May in Abbeydore by Liberty Nimmo

May has moved like the wind and I am grateful to Tat London for accommodating my tardy monthly update. Between my own work, the garden and re-roofing the studio, there has barely been a moment. It is the time of the year for extending one’s reach, and the weeks have whistled by.

In the garden, for the first weeks of the month, I watched as my sweet peas, kales, rosemary, cosmos, night scented stock, fennel, coreopsis and nigella all stood stationary for what felt like an eternity. The cold nights (yes, I too nearly lost my courgettes in that late frost) were many. I waited and watched. I gave them water, but not too much. My patience was tested and, for a moment, I wondered if things might never change.

As I waited, the flower of the hawthorn, that delicious, sweet almond scented frothy flower, came and went. I heard a Whitethroat calling up on the Common, and Garden Warblers too. There is a Nightjar in the woods behind the house who sounds like part of a techno set. Even in amongst the cacophony of common and uncommon birds, the vegetables and flowers still did not shift. This year, the petulant toddler in me was stomping a foot as the season felt determined to advance everywhere except in the vegetable and flower beds.

Nevertheless, the work of homemaking continues, and I have begun extending the roof on the studio, getting ready to reinsulate and re-clad in corrugated steel. Thank goodness for my brilliant friend, who just so happens to be a builder and endlessly practical besides. I have not been leading this charge.

Naturally, when beginning the new roof, I was expecting to learn things like, how to use the chop saw, or, how to make sure things are square and straight. I am of course learning these things. And yet, whilst I thought these new skills would be what I would end up with (along with a new roof), like most lessons in life, the thing is never the thing. Instead, I have seen my own temper in action when I have had to re-position the ladder for the thirteenth time, or when I need to go back down because I have forgotten my pencil, a screw, or, heaven forbid, when I’ve not understood anything at all. It's true that I no longer feel sick when descending the ladder and can now handle the drill whilst remembering where I've left my tape measure. But I have had to ask my impatient, frustrated lack of knowledge to step aside, and I try to notice the moment when 'I feel like I don't understand' quickly spirals into frustration. Luckily for everyone, I’m now starting to catch this before the hammer is sent flying down the garden bank.

My evenings have been given over to walking The White Knight – my terrier who often reminds me of a vigilant Foreman as he keeps an eye on all the goings on. I love these long, extended evenings with him, yet they also fill me with sadness and grief. What, I suppose, after all, is grief if not an expression of love? The White Knight – only ever capable of living in the present moment – is unperturbed by my serious thinking about the impending descent into winter. Instead he concentrates on the real work of sending rabbits back into their warrens.

By the end of the month, the studio has been inching towards having new gable ends and I realise it’s been days since I glanced at those beloved seedlings. As if by magic, the irises are flowering and the seedlings have rooted their toes. Beds are filled with leafy salads, broad beans and cavolo nero. Darn it – that critical turning point of needing to water has arrived.

---