Scent and colour in the ornamental garden

Bulb foliage has greened up many of the borders. Narcissus ‘Thalia’, just off-white, multi-headed, delicate and blissfully fragrant, looks good drifting between mature stands of purple-pink hellebores. Under Magnolia stellata, a mass of white stars, blue daisies of Anenome blanda and chunky Dutch Hyacinth ‘Delft Blue’ make a sensation (and the latter perfume the air all around).

Clumps of broad –leaved Erythronium 'Pagoda' give solidity and substance. It resents disturbance, so care must be taken to avoid the bulbs whilst they are dormant. I'm delighted they appreciate damp, solid clay - every year they look fitter, despite marauding slugs. The first yellow pagoda flowers are just opening now (photographed with Anenome blanda and frilly poached-egg foliage).

Ducklings learn to swim

Thank God ducklings grow up quickly! Little darlings, my clutch (that think they’re called 2-4-6-8-phew!) monopolised life for three weeks. How with sunshine outside could I keep them cooped in, when an exploratory ten minutes showed they were dying to race with each other across the lawn, dibby their beaks between grass shoots, rummage under shrubs, and splash about delightedly in two inches of water? (no deeper, they are not waterproofed without the mother duck’s oils). And how at night could I keep them warm and safe if they didn’t come into the house? With ravens and buzzards circling above by day, and the threat of predation by rats at night, it was either their box (1msq) or a close eye – every five minutes! Anyone feeling broody? They’re a sure three week cure.

However now, remarkably grown, and producing their own oils, they have moved up to the veg garden, in the company of the scarecrow, at whose feet they often sleep, reassured by a human outline. The wildlife pond is the star attraction, almost like a swimming soup as duckweed covers the surface. Sticking together like glue, they peep with distress if separated from their siblings, and should the dogs bark or I call the alarm, they run as one body to whichever is closest, my feet or the safety of the water.

A new arrival

One of the Manx ewes didn’t rush down for her oats and seaweed this morning - I found her behind a fallen branch, sheltering a tiny, black lamb. At the sight of my bucket, greed overtook caution, and calling to the lamb, she encouraged him onto his feet, nuzzling him to reaffirm their bond. Then slowly she picked her way down through the daffodils and he followed, wobbling and staggering - obviously organising four legs at the same time is not as easy as it looks!

The ewe began to tuck in, and I scooped up the lamb, examining to find he was a ram, the jet black miniature of his Black Welsh Mountain father. I sprayed his umbilical cord with iodine (as usual managing to squirt myself with a stain of the enduring stink) then putting him back down, thought how much more difficult it would be to catch him in three days, to castrate him and dock his tail. Returning up the field to the fallen branch and birthing site, I checked to find the ewe’s afterbirth had successfully been ejected.

Munching appreciatively on the last mouthful of oats, she looked satisfied, rather than expectant. I doubted a twin was on its way. I was pleased. I don’t like to feed lots of cereals and concentrates - the meat tastes inferior; and with just an acre and a half of pasture available, a dry summer could mean a shortage of grass. Also, the mother is a skinny, old girl - I’m glad for her sake she is spared the burden of twins.

Spring at last

The snow melted and for ten days or so bright, warm sunshine blessed the valley. Daffodils, tightly closed through the snow, responded, unfurling in drifts - a profusion of yellow blooms scatter the terraces and fields.

There was no garden at Bertie’s Cottage when we arrived ten years ago last January, just parking and a rough field. The pasture, originally cider orchard floor and never ‘improved’ with fertiliser, was full of ‘weeds’ with beautiful potential, but the spectacle of literally thousands of daffodils made a wonderful surprise. At some point, generations ago, a keen gardener from the farm now next door must have loved the wild Narcissus pseudonarcissus, and have planted the double, all yellow form with bunched, feathery trumpets that thrives in the shade of one of our two ancient apple trees (Can you picture Demelza in Poldark?)

Pregnant ewes in the snow

Just as the first daffodils (Tete-a-tete) were starting to open, sunny yellow, and the purple-sprouting broccoli hinted their intent to extend flower stalks, seven inches of snow fell, unexpected, in the middle of the night. Unlike last month’s batch, it felt neither novel nor exciting!

I trudged around the garden shaking and lifting prostrate evergreens, clenching my fist as I noted more broken branches. Then on to the animals who, apart from the dogs, and well-breakfasted geese, hate even a light dusting of snow.

Commiserating with Twist and Shout, our two heavily pregnant Manx ewes, I poked around with a stick to locate and dig out their trough. Oats and seaweed seemed a little meagre, so Iona fed them some extra ewe nuts. Whilst they chomped, I anxiously examined their back ends – udders definitely swelling but, fingers crossed, no sign of little hooves yet! I'm glad they have an ark.

Ducklings in the dining room

As soon as the lane thawed enough for us to get up the hill, we set out to collect eight tiny ducklings from a local, organic poultry farm. They travelled home in a box with a hot water bottle floor, then moved into the dining room, to more spacious accommodation with chick crumbs ad-lib and an infra-red lamp to keep them warm. Unlike chicks, ducklings are obsessed with water right from the start. I lowered in a drinker with a channel of water too shallow to drown in (without a mother’s oils, their down is not waterproof) and, as if magnetised, they all raced to it and settled down to dabble their beaks and splash as best they could. Within an hour the drinker’s reservoir was empty, the shavings around were all soggy, and a pile of happy ducklings lay concked out, comatose, tucked up to each other under the lamp.

Abeliophyllum distichum

Abelio-phyllum distichum, or white forsythia is not closely related to its namesake, but like forsythia, sprays of tight buds, cut and brought inside the house, will open early in the warmth. Increasingly rare in its native Korea, due to overharvesting for medicinal uses (reputedly similar to witchhazel), my abeliophyllum is thriving in Mid-Devon, trained against a south-facing wall. It’s habit is rather spindly, without much grace or aesthetic contribution outside of late winter, but, as I compete with foraging bees to nuzzle close to the delicate, almond-scented blossom, I’m reminded of why I give it precious space.

Harbingers of spring

The second half of February was mild, a promise of spring. Honeybees came out, several days on the trot, to contentedly buzz between snowdrops, crocuses, hellebores and honeysuckle (Lonicera fragrantissima).

A tray of old English apple pips I planted last autumn has germinated – I’m delighted as it’s the start of a coppiced orchard I’m hoping to plant. A Permaculture concept, the trees’ primary role will be to make lots of new growth to cut, chop and compost - easily harvested fertility to divert towards greedy vegetables. My pips, from a friend’s orchard of vast, ancient specimens, were open-pollinated (by bees), so their gene pool is unpredictable, unlike the grafted, named varieties you would choose for reliable fruit. Unless I’m unlucky however, they should be super-vigorous and strong, well-suited to local conditions as their parents live just down the road.