High Spring, 2015. Part 1: Away from the Trees

One of the great pleasures of the English climate is the way that each season has its own character and indefinable atmosphere, both of which vary from year to year. This year started with an average January, after a much milder than normal December. It was followed by a colder than usual February. After a dampish start, March proved dry and cold and this weather continued throughout April. It was ideal weather for lambing, with very little bacterial disease, but plants in the garden grew slowly and reluctantly. I’ve never known such late crops of asparagus and rhubarb, both of which only came through in the last week of April – in quantities worth picking. The dryness has just persisted into May, although at last – and typically during the May Bank Holiday – there are signs of real rain arriving, hopefully tonight. I’ve kept rainfall records since Maisie and I bought our first house together, in 1980, and I don’t recall lower figures for April (just 10mm!); March was somewhat below normal, too, at 30mm, most of which fell in one short spell.

I wrote the first paragraph yesterday (Saturday May 2nd) morning, then had to break off to inoculate the lambs and dose them against a condition that gets worse in wet weather. I’m so glad we did that, because it looks like the next few days are going to be very wet and it’s pouring with rain at the moment. It now looks like we are seamlessly slipping into what I always think of as Late Spring. So what was the garden like in High Spring? And the answer to that is simple: it was absolutely fabulous. I don’t think I can ever recall a better display of bulbs and early spring flowers. As we saw in an earlier blog post (March 17th), primroses (the native British woodland Primula) were superb almost throughout the winter and then right through and into April. They even overlapped with the first flowers of the native British Primula of open damp pasture and road verges, the cowslip.

When I was a boy growing up in the hills of rural north Hertfordshire in the 1950s, cowslips (Primula veris) were everywhere. I loved the flowers, their subtle fragrance on the air, especially in the warm sunshine of a May morning, and I adored their name, even if I couldn’t understand how the pale yellow delicate flower could ever have been likened to the large, wet lips of a cow. Subsequently I have discovered that the name probably refers to wet cow dung (so ‘slips’ rather than ‘lips’), or just to marshy land, because wet pasture is the plant’s principal habitat in Britain.

We sowed our first cowslip seeds when we bought the field that became our wood and garden, back in the winter of 1992/3. We had saved some seed-heads from cowslips growing in our old garden about eight miles away and one day I simply strewed these along the brink of the large dyke which runs down one side of our holding. It only took me ten minutes and I thought no more about it. That nine metre-wide strip had to be kept clear of trees to allow the Internal Drainage Board access to clean-out the dyke alongside it, every autumn. So we knew it was potentially a good spot for cowslips and indeed, a couple of dozen tiny plants did appear the following spring. Over the next few years the display improved, but even so, I wouldn’t have described it as overwhelming.

About five years later, I transplanted about twenty young plants from the dykeside strip, across to the flower hay meadow we had laid-out between the main garden and the wide belt of woodland that was then just beginning to get established. Those trees were planted to protect the house and garden from the biting north-easterly winds that howl from off the nearby Wash – Britain’s largest bay (and incidentally by far the most important refuge for over-wintering birds). To our amazement the small cowslips took to their new habitat enthusiastically. Accordingly, over the following three or four years I moved many more. Soon the display in the meadow and in the small orchard nearby had completely eclipsed the original planting which, to be quite honest, I rather forgot about. We used it as a grass strip for hay and grazing and as a droveway to get sheep from our yard up to the main land just north of the new wood. And sure, cowslips survived there, but they didn’t exactly thrive. So I sort of forgot about the original area of planting along the dyke, and concentrated instead on the hay meadow and orchard, as readers of this blog will be aware.

Then late last autumn I was taking our new puppy, Pen, for one of her two daily high-energy, mad scampers (‘walks’ they were most certainly not), when I noticed the ground along the dyke, that had been closely grazed-down a week or two previously, was covered with cowslips which were growing in their tightly compact, ready-for-winter dormant pattern. They started to get larger in March, and into April began to throw up a few shy flowers. By mid-April the display was fabulous, but most of the plants themselves were still quite small, so the flower heads were nothing like as huge as in the hay meadow. Still, given a warm, moist early summer, the display will be even better next year. So what had happened to cause this population explosion? I can only conclude that the sharp frosts of the winter of 2012/13 had made seed lying on the ground surface germinate – a process known as ‘stratification’, which you can duplicate on a small scale, using a freezer.

