In the Bleak Midwinter

It's not exactly midwinter, but boy is it bleak, and not in the way that Christina Rossetti meant. There is no snow, only a horrible warm dampness. My buoyant mood of the other day has gone, or modified a bit. It was caused by a thick mist covering the land all around me, emphasising the sense of the world slowing down, wrapping itself up for the long dead months ahead. Hibernation feels so natural at this time of year, and I relish it. The mist is still there, muffling the air, and as we walked today there was complete silence apart from the tinkling sound of water running in the ditches. The trees dripped on us, soggy were the verges and muddy the lanes. Cross country is off bounds at the moment, and Hugo has to content himself with trotting along beside me on his lead. The mist might clear. It did yesterday, leaving a beautiful sunny day when Nick and I worked in the garden in shirt sleeves. In December! He cleared the leaves and cut back more dead things in the front while I did the same in the back. I also raked my perennial bed, removing the debris and smoothing the earth. I have to admit that bare, even beds often please me more than full-flowering ones. But there was a shock around the summerhouse. Some creature - a rabbit? a squirrel? - had attacked all my bulb-filled pots, flung aside the pansies that decorated the tops and dug deep into the compost. I guess it must have taken the tulips, daffodils and irises planted there in October. I can't decide what animal it must be. Despite the oak trees that proliferate all around I hardly ever see squirrels, and never in my garden. A rabbit has been getting in from next door through the only insecure place where wire meshing isn't dug into the ground. I've seen the holes it has dug around my rhodendrons and azaleas. But could it climb up the taller pots? Whatever it is it will have to go. There's only room in this garden for one critter.