Adam in the Narrow Walk.

 "But oh, how different it might have been had I accepted those warm pockets, all that time ago."

During this mornings dog walk I bumped into Adam down the narrow walk. Nothing prearranged — at least not on my part. With Adam, though, you never quite know. He has a knack for just… being places. A man with far too much time on his hands, if you ask me. Not that I can’t think of better things he might do with them. Of course, when I had the chance once upon a time, I wasn’t exactly forthcoming. Regrets, regrets.

Anyway I made us of him with a picture before he went on to informed me the family were up from London for the weekend. I’d half expected it anyway — the first pheasant shoot of the season is something of an event. Apparently, the gamekeeper’s efforts have paid off, and the place is bursting with birds ready for the guns. Adam, as ever, was full of opinions. The gamekeeper? Faultless, untouchable. The farm manager? An endless source of gossip and disdain. Personally, I think he’s got it the wrong way round, but I’ve learnt better than to tell Adam when his crown is slipping.

In truth, there wasn’t much else to the encounter. I walked home, Adam trailing behind like a shadow, before collapsing into bed and indulging in a daydream or two about what might have been.

The rest of the day was more wholesome: a trip to town with my sister for lunch and shopping, and later, an evening out with Lily at the club. A perfectly respectable Saturday — at least on the surface.

Day Twelve – Blisters, Binoculars, and the Great Hedge Finale.

 "Something tells me a gardener’s hands may soon tell more secrets than the gossip at lunchtime"

Back with Fred and Graham again today — clearly I’ve been adopted as their unofficial sweep-up sidekick. This time, we erected the mobile tower (which sounds far grander than it actually is — really just scaffolding on wheels) so they could reach the tops of those monstrous hedges from yesterday. My role was mainly mule duty: carrying bits and bobs to them while they put it all together. Once they started clipping, I retreated back to the dahlias for another round of deadheading. At this point, I’m practically on first-name terms with every bloom.

The real entertainment came at lunch. Vic decided to torment poor Raymond — as if his dodgy feet and untrustworthy digestive system weren’t enough, apparently his eyesight is shot too. Vic tried to convince us that Raymond reads his newspaper by propping it up at one end of his sitting room and then perching in the armchair at the other, binoculars in hand. A vision that, once lodged in my brain, may never leave. Raymond, unflappable as ever, gave nothing away except a sharp remark about Vic’s “poorly informed sources.”

By the end of the day, the hedges were neat, the clippings swept and hauled away, and the tower dismantled. Mission accomplished.

Unfortunately, in my infinite wisdom, I’d forgotten my gloves this morning. After hours of raking, forking, and — dare I say it — erections (of the tower variety, thank you very much), my poor hands are riddled with blisters. Now the eternal question: to pop or not to pop?

Day 11 – Between the Hedges.

 One day, I might just deadhead the wrong thing… by accident, of course.

Today I found myself drafted into hedge-cutting duties with Fred and Graham. Both men are somewhere between fifty and sixty, and both as average in looks and build as a mug of lukewarm tea. Not unpleasant, but not exactly worth writing sonnets about either.

Of the two, Fred is the more approachable — he’ll at least ask me things, or share bits of information in a friendly-enough way. Graham, on the other hand, seems to view me as nothing more than a broom with legs. He rarely speaks, and when he does, it’s usually a sarcastic quip that suggests my only real purpose is to sweep up after their glory. Charming.

The hedge in question was one of two towering conifers, standing at least thirteen feet tall. Fred informed me that even the long pole hedge cutter couldn’t quite reach the top, so apparently they’ll have to build some kind of gantry contraption to finish the job.

Since I couldn’t exactly sweep where they were working without risking decapitation, I was diverted to the dahlia border with strict instructions: only deadhead the dead ones. “Don’t cut off the live blooms,” Fred said, as if I might be prone to murderously beheading the innocent flowers just to spice up my morning.

By the time I finally swept up after them, I couldn’t help but think — it’s a curious thing, working between men who barely notice you’re there, while being trusted with scissors sharp enough to alter the garden’s history.

Day 10 – When Flowers Fade (and Neighbours Don’t)

 Today I was paired with old Raymond. Now, Raymond must be somewhere around sixty, though his bad feet and worse wind problem make him seem older. He doesn’t walk so much as shuffle with determination, and when he bends over to wrestle a weed… well, let’s just say it’s wise to keep a safe distance. The air isn’t always what you’d call fresh.

Our mission: to pull up the summer bedding plants now that autumn is making its grand entrance. Out came the petunias, marigolds, and salvias — all the colourful soldiers bowing out after their season of glory. It was satisfying work in a way, even if half the time I was dodging more than weeds.

The border by the stepover apple trees that I cleaned and tidied.

After clocking off and heading home, I bumped into Mick, the new chap next door. He was tinkering with his car, grease on his hands, concentration on his brow. I thought I’d be neighbourly, so I chirped a friendly “hello” as I passed. Poor man jumped like I’d just proposed marriage, but once he’d recovered, he proved rather chatty.

I said my goodbyes and sauntered off, but something made me glance back just before I turned the corner. And there he was — still watching me walk away. Naughty man indeed… though not half as naughty as the grin it put on my face.