Oh, and I nearly forgot: the snake’s head fritillaries (Fritillaria meleagris) in the hay meadow were better this year than they have ever been. But the really good news is that pheasants were almost completely absent, so all the flowers were able to bloom and set seed, without being pecked off. With luck their population will start to grow rapidly soon – fingers crossed and a few frosts. Anyhow, I’ll write about the flowers in the wood, shortly. So stay tuned!

My ageing border collie sheepdog Twink picks her way through the original spread of cowslips I planted along the dykeside back in 1992.

My ageing border collie sheepdog Twink picks her way through the original spread of cowslips I planted along the dykeside back in 1992.

A close-up of cowslips (Primula veris) in the hay meadow.

A close-up of cowslips (Primula veris) in the hay meadow.

A group of self-seeded snake’s head fritillaries (Fritillaria meleagris) in the hay meadow.

A group of self-seeded snake’s head fritillaries (Fritillaria meleagris) in the hay meadow.

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Lambing, 2015: no two years are ever the same

Young Lleyn lambs. These are slightly smaller than in previous years.

Young Lleyn lambs. These are slightly smaller than in previous years.

I’ll discuss the actual lambs and their mothers shortly, but I want to start with what you might think is a digression, but is nothing of the sort. In fact I sometimes think it’s the main reason I like to do practical things such as tending a garden and running a small farm. It was also why I decided to become a field archaeologist: somebody who worked out of doors with his hands. I don’t know, maybe it’s the Buddhist lurking deep within my secular psyche, but I have always found physical work the greatest aid to thought. Put me in a library and my mind usually goes blank.  No, for whatever reason, my imagination works overtime when I’m actually doing something useful. Physical work also helps me relax and of course it keeps me fit. But most of all, it gives me an unusual perspective on life, which still frequently surprises me. You might think that being grounded, it would inspire reactionary, right-wing views. But in my experience the opposite is the case. Take the current lambing season, which is nearly over.

Lambing began on March 21st, which was more or less when the current General Election campaign notched up a gear from a tolerable level of background bickering to an intrusive, ubiquitous cacophony, which is getting increasingly hard to ignore, without smashing radio sets or televisions. And they’re all so rehearsed, with an army of spin-doctors guiding their every move. I’m glad to say, however, that these are not the kind of thoughts one has in the barn during lambing. I can remember a wonderful cartoon in the Farmers Weekly, which showed an old shepherd gently snoozing in the lambing shed, sitting on a rickety car seat, with slumbering ewes chewing the cud and lambs asleep all around him. A cat and Border Collie lie snoring at his feet. Even a blackbird on its nest is dreaming. Then a radio perched on a straw bale blares out: ‘It’s the final run-up to the General Election and the whole country is urgently discussing the issues that separate the two major parties…’ But in the barn nobody moves a muscle. The snoring continues.

I have to say that when I’m in with the ewes and lambs I feel a bit like the great William Cobbett when he was on his famous Rural Rides (1830). These sketches of rural life are far more than just local portraits: they’re searching journalism and satire, too – which is why they remain relevant to this day. I would never presume to be a patch on Cobbett, who would thunder against the financiers in the Great Wen (a boil), his name for the City of London, but I do find that my sheep, like his rides, keep me grounded. They help me sort out what really matters in modern life by providing a benchmark of sanity in an increasingly weird world.

