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. 

Day Six: Saturday - Whispers in the Orchard

 Saturdays are different. No work on the estate, which sounds like freedom until Mum inevitably finds me a “helpful” list of jobs to do around the house. Still, Saturdays hold one great consolation: I usually manage to find Adam.

Adam doesn’t work on the estate. He and his mother rent one of the flats in the old stables, and he’s something of a local legend—depending on who you ask. Some call him the oracle, because somehow he knows everything before anyone else does. Being on the right side of his gossip feels like having inside information at court. Being on the wrong side… well, let’s just say you’ll find out quickly enough when Mrs. Jenkins raises an eyebrow at you in the village shop.

Adam himself is a big, middle-aged man, not much to look at, but there’s something about him that still… bakes my muffin. (Yes, that muffin.) It all began one frosty morning last winter while I was walking the dog. We’d finally solved the problem of him chewing through his lead by buying a metal chain one, but the chain was brutal on cold fingers.

I must have looked particularly pathetic because Adam stopped, listened to my complaints, and casually suggested I make use of his trouser pockets—“lovely and warm,” he said with a grin—if I wanted to thaw my frozen fingers.

Reader, I declined. Politely. Like the good girl I’m supposed to be.

But on the walk home… my thoughts betrayed me. Let’s just say my muffin developed a familiar itch at the idea of those pockets, and I’ve been scratching it in secret ever since.

So now every Saturday I head to our usual meeting spot in the old apple orchard with more anticipation than I care to admit. Dreams, fantasies, schemes. I’ve even tested the waters: summer mornings in the tiniest shorts, the tightest T-shirts, playing the innocent nymph among the apple trees. And yet—nothing. Not a squeeze, not a nibble. Dumplings unpoked, muffin unsavoured.

And today? The same. Gossip, innuendo, the odd flirt. But no pocket-warming offers. No orchard-dark rendezvous. Just me, and the unshakable frustration that comes with it.

Still… a girl can hope. And the way Adam lingered today, just a moment too long, eyes darting toward the deeper shadows of the orchard—well. Perhaps next Saturday, something will finally give.

Day Five: Potatoes, Strawberries, and the Tyranny of Laundry.

 “I survived a whole week… but barely survived the stairs.”

Somehow—against all odds, sore muscles, and one near-death encounter with edging shears—I’ve made it through my first full week of work. Honestly, I wasn’t sure I’d last this long.

By the time I got home tonight, I collapsed on my bed like a tragic Victorian heroine awaiting her smelling salts. Rising again felt about as likely as running a marathon in clogs.

Today, Derek and I were dispatched once again to the walled garden. (I’m beginning to think Jim has adopted us as part-time recruits, despite already having four full-timers under his command. Perhaps he enjoys the extra labour. Perhaps he just enjoys Derek’s soothing, sedated presence. Hard to say.)

First mission: potatoes. Dig them up, brush them off, bag them, and into storage they go. Sounds simple—except the ground had clearly conspired against us, clinging to those spuds like a toddler refusing to leave the playground. After wrestling with earth and tuber, we were immediately promoted to strawberry duty. This meant forking compost, weeding, and finally planting rows of delicate little strawberry plants that Jim delivered with a solemn flourish, as though handing over royal infants.

Our first mission of the day.

By the end, I was so stiff and exhausted I could barely lift my fork (the eating kind, not the gardening kind) at dinner. And just when I thought I’d reached the sweet relief of food and rest, Mum hit me with the most brutal command of all:

“Where are your work clothes?”

“In my room,” I groaned.

“Well, they’re not going to wash themselves up there, are they?”

So, back up the stairs I went, dragging my weary limbs like a tragic war hero—though in this case, my battlefield was potatoes, and my medal of honour was mud.

But maybe—just maybe—my weekend won’t be entirely about rest and laundry. Old Adam has hinted at a… private tour of the orchards. And something tells me he isn’t planning to talk about pruning techniques. 

