This was the best my garden had to offer: a Nigella seed head, love in a mist turned dried up rattle bag. I had to admire her resilience and take comfort in her aged elegance.
Ah, but that was last week when the days were still so grey and gloomy and it seemed difficult to believe the winter might be almost over.
The plants have better faith than I. They must have been poised on their marks, primed to lurch forward at the first blast of sunshine.
Ready, set and they’re off. Everything racing skyward.
There is undeniable beauty in youth and incomparable pleasure in watching small things grow.
And even those of us who have been around a while get a new lease on life.
I’ve been out in the garden, weeding, pruning, transplanting stray seedlings of Aquilegia and robbing my own rhubarb.There was a smell of green in the air and the sounds of life, worms, bugs, slugs moving, minuscule insects flitting and a massive bee floundering, half asleep, around the artichoke. It was the greatest balm imaginable to feel the sun on my face.
I came indoors with rosy cheeks, achy upper thighs (by which I really mean arse), enough rhubarb to make Nigella’s rhubarb cornmeal cake (from Domestic Goddess), enough flowers to fill two small jugs and enough joy in my heart to get me through the forecast week of rain coming this way.
The most certain thing you can say about Spring in Ireland is that it is predictably unpredictable.