I believe passionately that the simple things of life hold the clues to happiness. I remember back in the 1980s when I had been driving a mechanical digger for over a month, painstakingly removing alluvial flood clay from the surface of the Neolithic site at Etton. I was at a reception at a Cambridge College when a highly successful and hugely ambitious academic, who was a year or two younger than me, asked me what I’d been doing of late. So I told him about driving the digger. I’ll never forget the look of incredulity that crept across his face as I described my work. When I’d finished, he asked me how I had managed to survive the sheer boredom of the task. I can remember looking at him and thinking he would never understand the truth in a thousand years: such jobs are only tedious if, like him, you think you’re somehow above them. If, on the other hand, you enter into them wholeheartedly you discover they are both stimulating and rewarding. But I knew I could never explain that to him. So I didn’t try. What the hell. But I was very happy with the way things had actually gone. Not only did I improve my digger-driving techniques, but I had an extended opportunity to think long and hard about the site: why it had been constructed over 5,000 years ago and how it had been preserved by the flood clays I was so carefully machining-off. In fact those thought processes haven’t stopped, as you’ll discover when you read chapter 3, of my latest non-fiction book, Home. I still recall those early weeks at Etton, because when I returned home at the end of the day, just as I do now after a stint in the lambing shed, my brain was as tired as my body.

So much for my initial digression. Now what sort of a season has 2015 been? The first thing to say is that it has been very good – far better than last year when losses were quite high and we confronted some genetic problems, which was why we bought-in two entirely new rams from Wales. As I write we’ve only got one ewe (of 33) left to lamb and so far we haven’t lost a single lamb. That’s never happened to us before. The vast majority of ewes have produced twins, so we don’t have any cade triplet third lambs to raise on bottles. And again, that’s never happened to us before.

Some of this is doubtless due to nature. The late winter was cold and dry, which didn’t encourage disease. The hay we made last summer was excellent and remarkably free from dusty fungal spores, which certainly make Maisie and I cough, let alone the sheep. Then the weather warmed-up quite sharply in the first week of April, giving us an excellent first flush of grass, when I turned the sheep out on April 7th, last Tuesday. We continue to feed the lactating ewes with a high protein (20%) compound for a minimum of three to four weeks after lambing, as this gives the lambs a good start in life and spares the poor ewe from depleting her own reserves of fat and even of muscle.

In the past I have started to feed the in-lamb (pregnant) ewes about six weeks before the first lamb was due to appear. This was fine when our aim was to raise large fat lambs for the market. But recently we have switched our focus from meat lambs to gimmers, in other words, to future breeding ewes, which command far higher prices. By delaying the pre-birth feeding we have reduced the size of new-born lambs and with that, birthing problems. Even so, some of the last-born have been pretty huge, especially the singles.

So there’s still plenty to be done – to keep both body and mind active. Oh, and one other thing I should have mentioned at the outset: lambing is great fun: we all enjoy it – even the poor ewes, once the painful bit is over.

One and two week-old lambs. The young lambs grew very well this year.

One and two week-old lambs. The young lambs grew very well this year.

The ewes and lambs were housed for the first three weeks of lambing, until the grass  was ready to receive them. As spring was late in 2015, this wasn’t until the end of the first week in April.

The ewes and lambs were housed for the first three weeks of lambing, until the grass was ready to receive them. As spring was late in 2015, this wasn’t until the end of the first week in April.

April 7th at 2.46 PM: the ewes and lambs about a minute after first turning-out onto the new pasture.

April 7th at 2.46 PM: the ewes and lambs about a minute after first turning-out onto the new pasture.

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The Partial Solar Eclipse 2015: a newt’s eye view.

I must admit, the media mega-hype leading up to the event did not put me in a particularly receptive frame of mind. The Breakfast Show on BBC1 was particularly inane. They seemed to think we all had a mental age of two-and-a-half:  ‘Be sure to wear these safety glasses and never look at the sun without protection. Remember, dark glasses aren’t enough.’  That’s fine every hour or so, when new viewers turn on, but not, please, every five minutes… And then the explanations were ludicrous. At one point I even heard a presenter explaining that the moon was smaller than the sun. REALLY? Are you certain? Surely, my photos clearly showed it to be the other way around. Otherwise, why would the moon over-shadow the sun….? Grrrrr…. Time to tear your hair out in handfuls.