Day Four: The Forbidden Fruit.

 “Today I discovered that apples are treated with more security than the Crown Jewels—and apparently, I can’t be trusted with sand.”

Today I was sent off apple picking in the walled garden with Derek. Derek is middle-aged and so serenely unflappable that I’m convinced he’s on some kind of permanent herbal sedative. If the apocalypse came, Derek would calmly sip his tea, raise an eyebrow, and carry on polishing his secateurs.

Our first task was a logistical adventure: collect the tools. We trundled off to the stable yard tool shed, where Derek handed me what looked like a medieval torture device but was, in fact, an “apple-picking gadget.” Imagine a small bag on the end of a long extendable pole—basically a fishing net for fruit. Add a flat hand cart and a stack of trays from another shed, and we were armed and ready.

Apple Picker.

Arriving at the walled garden, we immediately faced a great horticultural mystery: which apples, exactly, were we supposed to be picking? Derek, ever calm, left me perched on the hand cart (a surprisingly comfy throne, if slightly wobbly) while he went in search of enlightenment. Ten minutes later, he reappeared with Jim—the man I believe to be in charge of the walled gardens. Although, given Little Pete’s air of authority, I suspect the power structure here is more tangled than a patch of bindweed.

Once apple protocol was established, Derek took the pole-bag and began plucking fruit from the higher branches with monk-like precision, while I stuck to the low-hanging stuff. Being vertically challenged, my contribution was… modest. Still, the trays filled up quickly, and before morning tea we had the cart fully loaded.

Ready For The Fruit Store.

Now, here’s where things got unexpectedly cloak-and-dagger. Before leaving the staff room that morning, Derek had collected the keys to the fruit store. Yes, the fruit store. Apparently apples are such valuable commodities they’re kept under lock and key. Derek explained the lock wasn’t to stop theft but to ensure people didn’t absentmindedly leave the door open—the fruit has to be kept cool and dark. (Though personally, I think it adds a delicious aura of criminal intrigue to the humble Cox’s Orange Pippin.)

Inside, three walls were lined with beautiful wooden racks, two more ran down the centre, and along the fourth wall were sand benches. And no, these are not for emergency sandcastle competitions on rainy afternoons. They’re for storing carrots, beets, and other earthy treasures. (I’m slightly disappointed, honestly.)

Our job: sort and store. Derek, using his expert eye, decided which apples were worthy of long-term storage, while I took on the delicate task of wrapping each chosen fruit in paper and placing it carefully on the racks—no two apples allowed to touch, like socially distanced party guests. Anything blemished or bruised was relegated to the “eat first” pile, awaiting its short, tragic destiny.

By the end of the day, after a second round of picking post-lunch, we’d nearly filled an entire rack. Derek even told me I’d done a good job, which, coming from a man who appears incapable of fluster, felt like being knighted. Then he instructed me to pick one of the “second-class” apples for myself—adding, with surprising gravity, that I should keep it hidden and not eat it until I got home. Make of that what you will.

Tomorrow? I’ve no idea. But if I’m suddenly reassigned to carrots, I’m bringing a bucket and spade, just in case. ️

Day Three: Strings Attached (and the Onion Chronicles)

 

“Nothing says glamour like a 7 a.m. roll call and a wheelbarrow full of onions.”

The workday begins at 7 a.m. sharp. We all line up outside the staff room door like schoolchildren waiting for inspection, while George doles out our daily instructions. There’s a curious sense of anticipation in the air—it’s a bit like unwrapping gifts, except the “gifts” are less iPads and more shovels.

My marching orders: go with Big Pete. Now, before you imagine a burly man with forearms like tree trunks, let me clarify. The “big” part refers to his height—at least, I think it does. (There are two Pete's, after all: Big Pete and Little Pete. Simple enough, though I dread to think what nickname I might be christened with in due course.)

