WINTER WHIMPERS ON

The weather does not let up - I am glad I am not one of our builders. From the kitchen door, one minute it is snowing and the next we are buried in fog.

All I can do is chop back a bit here, prune a bit there and wait. The plastic heron keeps a lonely vigil by the frozen pond and moorhens swim when they can if the surface is free of ice - and the sarcococcus by the back door continues to pour out its scent.

Some plants take on a new lease of life with the snow. This particularly applies to those with variegated foliage.

And when there is not much to look at then it pays to look closely -

Dead wood mined by many mandibles,

Dead grass not yet cut back,

The red stems of the maple against a dark hedge or even a single leaf, a camellia I think, shed onto the path below the house. When all one has  are promises - daffodils stopped by the cold, flowering currant buds unopened, and there comes a time when there are just too many photographs of snowdrops it is tough to blog.

So one has to resort to pictures of septic tank tops - of course to show where the buddleia was pruned and the new mixed bed, and another view illustrating the chaos of building on.

Then I can show you a big clump of buddleia not yet cut back and the bonfire upon which it will be thrown.

None of this is exciting but anything is better that the total catastrophe of Brexit - Oh! I told myself I wouldn't mention it. 
So as the country of Empire retreats into the past of oblivion, away from the modern world and we retreat up our own small niche, I think of more important things like what should I use all the mowdywarp soil for. I wonder if it is full of weed seeds and should I not, therefore, shove it on the veg beds?

The weather has finally warmed a few degrees - so it is raining. And there is no way I am going to mention cricket in the West Indies. (Could mention the Rugby in Eire though.)

And it is a sad time for my friend N as his friend Brother Columba has passed on.

Let is dream of the spring -