And then there was that idiotic footage from Salisbury Plain, or the Western Isles, with Stonehenge or the Callanish stone circle in the background. I couldn’t believe the inconsequential rubbish the various spokespeople spouted. Did they honestly think that Neolithic communities erected those stunning monuments because ‘eclipses were important to them?’ Christ, if I wasn’t an atheist, I’d call down Hell’s fires to consume these so-called ‘experts’ and subject them to everlasting torment. But I digress.

[Takes deep breath. Thinks calming-thoughts-verging-on-Mindfulness. Then resumes:]

So I was in no mood to get exercised about a mere eclipse. At nine o’clock I headed out to the barn to check the sheep and let the chickens out. But as soon as I stepped out of the back door I was aware that the light was different. Normally our mornings are noisy affairs with birdsong everywhere. But not then. I barely heard so much as a tweet. It was eerily silent. And the light was subdued too, with a very slight reddish tinge. No, it could not be denied, everything somehow seemed very special.

I fed and let the chickens out of their fox-proof hutch; then I went in and collected various cameras. I also shouted to Maisie, who was up-stairs catching-up with her emails, and together we headed down to the pond. Over twenty years ago she had seen a solar eclipse beautifully reflected in the waters of the Flag Fen Mere, so we decided to repeat the experiment and use our pond as a mirror this time, too.

As we walked down to the pond we could see there was a thin covering of cloud which was thick enough to allow me to take a few few shots directly, with my ISO set around 1250 and the thickest filter I could find. They were OK, but not brilliant. Then the clouds started to clear and we turned our attention to the pond. The trouble was that the warmth of the sun made the newts frisky and soon it became impossible to see anything. But as the eclipse progressed, the temperature around us dropped and it grew darker. The newts were fooled into thinking it was night – and time for bed. Suddenly the activity stopped and the waters became icily calm. And then I got this view. It may not be National Geographic and there’s no Corona, but it was worth the wait. And I’ll never, ever forget it.

The solar eclipse viewed directly.

The solar eclipse viewed directly.

The pond surface as stirred-up by newts.

The pond surface as stirred-up by newts.

The solar eclipse as reflected in the pond.

The solar eclipse as reflected in the pond.

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The Flowers that Bloom in the Spring, Tra La!

I can remember rehearsing for the Mikado (I think I was in the chorus, but am not too sure), when I was about eleven. And that song has been with me ever since. Anyhow, this year really does make me want to sing out Tra La! The snowdrops have only just finished flowering after an amazingly long run of almost two months. The first ones were emerging in the second week of January – which is why I still think they are the best value flowers in the garden. But from now on, the pace begins to quicken.

Last Wednesday was fabulous. I’d just fed the sheep and was about to head indoors and catch up with emails etc., when my eye was caught by a glint of white on a shrub down by the pond. It was the sun shining off the newly emerged catkins of a wonderful pussy willow we acquired about five years ago, and which has now come into its own. I cut it hard back every year, which encourages new growth and a fresh display of catkins. The willow in question also has wonderful bluish decorative bark, which looks like somebody has dipped it in fine flour:

Pussy willow, Salix acutifolia ‘Blue Streak’.

Pussy willow, Salix acutifolia ‘Blue Streak’.

Next to the white pussy willow, but actually planted about fifteen years previously, are two shrubs of the black pussy willow. In my experience this willow is far less vigorous and doesn’t benefit from regular pollarding. So I leave it alone. Maybe that’s why it isn’t always wonderful, but this year I’m delighted to report that it has been superb:

Black pussy willow, Salix gracilistyla ‘Melanostachys’.

Black pussy willow, Salix gracilistyla ‘Melanostachys’.

I then took myself and my camera into the wood where the wild primroses were still in flower. They began shortly after the snowdrops and were rather disappointing in January, but little did I realise they were saving themselves for a magnificent display in early March. I’ve never known anything like it. They’re all over the wood, hundreds of clumps, and they light it up. I didn’t know you could, but I can also smell them on the air. And a few picked flowers in a tiny glass of water on the kitchen table last for about five days.

