March, and life is starting to rev up.  January was hard and February not a lot better.  Not because of the weather, although at times it seemed either too wet or too cold, or both.  There just did not seem to be enough light.

But now, the evenings are longer, the mornings are bright and the garden is beginning to wake up.  Garden is in its Yellow phase: of daffodils and forsythia, of Cloth of Gold wallflowers and the pale yellowy-green fringing on the trees as they start to test the temperature. The birds seem to have doubled their decibel levels since Sunday’s hour change and the garden is alive to blackbirds, robins and the rest collecting nest-building materials.

It all seems a far cry from January when we turned up late for Potato Day, only to realise that arriving at 11.30 meant we missed the 10 am stampede and were able to pick our spuds without having to deploy elbows to maintain our space in the queue.  Since then the potatoes have been chitting inside, while outside any gardening jobs have been of the type that most pleases Mrs B. i.e. destructive ones.  We (I) have severely trimmed pyracantha, poplar and smoke trees as well as reducing the weigela to little more than a stump.  It is this type of instant tidiness that has Mrs B purring, although perhaps not purring as much as the next door cat that continues to use the raised bed as a littler tray.

But it has not all been slash and burn. We have also got plenty started and are already into the nurturing phase with sweet peas, broad beans, and flowers, inlcuding lupin seedlings and foxgloves.  We have even forced some rhubarb, underneath the rusted wheelbarrow from the Old Place.  Noice.

I have even started some tomatoes on the sunniest windowsill, but they are too leggy (too forced?) and have been moved to the greenhouse, like wimpy kids sent to toughen up at boarding school.

This weekend we will get those first earlies in the ground, once I have cleared the Cat shit, and then veg patch will feel like the new season is getting under way.