There is a Buddha who sits on my patio. He appears to be gazing into my living room, meditating on the wonders of the universe. Or maybe he is just contemplating the weather and thinking, will this rain ever cease? 🤔
I live in what feels like the rainiest city in England. Now when one becomes a gardener, amateur or otherwise, one looks at what comes down from the sky differently to non-gardeners. Okay, during a dry spell, there will always be the odd complainer. It’s too hot, they will say, in an exasperated tone, fluttering a newspaper in front of them to fan their face from the relentless heat. (To be fair, it can get just a little too hot and then I am that person moaning!)
But most others will delight in such temperatures. What no rain, no cold, what’s there not to like?
I used to hate rain. What was the point of it? But when a myrtle dies slowly, leaves sadly curling up and falling off, because I, selfish person, forgot to water the plants on the patio during a rare dry summer, it’s time to rethink priorities. (Good news is, like Lazarus, my myrtle came back to life). 🌿
For most of the year, however, there is no need to water my container plants thanks to the never-ending rainfall which appears attracted to my little haven. The clouds, very kindly, prefer to water my lawn, which for the last five years has had rather a bog like appearance. ☔
My guinea pigs were eager to munch the grass. I was keen to be able to walk to the end of the garden without needing the help of Cedric, the Queen’s Guide to Morecambe Sands. At its worst, the lawn appeared as slippery and treacherous as the notorious sands themselves. And if I did get hens, they might well enjoy a wander and a nibble.
But at the moment, it was impossible.
Something had to be done. ☔