London Underground

The early peas in the glasshouse , which were laid low by the penetrative frosts a mere week ago, are showing signs of recovery: many are clinging for dear life to their mesh suppoet, their threadlike tendrils winching them up towards the glimmer of light. Often plants have a way of expressing what’s going on as well as any human.

In the adjacent “East Wing”, the shoots of garlic (garlic and peas aren’t considered good neighbours in companion planting orthodoxy, the glass doors are shut and I don’t think they’ve seen each other yet) are altogether more assertive in their thrusting out of the ground, you have to admire their confidence , but their progress is tortuosly slow.

Clare’s been striking our first hardwood cuttings (blackcurrant and worcesterberry). Striking is a magnificent verb to perform, and people don’t get to do it enough nowadays.They’re going into pots for now whilst we are digging a nursery and cuttings bed to the west of the glasshouse. This has meant painstkingly re-homing hundreds of the lawn’s current daffodil bulb inhabitants, their shoots looking identical to those of their garlic cousins. Every piece of ground, however unpromising, has within it life, history and spring.

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