Garden invaders.

I stood on the step yesterday, leaned against the door jamb and viewed the gorgeous green-ness of the great outdoors. All was drippy wet, but fair play (as they say round here) it did smell good. The garden looked lush and abundant too - if only a little floppy on account of the rain. I like this generous fulsome look though....

To my left is an unsatisfying rose; mostly vigourous stem and leaf. When it does bother to flower (once a year) it's not a particularly interesting one either. I give over contemplating raindrops and think about the logistics of uprooting the rose. I think thick stems and thorns - lots of digging, pain and misery. My eye travels from its roots and up the wall assessing the scale of the project.

What's that? I wonder why the wall has developed a curious bulge - almost as if someone has got behind the stonework and blown it out like a bubble-gum bubble about to go pop. Nah. As if! Just as if!

See what I mean - there in the centre of my picture? Behind the evil unattractive rose? A stone bubble? Should I get a stick and poke it perhaps?

Hmm. Perhaps not. It turns out to be a wasps' nest. Barely a metre from my door and about as big as a rugby ball. Eeeek! Sorry wasp lovers - but this nest is going to have to go. I appreciate these stripey b******s have their place in the scheme of things but it's not going to be within an arm's length of my kitchen door.

Tomorrow I shall be donning my protective clothing and setting about it with something lethal the pest control man will be coming from Welshpool.

PS For a truly great wasp extermination tale read this. Just glad I didn't know about it at the time.

Edited to add:
Well, our exterminator arrived and partly out of cowardice the Glam Ass was sent to Make Sure He Did It Properly. Afraid of wasps? Moi? You bet. Really I just didn't want to go out in the rain.

What a hero - our man just cut the nest away, tossed it in the back of his van, puffed a little noxious dust in, trousered a hefty wad and drove off in the direction of Craven Arms. No protective clothing. No whinging. Job done. Am happy to recommend his services.

Shouldn't have to chase a sunset....

'Run' I say - shout even - to the Glam Ass who is idly pulling up weeds in the orchard. 'Run - get the camera. Quick, quick, quick!' (Some speed is needed because I know from experience how quickly the sky will change - so I'm not just being bossy.)

Bless 'im. He does just that, runs, and before my eyes the prettiest sunset unfolds and I do my best to make some pictures. Click, click.

Shame about the shanty-town appearance of my poultry empire...

 

Moments - perhaps only seconds - later the rosy sky becomes greyer

...and then greyer still as if a cobweb caul has been thrown over the small mountain kingdom.

Shut the hens in. Stand in the dew-wet grass. Breathe in. And out. How still it is up here. How absolutely perfect. I could squeak with delight.

A lone buzzard soars above Badnage Wood - a distant mew then silence. A swallow swoops to catch a last insect. Somewhere over there - way over there - a tractor works on. These short nights of summer make for long working days and silage must be cut.

So glad I caught this evening's sky.

Thug.

Once upon a time I bought a sweet little hardy geranium. A pretty thing in a tiny pot. It did look cute planted in the sunny  border at the front of the house alongside some furry Stachys and under the white Iris which grows so well there. I was a bit worried that it might be overwhelmed by both but no, it's held its own and as you can see the three plants are a pleasant combination in early summer.

I haven't a clue what its name is - the label disappeared long ago*. Unfortunate this, as the same label might have given me a clue about its ultimate size and habit. Three years after planting it I conclude that ruthlessness must be part of its genetic make-up. Titchy it may be but its size belies its audacity and aggressiveness. This geranium takes no prisoners, engulfing all before it. I am thinking it is the botanic equivalent of Hitler or Napoleon.

The pretty froth of delicate purple flowers atop a mound of mid-green leaves gives way to seed heads balanced on lanky straggling stems.  The minute seeds scatter with the slightest movement and wherever they fall they germinate. There are now geraniums spreading far across the garden. It is without doubt a successful plant - except when a plant is where you don't want it to be it becomes a weed.

I summoned up my own ruthless gene. I would hack back, cut down, pull up, cull and otherwise beat it into submission.....but when I looked out of the window Mr and Mrs Bullfinch (rare visitors in these parts) and their 4 newly fledged chicks were feasting on the seeds, hunkered down amongst those same straggly stems having the best picnic of their lives.

Can I take food out of the beaks of baby birds? Can I heck.

*PS If anyone knows its name I'd love to know.

