A Secret History
I've not blogged much recently. I've been busy at work and at home and rather pre-occupied. We're leading a peripatetic life at the moment, camping between houses. I think we've found somewhere to move to, about which MUCH more if it comes off - new build, new garden, great excitement. In the meantime, we have been house-sitting for friends and are now house-sitting for my sister-in-law's father. James has a sweet little garden, which long ago was planted with interesting things now struggling through bramble, ivy and bindweed. It's a slightly melancholy task to rediscover Euphorbias and Daphnes, roses and kitchen herbs in the undergrowth. The paneless greenhouse is now home to a nesting robin, tucked in on a shelf behind ancient and collapsed boxes of ancient fertilizer and weedkiller. Red Tailed Bumblebee queens zip about the tumbledown rockery looking for a nest site, while butterflies warm themselves in the late afternoon sun. I don't know the thought behind the garden, its planning and origin, its feel through the seasons. I can reconstruct its look to an extent, but I miss the familiarity of a known place. This garden has its own secret life, and I can only glimpse it as a passing traveller.