The middle of the week brought a relentless gale, knocking over wooden furniture, including “the Naughty Seat” overlooking the fields, and pounding the heck out of the daffodils.
Daffs are everywhere — including around the road sign for our little “hamlet” (not even a dot on the map, really — a collection of 6 houses, most of which have been converted out of victorian quarry-workers’ cottages).
It does feel almost magical to be so surrounded by flowers, even when they’re drooping. I’ve never lived anyplace before that’s quite so verdant, so *full*. As Finch says, gardening remains an academic exercise with me — I purchased some seeds to grow tomatoes and chives and basil in the greenhouse, but so far, he’s planted and tended them. But I’m learning the joy of walking around the garden every day, seeing changes day by day, noticing the blackbird nest in the laurel, watching the tits and finches and siskins dart madly about around the feeder, the two male and three female pheasants who hang around waiting for the little birds to drop bits, the dominant male chasing off the other one, the scrawnier male learning to eat from Finch’s hand.