Are we nearly there yet?

Are we nearly there yet?

Ye Gods! We've been there and have come back again. Incredible but true.

Where? Same old, same old - Paxos. South of Corfu. Ionian Sea. East of Italy, west of mainland Greece.

This one was a bit special though; in celebration of a Significant Birthday we tagged on 3 days sailing. The Glam Ass has had a long-held ambition to sail into the small harbour at Loggos. Over the years he  has sat on our terrace, or glass in hand at a taverna, and watched sailboats big and small sail in and sail out again. His wish to be on board was almost tangible.

A big birthday approaches and I know he would never have forgiven me if I threw a surprise party (we have a pact to never, ever do this to one another) and the question of how to mark it taxes my brain. A plan slowly evolves....a few days afloat could be easily arranged and this dream realised. We can do this. We will do this.......and before we knew it we are climbing aboard a 41ft yacht in Gouvia Marina in Corfu.

Let's gloss over the hell that is Manchester's Terminal 3, the necessary evil that is Easy Jet and the indulged and howling infant that made the first 40 minutes of our flight such purgatory.
Teleportation should be a research priority. Non?

We'll imagine we've been beamed down into sunny Corfu - which actually is enjoying a brief shower of rain as we step out of the taxi. Sigh. The boat is found, groceries bought and stowed. We make ourselves at home below decks.

I marvel at how many home comforts can be fitted into such a small space. (That's the same small place that is going to become very claustrophobic.) We have a double berth, wardrobes, our own shower and 'head' - that's boating speak for toilet. I am instructed in the art of flushing the said head, although pumping and draining would be a more accurate description of this process. I get the hang of it eventually. After 3 days.

The marina is ram-jam full of yachts and cruisers of all shapes and sizes - I'm in an alien world here which has its own language and looks incredibly complicated. Look at all those ropes for a start.

Here's the Glam Ass - on board at last.

No point in hanging about admiring the plumbing and the rigging - off we go. We head southwards along the coast of Corfu - seeing our eventual destination, Paxos, in the the far distance. We then turn east and over the Ionian to mainland Greece where will moor overnight at Plataria.

We had the most affable skipper - a Greek called Thomas. Over the next few days he tells us a little of his story - and it is an amazing one. A Paxiot, raised amongst his family's olive trees and lacking any sailing skills, he bought a small wooden boat advertised for sale in Athens. Somehow he managed to sail it home. Aged 28 he set off around the world in this same boat - a journey which took him to some of the most remote and exotic places imaginable. It would be 18 years before he set foot on Paxos again. He returned to take over the family house and land 8 years ago - joined by the woman who is now his wife and whom he had met firstly in Spain and then lived with in Brazil. That boat now stands on a trailer amongst his olive trees. It looks a small and fragile thing to take on the might of the oceans.

Here's breakfast on board/ The GA looks slightly more chilled:

 

Next stop Sivota:

 

...and Parga:

Ah, Parga. How many times have we sat in Paxos, looking across at the mainland at night seeing twinkling lights in the far distance? How many times have we wondered just what was it like over there? Well now we know. Unfortunately the place with the twinkling lights was not Parga but some other little community. We got it wrong. Parga was on the itinerary anyway. We concluded it was not worth the detour; two resort-y bays separated by an ancient Turkish fort on a steep hill and a cluster of souvenir shops, tavernas and restaurants. The marina was unwelcoming - we moored alongside a rusting, capsized ferry - and the trudge to buy some provisions took us along a neglected rubbish strewn track. Thomas would not leave the boat for fear we were robbed. But hey! Pull up the gangplank, crack open a beer and experiment with cooking in the galley.

Finally we head out across the Ionian again, leaving the mainland's dusty hillsides for the olive covered island of Paxos. A strong wind in the wrong direction brought us into Gaios by motor power - so that dream of coming into Loggos under sail has still not been realised.

A week on land followed - although my body seemed to think for several days that it was still at sea. Not an unpleasant sensation by any means. Just curious - as if the rhythm of the water had entered my soul. Sailing was OK, too much phaffing about for my liking. I'll settle for dry land.

Paxos remains as hospitable as ever; there's a quirky side to life but that's part of the charm. The hoik in the price of most things is less charming. So, so expensive. A 13% tax on food seems iniquitous. The 'Greek in the street' seems very angry indeed about the state of affairs and are quite clear about who and what is to blame.