Something tells me the garden won’t be the only place sprouting new growth this autumn.

Day Nine: "Her Ladyship’s Secret Gardener"

 This morning, as always, we lined up for our daily portion of George’s wisdom. Only today, things felt a touch… different. George wasn’t at his usual post but instead loitering near the greenhouse, deep in quiet conversation with Bert, the head gardener. Whatever was being discussed was beyond our ears, but I couldn’t help noticing the way they leaned in, voices low — the sort of exchange that made you wonder whether it was about roses or something far thornier.

Eventually George turned, brisk and all business, to hand out the day’s tasks. One by one the troops departed, until only Andrew (another trainee) and I were left standing. George beckoned us along, first to the tool shed, and then onward to the Dowager House — a grand, stately place reserved for the owner’s parents.

The winds had been fierce, and the gardens were strewn with pine needles and other debris. Our mission was simple: rake it all up and cart it off into the woods. Straightforward enough — at least for me. Andrew, meanwhile, disappeared into the shrubbery with his phone, no doubt saving humanity from zombies while I saved her ladyship’s flower beds from a sea of needles.

Lawns in need of raking. Can anyone seen Andrew?

By tea break at ten I’d already raised a respectable sweat. Afterward, with a few minutes to spare before lunch, I noticed three plants near the trees, their leaves drooping pitifully in bone-dry soil. I couldn’t resist. Borrowing one of the watering cans I’d spied nearby, I gave them each a good, refreshing drink.

After lunch I was reassigned to the hedge-trimming gang. Not to cut, mercifully — just to trail along and clear up the mess left behind. Still, Fred pressed a pair of hand pruners into my grip and showed me how to tidy up what he called a Cotoneaster. To my surprise, I enjoyed it.

Cotoneaster before a trim.

Cotoneaster after a trim.

It was during this time that George reappeared. He marched straight toward me, voice stern as a headmaster:

“Who’s been watering her ladyship’s rhododendrons?”

My heart sank. Oh no. Busted. I stammered out a guilty confession.

To my relief, George’s serious face broke into laughter. “Her ladyship is very impressed. Well done. Good initiative.”

Three Parched Plants.

I made a bit of a trough around them to stop the water from running away.

So there it is. What I thought might land me in trouble actually won me a gold star. All I’d really done was water some thirsty plants because I felt sorry for them. Still, if a little compassion can earn favour in high places… perhaps it pays to keep an eye on who else looks a bit parched.

Day 8: Short Straws and Soggy Socks.

 This morning it was raining. Not a light, romantic drizzle either – the kind poets sigh over – but a relentless, straight-down, sideways-blowing, why do I even bother drying my hair? kind of rain.

We all gathered outside, dripping quietly, while George handed out the day’s tasks. The seasoned hands hardly needed telling. They shuffled off like they’d done this dance a hundred times before: the machine operators sloping away to the mower shed to tinker with engines, the rest disappearing into the tool store to do… well, whatever mysterious “tool store business” men get up to on a wet day.

I briefly considered suggesting they give me a crash course in “tool management” (strictly educational, of course). But before I could open my mouth, George’s eyebrows had already made the decision for me.

So, I was dispatched with Ian to find Little Pete in the walled garden. He wasted no time in setting us to the task of washing plant pots in one of the greenhouses. Imagine the glamour: while others got to fiddle with greasy engines and look heroic, I was elbow-deep in muddy water, scrubbing pots like a Victorian scullery maid.

It’s fair to say, I couldn’t shake the feeling we’d been handed the short straw.

Day 7: Pegs, Apples, and the Mysterious Neighbours

 We had some new people move into the cottage next door today. I didn’t see them myself, but my sister came running in with the news: a husband, wife, and grown-up daughter. Typical. Just my luck it wasn’t a family with a tall, broad-shouldered son who could have come round to borrow sugar (or offer to “fix” things I didn’t know were broken). Instead, it looks like I’ll have to carry on dreaming.

Mum was already in a mood this morning. She went out to hang the washing and discovered the peg bag had been left on the line overnight. Thanks to the gale we’ve been having, the pegs were now scattered across the garden like confetti at a particularly low-budget wedding.

Of course, it turned out to be my sister who’d left the bag there. When pressed, she swore blind she didn’t have time to bring in both the washing and the peg bag yesterday when it started raining. Naturally, logic prevailed—and I was the one sent to crawl about the garden on peg-retrieval duty.

As if that weren’t enough, I also got saddled with picking up all the windfall apples from the lawn so Dad could mow. After filling bags with bruised, wasp-nibbled fruit, I loaded them onto my bicycle and pedalled down to Sofia at the other end of the village. She uses them for animal feed, though judging by her face when she saw the haul, I suspect her pigs eat better than I do.

By the time I got back, Mum was still fuming about the state of the laundry, Dad was growling at the mower, and my sister was mysteriously “busy” upstairs. So much for a peaceful Sunday.

Still, the new neighbours are bound to make things interesting. And if their daughter is anything like the rumours suggest—wild hair, late nights, and a penchant for secrets—then perhaps I’ll be doing more than pegging out laundry before long. 