside the laurel tree. Or was it the first bed inside the gate? Anyway, these ones here are categorically, incontrovertibly, indisputably the Pinks. Or just maybe the Queens.’

‘Well, I am delighted we have sorted that out. It makes me glad I gave you that set of plant markers for your birthday.’

‘Oh, yes. The set with the indelible felt-tips for writing on the markers which are then inserted in the ground to help identify seed and breed in each bed.’

‘Oh, yes indeed. The set which is still in its wrapping, unopened on your bedside locker.’

It seems that while her spouse has been doggedly tending the soil in the garden, Hermione has been busy indoors spring cleaning. We move on from the Queens-no-Pinks zone to admire a patch of earth which has been lovingly dug and laboriously raked. Seeds have then been planted in neat rows as indicated by little sticks inserted at either end of each row.

‘Don’t tell me. Let me guess,’ says Hermione. ‘Carrots.’ ‘Not carrots,’ I reply with one hundred per cent authority. ‘After last year’s disaster, no more carrots. We are now concentrating instead on parsnips, french beans and onions.’

‘So?’

‘So what, dearest?’

‘So are these parsnips or french beans or onions?’

‘Well, come to think of it, they could be brussel sprouts or they could just conceivably be broad beans either.’

‘Why not check in your diary?’

‘You mean the horticultural diary I received from Noreen for Christmas, don’t you.’

‘Yep! The diary, also unopened, which is under the plant marker set.’ Touché.

Sister-in-law Noreen has an inspired talent for giving really useful presents. She got me this diary in which a diligent producer may write down details of plant variety, use of manure, dates of sowing, location of bed and so on - all the data vital for proper management of a well-run garden. It seems that I am not yet diligent enough.