Here it is almost spring. I say almost because it is late August and thrillingly colorful blossoms are enlivening our street scapes and gardens. Heavy rain storms have knocked over the daffodils and with the sun just breaking through hopefully the daffodowndillies will resume their upright positions as the harbingers of warmth and more importantly, colour, after the drabness of winter.

In my newly appointed role as the Constant Gardener, I have already ventured out of doors this morning to firstly survey the wonder of the new day and to marvel at the plants and secondly to take advantage of the dampness of the soil to weed. Weed, weed, weed. I smile as I do so and wonder just why I am doing it. Is it just because it is spring? Are weeds just plants out of place? Darned if I know but all over the driveway and terrace there are little piles of weeds waiting to be relegated elsewhere. I really love the look of the property without the weeds and I love that the errant plants can be usefully housed elsewhere.

Also this morning I found masses of unwanted bluebell plants forcing their way through the rough and tumble backyard bank that had been decimated by the fall of a tree. During its recovery the bank has become a site for other garden refuse and yes, for the discarded bluebells from a friends suburban garden. My happiness transplanted me to fields of bluebells in UK fields under mighty oaks – a very far call from their surfacing from under pig face cuttings and weeds. But yes, there is the likelihood of a mass of bluebells sometime soon.

So what is this post about? I guess it’s about gardening and being a regional Victoria Septuagenarian in 2024. It’s a curious experience after a life of work, travel, theatre, film, television and the academy. From thebtime when gardening was the past tine and now, thankfully, gardening is the main endeavour. But no robust British soils here. No forests of oak. Just gentle nods to northern hemisphere spring by a lucky daffodil, a few mangy grape hyacinths and the hope of fragrance from a patch of self sown freesias.

So it would appear that this might be my gardening journal. Already I’ve investigated how to grow carrots and discovered that seedlings don’t transplant! So what to do with a tray of carrot seedlings? Stay tuned!

My other unresolved query today is about the kangaroo poo in straw that I’ve been gifted from the native animal shelter. I think of the Findhorn Garden and the notion of accepting everything that comes to your door. I also think of the mother kangaroo with her pouch-peeping joey that I encountered on my morning estate ramble. A sign of the usefulness of kangaroo refuse?

Signing off now, until next time. And ….