Now that the squirrels have almost finished chewing the walnuts on our neighbour’s tree and dropping the remains on our garden they are starting on our pots of bulbs. I have been planting pots in anticipation of the greenhouse we are excitedly expecting in a week or two, using what is left of our collection of wonky old handmade ones. (I scan old garden sheds, greenhouses and shops selling bric a brac wherever I go, hoping to find these increasingly rare veterans).
Narcissus seem to be the squirrels’ first choice, with Iris reticulata also popular and snowdrops an acceptable snack. Do tulip bulbs have less scent, or is it because I plant them deeper that they have (so far) been relatively unscathed?
The brick base of the greenhouse is all ready, a (very) minor masterpiece in reclaimed London stock bricks in their characteristic medley of gentle colours: yellow, pink and grey. It is already hard to distinguish from the surrounding garden walls. The bricklayer who built it is from Croatia; a gentle smiling man with not much English. When I told him how I intended to fill it with flowers he said “I like this job. I like flowers very much. At home I have flowers everywhere; in the hall, in the kitchen, on the walls. People say I am like woman’.
