On The Feet Of Woodpeckers

Right. I am going on holiday now. Well, on Monday anyway.

This week has been unnecessarily frantic involving much rushing about trying to tie in all the flapping ends of my life. I have probably failed but as from Monday, it is too late.

Important facts which I would like to share with you before I go:

By the time we get back the Spring will have properly begun: this is a good thing although I will miss the fading of the Snowdrops. These are in a client’s garden and are due for major dividing and spreading around. This will be miraculously accomplished in my absence by elves. Those same elves will also prepare some beds and finish the vegetable garden before moving on elsewhere to build a greenhouse foundation. They will also build two sets of magnificent steps, seed three fields, build a pond and many yards of fencing.

Robert Peston has a really annoying tone of voice and poor taste in neckwear.

I have a very spiffy new Blog courtesy of the nice people at Crocus. You can see it here. I have preloaded it so, even when I am away, it will continue to lob out something every Tuesday. There is a wistful photograph of me communing with the natural world.

I have placed an extravagant number of largish trees this week: by the time I get back they will all have been planted. The elves again. The biggest one is nine metres high which is probably the biggest tree I have ever planted: that one will wait until I get back because moving that a couple of feet to the left after the event will make me very unpopular indeed.

This week I have been to Nottingham and found it wanting: except for the trams which were shiny and exciting. I especially admired the way that they showed no weakness when somebody with one of the largest velour covered bottoms I have ever seen climbed on board. The suspension did not even quiver which always inspires confidence.(i)

This week I have wandered through an awful lot of mud in various parts of the country. This is probably the best. With luck more elves will have made this a bit better as well by the time I get back. Just beyond that rather besieged looking Cedar we are building a Ha-Ha so hopefully some of that chalky clay will disappear.

The BBC continuity announcer on Sunday said “and now the reason for getting HD”. The programme of which he spoke was the Antiques Roadshow and, much as I find myself fancying Fiona Bruce, I just cannot quite see the connection. If I had invented HD then I would be a little depressed that this was deemed to be the pinnacle of my achievement.

The Bath Gardening School is a new venture by Emma Bond. I have the honour of being the inaugural lecturer  on April 2nd. A Saturday. I will drivel on for a bit about the joys and challenges of gardening in the countryside. If you feel the need for a day’s diversion then please book yourself a ticket. It will be jolly and, if you ask nicely, I will juggle while tap dancing.

Blogs that play music to you without asking are really annoying. You then have to scrabble around trying to find the off button: once one realises that there is strange music coming from somewhere close by.

We were told that it was a good idea to take some stuff called Spirolina before going away. This was appalling advice. Not only does it taste like pond sludge but, on further examination of the jar, it actually is pond sludge. To think that I paid twelve pounds for it as well. I could have gone out and licked some paving for free.

Thursday was a fantastic day. Warm sunny, clear skies and the sound of things stretching and growing. I spent almost all of it outside playing with trees.

Hooray for Elves.

The picture is of emerging Spring.

I am listening to This Door Swings Both Ways by Herman’s Hermits. Innocent days.

(i) We went there to watch Rory Kinnear do Hamlet. And very impressive it was too. I never cease to be amazed how plays written four hundred years ago are still captivating. Even though we have all seen them before and know exactly what is going to happen. Without wishing to spoil it for anybody: all Shakespearian tragedies end badly. Just so you know.

The clue is probably in the word Tragedy. Shakespeare was quite good at this but, obviously, the final words have to remain with legend that was Steps (improving on the pioneering work of the Bee Gees) . Never a truer word than “When the feeling’s gone and you can’t go on, It is tragedy”  likewise “when you lose control and you’ve got no soul” that too is Tragedy.  No wonder Hamlet is so miserable.