It's been a quiet day in snoozy old Somerset. At intervals during the day it's been mild enough to pull on a coat and go out to potter about the garden, joining Harry and Dolly both of whom think rooting, pruning and weeding to be curious operations, needing the closest supervision. I wish their interest extended to suggesting replacements for the leggy geraniums which will leave some large, bare holes in the planting. A trip to the garden centre is needed, I feel, for a couple of enormous flowering chrysanthemum plants and a bundle or two of the new hybrid wallflowers. Then it's heads down to fill pots and containers with bulbs, ready to light the dark months.
All seasons are good for the gardener.
There are always new things to learn, new things to plant and care for. The secret for a gardener grown stiff and creaky with the years is to scale the thing down to manageable proportions so that the delight remains but the painful labour is pruned away. My garden is all contained in the few square yards of the catio. It's not been all dirt and healthy outdoor work, though. I'm having the most enormous fun sifting through the mound of accumulated poems and haiku, bringing order and accord where there was none.