It has been a strange weekend, but some things don’t change.
We have spent the afternoon in the garden, mowing the lawn, weeding and potting on various plants. Tea time was the opportunity to sit , reflect on the day, and watch the pond: this year the water lilies cover nearly half of it, with plenty more flowers to come.
Last weekend we were garden visiting at Cleave House, Sticklepath, first Ann and Roger Bowden’s garden, where they hold a National Collection of Hostas, and then Bowdens Hostas, now run by their daughter and son-in-law. A very satisfactory morning, and three new plants for our garden.
Once home, and in the garden, the germ of an idea: there is a narrow gravelled area between the garden shed, home to Caroline’s collection of streptocarpus, and the bank that I have singularly failed to make into a rockery. I now grow alpines in the greenhouse. Why not a frame and netting to allow the dappled shade that hostas love, as well as saving the acer that hates the sun, but has to endure it at least some of the day?
One more task for the week off in August.
For the past fortnight we have enjoyed the company of a racing pigeon in the garden. He, or perhaps she, “flew down”, as we have learnt is the correct expression, one afternoon and was happily perched on the wall when we returned from work. His favoured position since has been either huddled on the wall, or on top of Caroline’s greenhouse, dropping down when we have come out to feed him. We haven’t been able (or brave enough) to pick him up, to check under his wing where he was from; equally, he has not been afraid either of us or, it seems, the hoodlum rooks and ravens who live in the Church tower and bully the smaller songbirds, eating the peanuts and monopolising the feeders. Feeding time has, however, seen us stay in the garden just in case. Although he should have gone for corn, his favourite was the small black sunflower seed in the wild bird food.
We have no idea why he flew down, where he had started from, nor where home is. He had his green racing band on, and the knowledgeable member of the Fancy that Caroline called told us he might stay a few days or a few weeks. We reported his arrival with us to the Royal Pigeon Racing Association (their website allows you to report a stray pigeon), and secretly hoped he might stay. He hasn’t. This morning, after two nights of heavy rain, he has gone. We feel quite bereft, and hope that we hear, one way or another, that he has made it back to his loft.
