STONES

I have put the picture of the path up into the woodland are first to show how it looks in early spring. The grass is short for we strim some of it in early autumn to encourage wild flowers next year - much like a hay meadow.

The steps, for what they are are made from scaffolding planks discarded by a local company as unsafe and they can be bought for a pound or two each. Wood chippings are used for the path - or were until I broke the shredder.

Now this area is a jungle of wildflowers and long grasses, some beautiful like the wood melick. Paths thread the chaos with single planks to cross the streams.

In then garden the roses are getting underway - this one is Rosa rubifolia because of its purple leaves and resembles the briars growing at the woodland edge and in the hedges. Though we only have the dog rose in the garden the field rose and downy rose do grow nearby.

A friend, (or was it family?), said that I should talk about water. As we have nothing but rain here, except for Monday when I slogged around a wet garden mowing, I should say that shortage is not a problem. Not only do we have a small stream but our own water supply. There are two wells in the garden - not suitable for human consumption and a borehole. It cost a third of the price the water board wanted to charge to bring in the mains supply.

Finally to stones.

STONES

On digging new ground for potatoes I found four tide smooth stones.

“Tom brought them here,” his daughter said, “To edge beds.”

Our stones fill corners, sit on logs, fill old bowls -

slate slabs from Luing inset with cubes of shining pyrites,

rock crystal from Corfu, 1969, still exotic,

gathered from a quarry on our honeymoon,

pebbles from Menorca when the octopus grabbed my ankle

on the snorkelling beach and I yelped with alarm,

white quartz from a crag near Goats Water carried down

the old track to Little Arrow through Bannishead,

heavy haematite looking like half an enormous brain

lugged from Newgale in a backpack, now a doorstop,

small stone eggs harvested from the shore at Roanhead

whilst Jethro and Willow excavated mountains of sand,

pink Ionan granite from the beach opposite Eilean Annraidh

where we stood and stared north at Western Mull and Staffa,

slag from the bloomery by the lake near Napping Tree

where we would swim and cook sausages on a wood fire.

When my father died I took a dark brown stone from Bardsea Beach

and rolled it in my pocket like a Rosary, a comfort.

All these places, memories and events are now collected in our garden,

waiting in the shadows to be seen and surprise me.