What's happening to the weather?

After a hard winter and non-existent spring the growing season finally seemed to be upon us. So, having cleared weeds and rebuilt some structures, the planting started.

And when that was done we waited. We're still waiting. Plants are in a state of suspended animation.

Cold driving rain is back again, which might (or probably not) benefit those things already planted out, but doesn't help those in the greenhouse.

So off I go to water those plants.

And things have grown ...

At last, some rain

It means that, for the next few days, the only things that need to be watered are those in the greenhouse. Maybe the water-butts will be replenished.

It's to be hoped that slugs and snails keep their distance ...

Changes in the weather, changes in the land.

With the last post echoing in the distance, almost two months past, I reflected on the 'ever rolling stream' headline and realised that I'd made myself a hostage to fortune. April was cold and wet: the first part of May no better. The only consolation was that the torrential rain filled the water-butts. The past two weeks, however, have brought long days, blue skies and another unseasonal heatwave, so the once-full water-butts are no more.

Time to nurture the plants, hope that the woodpigeons stay away and that the depredations of slugs and snails can be kept to a minimum.

The rhubarb tastes good, though.

Time, like an ever-rolling stream

Two weeks of steady work in unexpected early-spring sunshine have achieved a slight improvement in things. Most of the work has been structural: raised beds constructed, earth moved, rubbish cleared, structures repainted and a pattern imposed on the place. Just as planting had started the weather closed down, and although there's been a little much-needed rain the sleet and snow that followed has not been what the blossom on the newly-planted fruit bushes need.

Maybe next week will be more clement, and more plants can be bedded in.

Whilst we were working away we were entertained by the birdlife: a buzzard; herons from the nearby stream, flocks of small tweeters and an opportunistic sparrowhawk, perching slateblue and speckled off-white on a water butt opposite.

Progress can be measured in many ways: I haven't found a scale to measure this.

Less than an acre, and no mule

A little bit of real estate, as one might say - although the reality of this estate is that it's going to take some work to transform it from the fanciful illusion floating around inside my head into the reality that others can recognise.

Still: the rubbish is slowly disappearing, although there's always that worried feeling that I might be discarding something that is going to be absolutely vital in another couple of weeks. The pile of dust in the shed is reducing, the fractured greenhouse becomes more skeletal and the earth more bare with each visit.

But life has suddenly become more tranquil, knowing that some things can not be rushed.

That's my rationale.

When the world turns

For weeks now tractors have been rolling through the village pulling carts laden, first of all with hay, and then with straw. From dawn until late into the night they've been working to beat the weather.

Now it's changed.

The trailers are loaded with manure. Fields are being covered with it: soon it will be ploughed in, winter wheat planted and the cycle will start over again.

Leaves have picked up an autumn tinge, to match bare fields. With summer over the routines of work take over and children are marshalled back to school.

We're heading towards the short days and long nights.