I'm not sure how to let go of Berryfields. Or put another way, I don't think I ever will. It is etched in my gardening psyche, because of it I garden differently, better, wiser. I can sit here and map out its every corner, know what is under every bush, exactly where you'll hit clay or where to sit to catch the afternoon sun in every season - but in time this will fade.
I found a dead fox on the upper lawn last week. It was a terribly sad scene as it had chosen to lie down amongst the crocus and there it lay frozen in time, whilst the rest of nature got on with spring.
As I write there is a female pheasant on the square lawn pecking amongst the very first of the crocus. The cardoons in the long border are constantly covered with birds, blue tits, robins, goldfinch; even the woodpecker now makes daily visits to tap the stems. They are a triumph of success: they looked stately in the snow and now their heads blow into a mass of seeds. Along with the hollyhocks and the miscanthus, they've held up so well and even in the darkest, dullest days always offered some sort of interest.
~RS~q~RS~~RS~z~RS~45~RS~)
© MMIX