The common British woodland primrose, Primula vulgaris.

The common British woodland primrose, Primula vulgaris.

The largest clumps of primroses are in a part of the wood dominated by ash trees, all of which (and we planted about 400 in 1993) are now threatened with imminent death, thanks to Ash die-back disease. So I’ve been turning my attention to the part of the wood where oak trees reign supreme. This is where I was planting those snowdrops I mentioned in a recent post. On my way there, I passed by a clump of Siberian Squills which I am encouraging to naturalise. They seed quite freely and I was careful to buy a couple of pots of plants which were still in flower. Some cultivars can be a bit wishy-washy, with blues that tend more towards Cambridge (light blue) than Oxford. In the matter of squills, but only of squills, I am a firm supporter of the dark Oxford blue. Anyhow, after the recent hard winters they seem to have seeded freely and are forming nice patches below some hazel bushes.

The Siberian Squill, Scilla siberica.

The Siberian Squill, Scilla siberica.

Once in the oak wood proper, I headed past my new patches of snowdrops and remembered briefly how my back had ached after four days of intensive bulb planting. I was heading for a plant we had only discovered three or four years ago. Our garden soil is heavy silty clay and it’s also very wet. These are ideal conditions for growing the popular Summer Snowflake, or Leucojum aestivum (the variety we favour is ‘Gravetye Giant’) and it flowers freely with us, although more in later spring than summer, proper. But the Giant has a more diminutive, and dare I say it, more subtle, cousin, the Winter Snowflake, or Leucojum vernum. As I said, we discovered the plant a few years ago and I can now report it loves our soil, too. It was quite expensive so we bought just six bulbs, which I managed to sub-divide into a dozen and these are now forming small, but free-flowering clumps, which I’ll be able to divide next year. But it’s the flowers. They’re as subtle as snowdrops and twice the size, They are also gorgeous when seen from below. I love their dainty hat- or bell-like shape and they are just large enough to bob about in the wind – which was what they were doing on Wednesday. The sun shone. Birds twittered and my naughty black puppy Pen was behaving herself. A perfect day. Ah, the flowers that bloom in the spring:


Winter Snowflake, Leucojum vernum.

Winter Snowflake, Leucojum vernum.

Winter Snowflake flowers.

Winter Snowflake flowers.


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Eschew the Formulaic: Avoid the Predictable!

At last, a truly mind-numbingly obscure title – something that all editors will immediately recognise and delete, forthwith. The thing is, that writing has its rules and only very rarely will unfettered streams-of-consciousness actually make good books. The obvious exceptions are Proust and my personal favourite, Tristram Shandy, by Laurence Sterne. Others would claim Joyce: what about Ulysses and Finnegans Wake? Quite…..

Read more:

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The First Day of Spring

As a gardener and farmer I prefer the simple way that meteorologists assign the seasons: three months each, with Winter consisting of December, January and February; Spring: March to May;  Summer: June to August; and Autumn: September to November. So using this system, last Sunday, March 1st, was the first day of spring. It was very cold and clear, with that bright March sunlight that seems to lift everything.  So I grabbed my iPad and took four photos that I thought would characterise the day, and the early spring season. We’re told that 2014-15 has been an average British winter: December was much warmer than normal; January was normal and February has been colder than normal. And early March is no warmer than late February. In fact the forecast warns of snow showers tonight, spreading down from Scotland, where I gather the late winter has been pretty dire.

On Friday I attended the annual Current Archaeology Conference, as my book HOME was short-listed for the Book of the Year. Sadly we didn’t win (my books never win such prizes, but people continue to buy them. Odd that). I met another short-listed author (and sadly, too, another runner-up) there, the great Brian Fagan, who was over from the States. Brian and I go back a long way. In my opinion he is by far and away the best writer of popular archaeology and history. Nobody can hold a candle to him. We first got to meet, back in the early 1990s, when he was over here researching a piece for the National Geographical Magazine. Shortly afterwards I was flatteringly portrayed in a chapter in his excellent book (Simon and Schuster, 1995) Time Detectives. Then in 2010 Maisie and I were deeply honoured when he dedicated his superb CRO-MAGNON: How the Ice Age Gave Birth to the First Modern Humans (Bloomsbury Press), to us both. I couldn’t think of a suitable book to dedicate to him until The Lifers’ Club happened. So I mailed it to him, and it arrived in California (he is a Professor at the University of California at Santa Barbara) on the actual day of his birthday! And I had no idea when that was. So perhaps, after all, God does exist (I don’t think).

