Spring in Abbeydore
Notes from a month spent waiting on the garden and wrestling with the roof
May in Abbeydore 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.