These the life blood of Russia, Ireland, the Slavic countries - these the currency, these the barter for dresses, toys and kitchenware to the far flung villages of poverty with the travelling seller. These the famine - these the death of their many.

I surveyed a patch for potatoes this morning in the berry house - away from the pesky birds. Put my hand in the soil and felt - yes, its loamy and loose - years of Kath’s fine sawdust over the heavy clay should do the tick. Am I too late? Possibly not - we will plant and see. Plant and see.

Kath said: plant weekly, always plant something.

Its like that - the light and regular tending of this garden - every day a little - not the one epic Labour Weekend splurge then it goes to rack and ruin. I’m not surprised how my anxious eye can scan this place for the million and one jobs not done. The convovulos is back - snaking its fine tendrils in the fig patch - bits in the herb garden, the lawn even, and GEEPERS, the orchard is fair teeming with her - waiting for warmer weather - the summer of love - to really show herself.

On with the gloves - get it early this December - gyphosphate paste - its a tedious job, but keeps the creature tamed - otherwise she would take over the place, literally.

And in this garden of light and delight - I let go - literally, and bask in this mid spring sun, the absolute glory of the flowers and greenery - and my heart goes singing, - well you’d have to be up with me early in the green house to hear that!