Despite asking Tony to water while I’m away, I fear that I will return to something resembling the Sahara. The last month has been sunny, hot and very dry; I’m only complaining on behalf of the garden.
I fear that the willow I transplanted is far too dry and that the roots aren’t growing; I practically flooded it last night, but it may not be enough. The plum tree looks ever more sickly: I think it’s succumbing to whatever did for the gooseberry bushes. And when I think of all those blackcurrants, whitecurrants, sugar snap peas, blackberries, salads, raspberries, all ready to eat in my absence . . . why do I bother?!
The big spirea has been pruned to fit into the space available. This is an experiment; perhaps it needs to be cut back harder to confine it.
On the brighter side, the white bellflowers I planted to replace the wind-battered thyme are brightening up the darker end of the garden, and the rose arch has forgiven me (although I shall miss the rambling rose display while I’m away – at present most of the roses are visible only by leaning out of the bathroom window). One other delight is the lawn: I have increased the height of the blades (6cm last week) and the grass was full of white clover and self-heal until I gave it a pre-holiday short-back-and-sides. (The grass itself is looking in need of a drink.)
The garden is also full of birds – not just around the feeders, but everywhere. Whenever I walk round the corner, there is a mass scattering.
And squirrels. I spotted three of them the other morning, and there are teeth marks in an unripe apple.