Since I got back from Oxford I seem to have spent as close to every waking hour in the garden as possible. Yesterday was another glorious, hot, sunny day, a day for suncream and gardening (a la Sarah Raven) not in jeans and boots but in an old skirt and flip flops.
But today has been grey and cool, oddly pleasantly so. I have been moving ground cover plants down to the native tree walk, things that get out of hand anywhere that you want to cultivate intensively but are gently green and satisfying on bare soil - tellima grandiflora, alchemilla, self sown forget me nots. They have been wilting and sighing in the heat but today they settled back softly in the grey green light, last night's watering still keeping them green and full throughout the day.
I went seed sowing in the greenhouse again. Ian has a big birthday coming up in the summer and I have become obsessed with having a celebratory garden. I think this needs a blog to itself, or more, I could bore you rigid with it for weeks now that I see the potential! I wonder if I have left it too late to make a glorious splash with annuals at the beginning of July? What do you think?
And I also went baking. We bake all our own bread, not through domestic god or goddessness but through greed, so every week the small scale production line swings into action.
These, having their second rising in the tin, become these:
Five go into the freezer and become warm bread in the morning for the sake of two minutes in the microwave.
And one is normally eaten still warm with, if you are me, lots of salty Welsh butter. "Have some bread with your butter, Mum" is a long-standing and reliable joke in our house.
But today I got carried away by Easterness and made these:
which meant that there was just no room for warm bread too. Ian is away for a couple of days and should be back tomorrow. I have eaten so many hot cross buns I need him to come back and save me from myself. Along with all the other husbandly contributions to life of course.