We lounged in the sun. We walked and swam, ate and drank, recharged the batteries. Here's a miscellany of images from our travels:

And now we are home in the small mountain kingdom of Trelystan. The grass is knee high, weeds abound and whatever bit my arms while I gardened yesterday was twice as savage as anything I met in Greece. Otherwise everything is reassuringly the same.

The bottom line

Click away now if you think this one's going to be about the sort of underwear that sucks the wobbly bits  in and presents a slender profile.  Marks and Spencer can help you out there. Off you go.

Ditto if you're looking for pastoral diversions in the small mountain kingdom of Trelystan, a vista of trees and flowers, fluttering blue tits, woolly lambs or ploughs and muck spreaders -  but bear those images in mind.

Me? I've still got my campaigning head on and this post continues in that vein.

Yesterday's Times newspaper had a small supplement which attracted my eye because on its cover was a sexily backlit pylon.  It might be relevant so I read on. It wasn't quite advertising and I'm not sure it was editorial either. Titled 'Mapping British Business Utilities' it addressed some of the issues concerning the development, management and economics facing the nation's utility companies.

What came home to roost - and I don't begin to understand the economics of it -  is that it all comes down to pushing figures - figures of mind-boggling enormity -  around on a spread sheet. I ponder that it's all somewhat anonymous and abstract. The number crunching could be done with concepts or colours instead of energy and water perhaps.

Oh, and don't forget the undercurrent of political ambition either.  The quite laudable policy of moving towards a greater proportion of renewable energy must be achieved at all costs by our political and financial masters with barely a nod to the impact on local communities.

A small thought comes into my head; Gloucester's lines from Act 4 of King Lear: 'As flies to wanton boys are we to th' gods....'

Quite.

A rebel with a cause.

A natural rebel? Me? Nah. Anything for a quiet time - which generally means 'put up or shut up'.

Sometimes though, something rattles the cage. Wind farms, pylons...and the flawed policies of our so-called leaders.

Yesterday saw us join a 1,000+ other like-minded folk march in protest to the Senedd in Cardiff.  The Senedd is the home of the National Assembly of Wales but, as I am told by its website, it belongs to us - the people. It is 'the main centre for democracy and devolution in Wales' and I think we all have that at the back of our minds when we stand on the steps of the building with our banners and placards. We hope that our elected representatives will listen to what we, the people who put them in office, have to say.

We have the banner - which you have seen strapped to Eddie's best field gate in the previous post.

On Monday night we had the banner lashed to two broomsticks - held aloft it looked good, Good, GOOD!!!! Unfortunately a somewhat twitchy Cardiff police told us sticks and wooden placards would not be allowed (boo!) and we had to carry it without. Flappy banner = less impact methinks. We should have ignored the 'advice' as most other people did - the police presence was minimal. (There seemed to be about 3 officers and a work-experience girl.)

We were there with people from Shropshire in support of those from across the border in Montgomeryshire, our joint campaign starting with the threat of sub-stations and pylons and moving onto tackle the root of the problem - upland windfarms and the Assembly's adoption of TAN8 - the policy document which identifies  areas of Wales where large-scale wind farms are to be encouraged, so called Strategic Search Areas.

The joining of forces has been the great part of this campaign. The National Grid's Consultation Response form asks us to 'vote' for the route we would like to see the power corridor take. We obviously would not want in in our valley so we'll vote for it to go in somebody else's shall we?  How unpleasant is that, pitting community against community, maybe family against family. No, we're in this together - like the Musketeers. 'All for one and one for all'.

So we stood shoulder to shoulder in front of the Assembly building; young and old from all walks of life, schoolchildren, babes in arms and a couple of dogs. We raised our banners and placards with their simple messages - all different but all saying in essence the same thing. I snapped some of our Marton group.

Gathered together we sang - nothing like an old-fashioned protest song with a catchy refrain is there? I'd rather hoped to hear a snatch of Bob Dylan in celebration of his 70th birthday, which was yesterday too. 'Blowing in the Wind' would have been appropriate.

We listened to speakers from the various local campaigns; welcomed with whoops and cheers the sore-footed walkers who had walked the 100 plus miles from Welshpool to Cardiff in protest; applauded the young children who presented squares of upland turf to Assembly Members and listened as their clear, piping voices read, one in Welsh, one in English, their wish that this gift symbolising the hills of Montgomeryshire should be a treasured one.

