Just as we were rejoicing in Spring (and desperately trying to forget the B word) along comes something else to dampen our spirits, smash down the daffodils and annihilate the embryonic figs. Not that, to be fair, Theresa conjured up yesterday’s arctic weather though judging by the glacial faces that emerged from 10 Downing Street last evening she’s obviously rather good at emulating Boreas (jolly well look him up if my erudition is above you!).
But hail and snow are as much part of April as is warm sunshine so why is it a surprise every year, I wonder. Perhaps because us gardeners are a race of optimists, always convinced that somehow slugs will avoid the hostas, that mice won’t devour the sweet pea seedlings and black-fly the broad beans, that the grass won’t need mowing till tomorrow and that the bloody dogs won’t behead every precious narcissus by running full tilt through them. Luckily I’d spent Sunday afternoon taking a few pictures of those that remained before they too were flattened last night.
Enough of gardening. I’m sure you’d like an update on the mysteries in the forest, particularly the so called ‘oven’. Well, that turned out to be part of an old sewage works though whose sewage was disposed of and where it went is still a mystery despite numerous emails to people who should or might know. But a fellow dog-walker - a lady with a saluki - revealed another bizarre practice, straight out of the Gwyneth Paltrow songbook: apparently several women have, in recent years, planted trees in Friston Forest using their placentas as fertilisers to symbolise their child’s journey through life. Needless to say, I googled it and discovered that’s only the start: there’s recipes for placenta pizza, placenta lasagne, placenta spag bog, even placenta cocktails. And if that doesn’t take your mind off Brexit then nothing will.
Here’s some spring-time relief from both:
