"When that Marche with his shoures soute hath perced the droghte of Aprile to the rote, ..."
Easter and subsequent glorious weekends have nudged and prodded, conceding no quarter. The Leylandia hedge has been cut down to size: much wood and many branches having gone to the great industrial compost heap in the sky, as Burnham Wood was moved in five van loads to Dunsinane (Coxhoe Domestic Recycling Facility). The greenhouse has been cleared of chicken, eggs, pots and debris, and its glass has been repaired and scrubbed inside and out with a toothbrush. A greenhouse bedful of soil has been dug and finely seived, ready to receive tender okra plants. A new garden bed has been dug and conditioned with compost, planted with Harmony potatoes, and the rows marked with sticks. Young, seed-grown strawberry plants have been snuggled into cots, protected from slugs and snails. Seed trays have been filled and seeds pressed into the soft, black seed compost, then watered and placed in window-sill incubators: climbing green beans and salads, pumpkin and sunflower. Compost has been dug out of last year's bins and worked into soil. Seeds and shoots have been tucked up with fleece to protect them from any late frosts.
Peter