We listened to politicians from across the political spectrum pledge their support for a review of TAN8 and for a moratorium on the building of any more wind farms until that happens. Hurrah! This gathering outside the Senedd is the largest of its kind to have taken place here in in the life of that building, admittedly a short time, but even so...) so perhaps they were noticing that the people - the quiet unassuming people of Montgomeryshire - were not to be ignored or walked over and that there is a moral duty to represent their views. Can and will our representatives in Cardiff prevent Westminster playing the winning hand in the end? Will party lines and policy prove stronger than pledges made on home ground? We will see. Call me a cynic but the politician is a slippery beast.

Our drive down took us through Montgomeryshire and Breconshire - stunningly beautiful countryside of soaring hills and verdant valleys where ancient deciduous woodlands run down to gurgling streams. It's a peaceful land. Sheep safely graze.

It's hilly and underpopulated too - but that doesn't seem much of an argument for desecrating a national treasure does it?

Accessorised

I'm flickin' and clickin' around the internets.  A bit of this and bit of that; some news here, some politicking there. Gardening, cooking, crafts, families...lives and their minutiae. Folks I've got to know - others I would like to - slender threads I don't want to let go of yet...and this is, of course, the best record keeping I've managed yet. However, on the home front things have slipped a bit...

Give or take a day or two it's a month since fingers hit keys and made a post. (Hmm...has anyone noticed.) I do like a good image so visualise the past 30 days as a mountain of missed bloggo-tunities.

In brief we've had:

6 weeks without rain. Then rain. Beetroot seed have taken 6 weeks to germinate. Weeds? Hah. Little stops them does it? Ergo there has been much weeding. There has been much gardening done in general. Planting, sowing, mowing, lifting and shifting. My hands are a mess, my back aches but the urge to tease this plot into shape does not go away.

Baby birds hatching - yes, that little nest was finally filled to bursting with muscular fledglings. The next day they were gone.

Another ex-swallow found - showing evidence of serious sucking - dead, in Chester's bed. I like to think, as suggested previously that he found it in the garden - in fact it may well have met its end crashing into a window - and he merely retrieved it and gave it a good lick en route. He just looked at me with his toffee coloured eyes as if to say 'And?' If only they could talk.

We've had visitors, many of them. Yep. Definitely like visitors. They come, bringing news and views from elsewhere - wine, flowers and plants too. We do much talking, freshen up our views and most importantly go out and show off this wonderful place we live in.

Which brings me neatly to the local campaign to keep our borderlands just so; an unspoiled stretch of countryside. The National Grid's proposal to connect planned mid Wales windfarms via a high voltage cable to an existing line between Oswestry and Shrewsbury has caused a furore hereabouts. There are 10 proposed 'corridors' in mid Wales and Shropshire - any one of which would be blighted if the cable were carried on 50m high pylons through it. The campaign has moved on from the initial 'not in our valley' to 'not anywhere'. No. No. No. No to pylons. No to windfarms. Rethink the flawed TAN8.

On Tuesday 24th May the people of Montgomeryshire and Shropshire will take their campaign to Cardiff to make their voices heard outside the Welsh Assembly building.

Maureen and I will take our banner down off Ed's gate, lash it to a couple of broomsticks and raise it high. The perfect accessory for a protest march. I've not done this sort of thing before but feel a determined streak coming on.

Power to the people then. But not on pylons.

The bad, the good and the ugly.

A lone swallow was spotted yesterday morning sitting on the telegraph wires which cross the lane at the front of the barn. It was the first I'd seen up here and my impatience at the absence of this harbinger of spring was growing. It sat and preened while I watched, content now - if there is one there will be others.

I think later in the day a couple more were seen swooping down the dingle.

Much later a single swallow was found in Chester's bed. Dead. We surmise that it had flown in through the open stable door in the dusk, swooped low and into the maw of the damn dog. I guess he was only doing what any hunting dog does - it's in his job description. It was not harmed in any way, just a little sucked so perhaps the poor scrap died of fright.

I was indescribably saddened by this; all those miles from Africa, 'cross continents and oceans to die on reaching home. Damn your eyes and teeth Chester.