Earlier in the winter we had offered Brian lunch at the farm. He had been in London, then at Cambridge, attending conferences and knew he would be in dire need of home-cooking. And that’s what Maisie gave him: leeks in wine sauce, carrots, potatoes (roast and boiled), rare roast beef from the village butcher’s, with, of course, Maisie’s Mum’s recipe Yorkshire Pudding and home-made onion gravy. That’ll teach him to dedicate books to us!

The photos I took before I set off to Ely station to collect Brian showed the wonderful Crocus sieboldii poking up through the thick layer of grit that we spread across the surface of the Arts and Crafts jardinière, which I wrote about last year. The grit is designed to thwart slugs – which it does very effectively. But it doesn’t deter grey squirrels and mice – both of which love crocus bulbs. Still, they didn’t get them all!

Crocus in jardiniere

I then moved into the vegetable garden and took a picture of work I was doing to prune-back old wood on our overgrown red and black currants. In theory you should do this every year, and I’m ashamed to confess that it’s been at least four years since they last had a good hair-cut. I’m determined not to let things slip so badly in the future.

Pruning currants

Moving further into the vegetable garden I came across the row of dwarf early peas (the variety is Meteor) I planted the previous week. If the weather warms up, they should be germinating soon.  I’ll probably plant another row of maincrop peas (Hurst Greenshaft, which I train up much taller hazel pea-sticks) in April (see blog post). I soak all my seed peas in paraffin to deter the mice – and, touch wood, it seems to work.


Finally, the cold February has held back the broccoli, although mercifully the cold winds and frosts haven’t killed-off any plants. Normally the purple sprouting is ready to cut first, but not this year, when one plant of white has already given us a small, but deliciously succulent dish for supper. The photo shows the pale white flower-buds nestling deep within the protection of the main outer leaves. White broccoli spears are particularly good lightly boiled, or steamed, and served with butter and freshly-ground black pepper.  Bliss! And with luck there’ll be plenty more coming soon. Although officially here, the real spring, like love in the old song, ‘lies just around the corner’…

White broccoli

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Missed Posts, 2: Alan Cadbury reveals the secrets of April 15th, 2014

Back in early December I posted a piece about the missed blog posts of 2014. Anyhow, it’s now time to write-up another one and I have to admit that resurrecting abandoned pieces of writing is a strangely archaeological experience. Now true, I do have the photos to guide me. But having said that, I’m also aware that those pictures were taken with a common, a linking theme in mind. Put another way, I didn’t just wander out into the garden to take a series of random pictures that later I could stitch-together into a coherent story. The trouble is I’ve had to fall back on forensics to try and work out what on earth that theme might possibly have been. It has been a distinctly archaeological process and happily I have had Alan Cadbury alongside me to help. He’s a really nice chap, Alan, and although he isn’t the greatest with computers and technology, he does understand the forensic process, having taken part in that landmark Forensic Archaeology course organised, I have since discovered, by the Home Office, at Saltaire University back in 1997-8.

Alan had been staying with us recently, telling me about the final events of his second adventure, The Way, The Truth and The Dead (which is still just a third subscribed, so we need your name in it soon, please!). So it was Alan who helped me reconstruct that day last April when I took those pictures. And for what it’s worth, I get really irritated when people, doubtless well-meaning, suggest that Alan is fictional. Yes, he appears in works that are conventionally categorised as Fiction, but I can tell everyone that there is plenty of truth in them. And him. Indeed, Alan himself is far from fictional. Yes, his name has been changed, but I can assure you there is an individual behind the Twitter username @AlanCadbury – and if you doubt this, I suggest you check out his geotags, which are very, very rarely the same as mine. I’m still trying to persuade Alan (and yes, that is his real name) to ‘come out’ and face the adulation of a rapidly increasing fan-base. But he won’t. In fact he gets quite grumpy whenever I raise the matter. But then, that’s Alan all over.

