Making my bed

As I suspected when I wrote to my dead friend yesterday afternoon, I woke up this morning aching all over. Why all the aches and pains? Job bloody well done, that’s why.

With the prospect of going anywhere for three weeks in July fading in the distance, I decided it was time to do some serious work on the garden. Rang the garden shop yesterday to arrange a time. (It’s still open, but you have to make an appointment.) Picked up some manure and soil conditioner and got going this morning.

I got to work. Stella wasn’t much help.

As I was hoeing, an older woman walked past and stopped for a chat. (People do tend to stop for a chat more these days, what with lockdown and all.) Her name is Marianne and at a guess I’d say she immigrated from Germany or perhaps Holland a long time ago. I did meet her once before many years ago when she was still an active artist and had a gallery on her property – the Pumphouse Gallery. She told me that when she and her husband moved here in the 1960s there were only four homes in this whole area. Long before lots were carved out and sold in what became known as Phase 4. This being the fourth area of the island to be subdivided. No one seems to know exactly which areas the first three phases were. Those three, like others since, have acquired neighbourhood names. Not mine. It’s still unimaginatively known as Phase 4. When Mike and I were in the process of buying this house there appeared to be some sort of lien or something involved in the title, so we paid to get a copy of all the official documentation. Turned out the proviso was that we were entitled to draw water from the pumphouse down the road. I’ve never attempted to take advantage of this.

Four hours after I first stuck the hoe in dry and dusty soil, the vegetable bed had been turned over, given a good soak and the soil supplemented.

This may not look much different from the first photo, but, trust me, this is now grade A soil. The first peas have now been planted.  This show is on the road.

I would have celebrated my accomplishment with a gin and tonic – if I’d had any gin or any tonic. Instead, a cup of tea and a homemade hobnob. Pushing the boat out, island style.

I would have taken precautions last evening with a nice long soak in Epsom salts – if I had any Epsom salts or a tub long enough for a proper soak. (God, I miss proper British soaks.)

Instead, as predicted I woke up this morning aching, but also very pleased with myself. Let the vegetables begin!