You can bury a lot of troubles, digging in the dirt.
When I braved the unseasonably cold weather this morning to dig over the vegetable garden for a new round of planting, I was in a grumpy old mood. The fresh breeze nipped at my ears so I was soon forced to retreat indoors in search of extra layers.
I caught my reflection in the mirror on the landing – lumpy clothes, no make-up, red bobble hat – and I burst out laughing. It was a far cry from my neat trouser suits and life in a centrally heated, north London classroom. A fake white beard and I could almost pass as a store Santa.
But, suitably clad, I went out and started on the digging. And after several hours of rhythmically turning over the earth with my gleaming new spade, I was feeling energised and much calmer.
I can’t believe I’ve lived at Farthing Cottage for almost two years now.
Like many people, I’d had vague thoughts of one day ‘giving it all up’ for the slower pace of country living. Moving here permanently in 1990 seemed auspicious somehow – it was not only the start of a new decade, but also the beginning of a brand new phase for me. Life would be tranquil, the bleat of a lamb after the roar of London.
Tranquil, my arse!
There’s as much conflict living in this house in deepest Surrey as there was in the classroom. It’s just that here my battles are waged against potato blight, carrot fly and large black slugs that munch their way through my yummy seedlings with no concern at all for the painstaking hours I’ve spent preparing their sodding feast!
But hey-ho. That’s life in the garden. Survival of the fittest. And pests, watch out! I am determined to bloody survive!
As a rule, I try not to think about London and the life I left behind. Although on days like this – with summer behind us and a long winter in prospect – I can’t help a pang or two.
Izzy is coming to stay for the half-term autumn break, though, and no-one can shake up my dull routine better than my lively, ten-year-old niece! Izzy adores helping me in the garden, especially if there are raspberries to pick, which there will be. (The autumn rasps are at their best in October.)
Today, lunching on the last of the tomato and basil soup, I came across a line in a magazine: ‘A gardener’s best tool is his memory of past seasons.’
I reflected on the truth of this and came to the conclusion that since there are goldfish with better memories than me, I had better start keeping a gardening diary …