Now back to that day, April 15th, 2014. It was a Tuesday. As I look back on those pictures, I’m immediately impressed by the cloudless blue sky and the wonderfully bright air. It has to be spring: at no other time of the year would  conditions be so crystal clear. Now you may suppose that I simply thought: ‘What a gorgeous day. I think I’ll slip indoors, pick up my camera and take a few snaps.’ In fact, that’s what I’d have believed myself, if it wasn’t for Alan’s frowning face on the seat beside me.

‘It won’t be as simple as that, Francis.’ He paused, rubbing the short beard on his chin reflectively, ‘It never is. You, of all people should know that.’

Did I deserve that? I decided to let it pass.

‘So what do you think was going-on?’ I asked.

‘Well, look at the time and the timings.’


He flashed them up on the screen. I couldn’t see anything odd about them.

‘This picture here shows some sort of blossom, right?’

Malus  ‘Evereste’


‘Yes, it’s the crab apple, Malus  ‘Evereste’ . One of the best flowering crabs, I reckon.’

‘But where is it?’

‘At the bottom end of the garden, down by the summerhouse, or Tea Shed, as we prefer to call it.’

‘Well, it was taken at 16.39.’

‘Yes?’ I asked, more doubtfully even than before.

Again, I didn’t think this at all remarkable. Maybe Maisie and I had just been enjoying a cup of tea – who knows? Time has moved on.

But Alan had the bit between his teeth:

‘Now look at this one. It’s labelled the Main Border and it’s taken just two minutes later, at 16.41.’ He paused, and was staring at me intently. ‘Can’t have been a very relaxing cup of tea to get you whizzing about the garden like that, can it?’

Main border

‘I suppose not.’

I was beginning to see his point.

‘And look at the picture: the composition is good. Everything comes together at the same point. There’s lots of depth-of-field. That needs a very steady hand. So I think you’ve used a tripod.’

I nodded. Again, he could have been right. My reply was hesitant:

‘Yes, I concede, to have got to the Main Border, fitted the tripod, levelled it and fixed focus, ISO and everything else normally takes at least five minutes – or sometimes rather longer.’

‘Now look at the next one.’

Small border

I did. And if anything it was even better composed. In fact as pictures of the Small Border in springtime went, it wasn’t bad. That border only really comes into its own in the early summer when the grasses are up and the daylilies (Hemerocallis) are out. I thought the jardinière by the Compton pottery, which I discussed in March of last year, formed an excellent end-stop. Pity we haven’t yet found anything to go at the other end (behind the camera) – but that’s another story.

I wandered through to the kitchen to make a pot of tea.

From my study I could hear Alan call out from the computer:

‘So when do you think that was taken?’

‘Which one?’ My mind was on tea and cake.

‘The Small Border.’

I could hear gathering irritation in his voice. I couldn’t anticipate where this conversation was heading.

‘I don’t know, Alan,’ I replied, almost absent-mindedly, while turning off the tap and putting the kettle on the Aga. ‘I’d guess a good five to ten minutes later. Again it’s well-composed. Even better than the last one.’

Alan was now standing in the doorway. I turned round. He looked me straight in the eye. Suddenly I felt as if I’d committed some loathsome murder.

‘Well it wasn’t.’ He said this slowly, stepping forward.  He was starting to sound menacing:

‘It wasn’t ten minutes…’

He paused, then continued:

‘It wasn’t even five minutes…’

He paused again to let his words sink in. Then quieter:

‘No, it wasn’t even five seconds later.’

At that, he drew breath and almost screamed in my face:

‘It was at precisely the same time as the last one! Now how do you explain that, Mister Professor?’

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