The Chaff From The Wheat

As I worked in the garden today three men appeared in the field behind me, chatting amongst themselves - an almost unheard of occurrence. I looked up to see who they were and they all waved merrily at me. It was my young Icelandic friend, plus Alys's husband and father, and the job they were doing couldn't have changed in centuries. By hand, bent double, they were walking through the barley picking out clumps of black wheat which, if left, would adulterate the crop and spoil it. It was a medieval job, timeless and back-breaking. Staying in a group, they worked their way systematically from side to side, stopping to load up the truck when their bundles got too large to carry. Part of me wanted to join in, as it's the sort of job I like, but I had my own labours to attend to. Sarah from Native Gardens came and prepared the pond for planting, tucking the edges of the lining under the soil and sowing wild flower seeds all around. It looks a bit bare at the moment, but it'll soon be full of marginals and lilies, and once she left I started planting around the perimeter. Lobelia cardinale went in in a clump of three, five iris Siberica made another grouping, and other perennials that I've never had before and can't remember the names of, though they're all carefully labelled, were added to the picture. Otherwise I continued hoeing the large area around it, and now it is all clear and neat: the pond makes just the sort of eye-catching feature I hoped for.

I was accompanied by a blackbird all day, which serenaded me as I toiled. Hearing it drew my attention again to the fact that it sang alone, for even the skylarks were silent. Later a blue tit sat on the chimney and carolled away, but it is a desperate situation and I can't believe that it's getting worse, not better. I wonder if a CD of birdsong played at full volume outside would entice birds from other gardens to favour mine? Or I could just listen and pretend it was real.