But there is better news:

The Trelystan orchid stands loud and proud. We have counted 4 plants but hope we will spot more amongst the grass in days to come. There's no reason why they shouldn't have survived the winter although I did wonder if they would be buried by the sludge and muck thrown to one side by the various people clearing the lane of snow in December. Now they only need to escape the predations of the various naughty lambs which persist in getting out of whichever field they are in. I don't think Powys Highways gang and the big scary mower will be around until later in the year.

The eggs in the nest in the previous post have hatched - and just when we were thinking that Mrs Bird had deserted the nest. This picture taken yesterday lunchtime shows two babes. This afternoon there are four chicks - so ugly that only their mother could love them. Horrid bulgy eyes. Eugh! How secretive the whole process has been - all the more incredible because the nest is in such a conspicuous place. The hunting dog has not however sniffed it out. Yet.

I would say the good outweighs the bad (I'm an incurable optimist).  I have my eyes peeled for more swallows and the stable door is now shut. All will be well.

I 'heart' spring...

Don't you just hate that phrase? Not the 'spring' bit but the 'heart'. Look a bit harder in your wingdings and dingbats and use the heart as it was meant to be used for heaven's sake:

For this we need to thank graphic designer Milton Glaser whose 1977 design - part of a campaign promoting New York State. It's a simple pictogram now familiar the world over and all too frequently bastardised. Sigh.

Anyway....I've digressed before even starting.

I ♥ SPRING

That's better is it not?
 

The spring thing is fantastic - in the course of a week leaves have uncurled and early blossom unfolded frothily.  In the early morning before the world has woken and all is fresh and clean, I feel quite euphoric. My excitement is tangible and I want to be out there on the hill, filling my lungs with the clear damp air, surrounded by birdsong and green shoots. I can't think of a better place to be.

Birdies are nesting - some in less sensible places than others.  This one is at waist height and clearly visible - a beautiful piece of work by Mr and Mrs Blackbird.

It's impossible to get a good picture of this little plum tree and its heart-like shape - too many distractions in the background. I hope we don't get any serious frosts because with blossom like this we could have a bumper harvest later in the year - and frost will, as they say literally nip that in the bud.


No swallows have yet been sighted in the small mountain kingdom of Trelystan.

Underground, overground...

...and nul points to anyone who adds the words 'Wombling free...'

...No, my mind is still preoccupied with pylons and the proposal from the National Grid to to run a high voltage line on a route through mid Wales to connect with an existing line in Shropshire. The said route could run from one of  2 hubs (sub-stations) - there are a choice of 10 'corridors'. I have said in an earlier post that we would be on 'purple south'. At the risk of repeating myself, pylons would be a big, big blot on our landscape with a huge impact not only aesthetically but on the local economy too. A route overground anywhere gets a resounding 'No'. 'Undergrounding' (note new verb) is not only preferred but essential.

Marton's public meeting last evening was packed, and Councillor Wynn Jones presentation clear and precise - I now feel able to view the scheme in its wider context, learning in 40 minutes more than I did from attending two National Grid 'roadshows'. This is good.

Councillor Jones patiently spelled out the planning and approval processes; labyrinthine and certainly costly. Somewhere and at sometime 'the man in the street', the voter, has elected representatives to make these decisions on their behalf. We are prey to policy. I begin to think that elections purport to give us what we want, but at the times in between there is no mechanism to let us register disapproval in quite the same way.

On-shore wind power is a good green notion (its efficacy remains unproven however) but the method of transmitting it, based on out-dated technology is surely flawed;  if a bunch of people in a village hall out in the sticks can ask such searching questions and indeed suggest some highly technical solutions then where are its instigators the so-called experts coming from? Has it all been thought up on the back of an envelope?

My views and the views of local people at the meeting remain unchanged. No pylons anywhere. No way.

I wake in the night and haul myself over under the duvet's warmth to look out of the window and over the little triangle field. The night is clear, the air silky and cool. Stars are out. Silently, unspoiltly perfect.

Hope it's not too defeatist to think 'better make the most of it'...

13th April - edited to add:

On the evening before the meeting I was interviewed briefly by Radio Shropshire, who afterwards invited listeners to phone in with their comments about the issue. I finally got around to listening to my own interview (isn't the sound of one's own voice curious?  I sound as if I've been on a regime of
20-a-day Capstan Full Strength cigs for 50 years...) and stayed listening long enough to hear the first and possibly only comment. Which was:

'Well they've got to go somewhere haven't they.' The caller's unspoken, but strong implication was that we shut up and put up. Grrr.

'A' is for April

...and the first asparagus of the year!

Two little spears emerged a couple of weeks ago and after last week's mild, damp weather we noticed more little snouts pushing out of the ground. Yesterday I counted 17.  It does seem very early to be harvesting new season's asparagus doesn't it? But hey! why not?

Of course these were the only two of a size to eat. The Glam Ass was sent down the garden with his demon asparagus knife to harvest them. He's a hunter-gatherer at heart.....

The previous day he had been fishing - for trout on Lake Clywedog - bringing home 2 beautiful fish. One for now and one for the freezer.

Our meal last night was trout and Hollandaise - a brilliant yellow from the yolks of eggs laid by our own hardworking hens - with the added bonus of a spear of asparagus each to dip into the sauce as well.

Excellent.

The prospect of pylons....

I make no apologies for my love of this landscape - counting each day I spend under clear and unpolluted skies amongst these gently rolling hills, part of a companionable farming community,  as a bonus. Some days my heart just soars with the joy of simply Being. Being here. Soppy perhaps, but no apologies. I tell you the truth. That's how it is.

Then from out of the blue - like an arrow to the heart - comes the proposal to run a power corridor through the Rea Valley to join the wind farms which clutter the Welsh uplands with an existing heavy duty national transmission network between Shrewsbury and Wrexham. Apparently it is just that at present, a proposal. The National Grid are currently carrying out 'a consultation' between two options - there are a choice of 2 routes.  The one which affects the us (aka the Purple South corridor) also involves the construction of a sub-station about 6 miles away at Abermule - and we are not talking about some wires and a few small grey boxes behind an itsy fence here - we're talking 19 acres of full-on electrical horror. It will be a similar story for the other proposed route. It looks as if it's blighted here.....or blighted there.

The power could go underground or, most probably, take an overland route and be carried by pylons; monstrous pylons that are 50m tall and spaced at 350m intervals. The 'artist's impression' below shows how our landscape could be transformed by these monsters as the pass across the front of Stockton wood and over the roof of the Lowfield Inn. Awful. Awful. Awful.

Right at the top my header picture looks down on Marton from the Long Mountain. Marton lies in the path of this proposed Purple South Corrior. Just imagine a string of pylons running across the middle of this picture to see what there is to lose. It's a ghastly image that could be repeated the length of the valley.

The Rea Valley is an unsullied place of gently undulating arable land, bounded to the west by the slopes of the Long Mountain and to the east by the Stiperstones and Shropshire Hills - a designated Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty.  Small villages, Westbury, Worthen, Broxton, Aston Piggot and Aston Rogers and Marton are strung like beads on a necklace along the B road which winds its way along the valley bottom. To the west are Asterley, Pontesbury and Minsterley and perched on the hill, Snailbeach and Stiperstones - add to the mix numerous small hamlets and outlying farms. Stand anywhere and it would be hard not to be in awe of this splendid landscape.

It's a green place in spring - hedges of hazel, frothy hawthorn and twining honeysuckle, verges of primroses, stitchwort and violet line narrow lanes and tracks. And lambs. And bird song. And blossom. The gold of summer's harvest becomes russet as the valley's many trees turn orange then red. Autumn brings brown ploughland. Hardly inspiring, but each thing in its turn.) Winter brings a strange melancholy when fog hugs the valley bottom - exhilaration too when an exquisite hoar frost catches morning's first light.

I could give you statistics about flora and fauna - we have that in abundance. Listed buildings and historic sites - yep, we have those too, aplenty.

It seems to me to be the least appropriate place to route pylons - a brainless proposition. We are being 'consulted' by the the National Grid - whose information bus manned by articulate unemotional young people towing the party line but telling us little we want to hear - will visit all the communities who may be affected. We will stare sadly at the maps and look up to the hills. We will all fill in our consultation feed back forms.

We will certainly sign the 'No Pylons in Rea Valley' petition organised locally. If you feel this issue will affect you please visit www.nopylonsinreavalley.co.uk and add your voice to the protest. This is not something to be taken lying down. There is opposition and there will continue to be opposition. My hackles have risen.

I pray that this consultation process is actually meaningful and not just a rubber stamping exercise. Cynic? Moi?

Fish. Feet. Fun?

Some days you does gardening and other days you just puts your feet in a tank and fish nibble 'em. Curious bliss - an unexpected and tickly mid-morning pleasure. Possibly the most fun you can have with most of your clothes on....what a sybaritic experience this 'fish spa' is.

Little Garra Rufa fish rush to suck off one's dead skin (yeucky concept) in a tank of warm and filtered water (no worries there folks!) The world around us may crumble financially, tsumanis devastate and no-fly zones be enforced, but here in this little corner of Shropshire's county town we can be blissfully unaware for 30 minutes at least.

They gave me a loyalty card - in the fond hope I'd come back often enough to earn an extra 'Express Tootsie treatment'.  I do hope I can. Afterwards my feet felt soft as well as gently nibbled - I was walking on air - my sense of well-being enhanced no doubt by a: another day of sunshine which had me squeaking with joy on the drive over the Long Mountain and b: by a visit to the wonderful Michelle and Gavin at Toni and Guy who changed my haystack hair into something more soignée. A feel-good day.

I may as well make the most of this because I think there may well be more serious things on the horizon - those things being National Grid Pylons. Sigh.

There's always something isn't there?  More of this anon. Perhaps.

Frogs, lambs and snowdrops

Has air got a colour?

Yes indeed. Of course it has. Today I breathed green - the colour of early spring - and how good it was.

Another fabulous day of wall-to-wall sunshine - far too good for March really - and the prospect of more to come. The Glam Ass says he feels as if he's caught the sun on the top of his head. (It did look a little pink.) Those of you who know the GA, and today's weather, will not be at all surprised.

We have frogs, doing what frogs do......in abundance. A huge rudeness of spawn.

There are lambs too - here a muddled heap of orphans jostling for the sunniest spot in the barn over at Fir House. Can you make out which head or tail of belongs to which lamb? The numbering continues to mystify. This little creche had squiggles, lines, hearts and symbols in place of numerals - courtesy of a visiting Dutch vet on a work placement.

Perhaps she was just 'thinking outside the box' - after all, being orphaned, these little fellas didn't need pairing up with a mother and could just enjoy a bit of body art for its own sake.

We were over at Fir House to dig up snowdrops - with permission of course - to increase our own meagre planting. The farm at Fir House is probably as old as this over here at Lower House. The old house is now gone having been demolished post foot and mouth and replaced with a sturdy modern barn. There's not much left to suggest that someone once lived here ..... only a tumbledown outside toilet nearby, choked by twining briars, with a gaping door hanging askew and a busted seat over a chaos of muck and grassy dust. It stands - or stood - on the edge of a steep, tree-hung dingle (all the better to drain, erm, stuff away perhaps).  The precipitous dingle must have once been the farm's household midden where alongside all the regular garbage somebody must once have tossed a snowdrop bulb or two. They have since multiplied and now, at this time of year, are a white carpet of flowers which blooms largely unseen in this hidden spot. How many years did it take for them to grow like this? I really don't know. 100? 200 perhaps?

To reach the snowdrop clad bottom we must stumble down though the trash of ages; that's bottles, odd shoes, broken plates and crocks and all. I find myself getting distracted from the task in hand, ie getting snowdrops, and becoming more interested in bleach and shampoo bottles discarded circa 1975. The 'good stuff' I surmise, must be hidden deep....but then wonder if there is ever 'good stuff' to be found on a refuse heap. Good rubbish is something of an oxymoron.

Perhaps it would have been wiser to concentrate on the job in hand - there were many hazards; broken glass, spiky brambles and the vertiginous slope. But hey! we made it and the Glam Ass didn't curse too much as we skittered downwards. The snowdrops, which carpet the lower dingle's sides and bottom, were not too difficult to dig up, but carrying the heavy buckets up the dingle afterwards was v. hard work. Job done we struggled, puffing and panting, to the top, eventually flinging our buckets of snowdrops 'in the green' over a fence and following them out into the morning's sunshine. Phew.

The Glam Ass got busy planting and hopefully we'll see the results of his work in twelve months time. I'm struggling to get my head round planning for next spring when this one has not quite happened yet.

Here's the garden as of 23rd March 2011. Yep, mainly brown. However, the asparagus bed in the foreground has 3 spears appearing already - and no matter how many times we earth them up they strive ever upwards towards the sun. There are green things in the green house. Today I saw a bat. My heart beats a little faster at these signs of the year's unfolding.