Unlike the rest of us, both Pete's seem to operate on a higher plane of gardening authority. No instructions from George for them. Which led me to suspect my task for the day had already been plotted, and Pete was simply my escort into the mysterious world of the walled garden.

Once there, I was presented with a wheelbarrow and pointed toward an open shed. Inside, a ceiling full of onions dangled like botanical chandeliers. They’d been drying there long enough to look like shrivelled old gentlemen in a Turkish bath. My mission: string them up in true French style.

Big Pete kindly demonstrated the first one. A cord nailed to the rafters, a bit of leaf-twisting trickery, and voilà—a chain of onions more beautiful than a string of pearls (depending on your aesthetic). Then it was my turn. Each onion required peeling off its flaky outer layers (a bit like undressing a reluctant toddler) before being twisted into place. One by one, they climbed the cord until—ta-da!—a complete string was born. Oddly satisfying.

Half an Onion String.

By the end of the day, I had completed eleven and a half strings. (Yes, the half string counts. Don’t argue.) I even learned the trick of grading the onions by size—otherwise they looked like a drunken conga line. Big Pete, with his convenient altitude advantage, hung the finished strings in the storage shed. I would have needed ladders, but he simply reached up like a man casually plucking stars from the sky.

It was a quiet day, but a good one. There’s a special kind of pride in seeing row upon row of onions lined up, knowing almost all of them were my work. A humble triumph, perhaps, but a triumph nonetheless.

Tomorrow? Rumour has it I’ll be back outdoors. I just hope it doesn’t involve trousers by the ha-ha again. 暈

Day Two: The Greenhouse Trials and Lawn of Peril

Today I learned two things: geraniums are divas, and edging shears are basically guillotines for toes.”

Day Three: The Greenhouse Trials and Lawn of Peril

This morning began with Dennis—the undisputed emperor of the glasshouses—summoning me like a lowly serf. At his side was a man introduced as Ginger. (I’m fairly sure his birth certificate says “Richard,” but when you’ve been christened by your hair colour, resistance is futile.)

Ginger whisked me into one of the greenhouses at a pace that suggested he was late for a train only he could see. Before I knew it, I was facing a bench lined with geraniums, looking at me like a jury waiting to deliver a verdict. My mission: remove the dead leaves, return each plant to its spot, and then water them. But—crucially—not too much. Apparently, geraniums have delicate constitutions, and over watering them is the horticultural equivalent of serving soup in a colander.

Thankfully Ginger demonstrated the correct technique on a couple of plants before dashing off (at speed, naturally). Left alone, I began carefully plucking the deceased leaves, murmuring apologies to the plants like some kind of botanical undertaker. When it came to the watering, I measured each drop as though I were administering medicine to royalty. No drowning's occurred on my watch. Victory.

After the 10 a.m. tea break (which is rapidly becoming the highlight of my mornings), I found myself loitering like a spare wheel while everyone else seemed to know exactly what to do. Enter George, foreman of the pleasure grounds, who took pity on my sheepish hovering and reassigned me to my old comrade: Ian.

Together, we tackled the smaller lawns, the ones too dainty for the big mowers. Ian manned the mower like a seasoned gladiator, while I was handed a pair of edging shears and told—very seriously—not to amputate my toes. Excellent. Nothing like mild threat of self-mutilation to sharpen one’s focus.

Toe Pruners.

My tasks included:

* Snipping the grass edges with all the precision of a nervous surgeon.

* Sweeping gravel back onto the paths like an underpaid chimney sweep.

* Holding back drooping plants so they didn’t get scalped by Ian’s mower (a job which made me feel like a heroic human shield).

The sun shone, the air smelled faintly of cut grass, and there were no unexpected discoveries of abandoned trousers. By the end, I was sweaty, a little unsure if I’d done anything right, but—miraculously—happy.

Tomorrow? Rumour has it I’ll be trusted with a wheelbarrow of my very own. Given my track record with balance, this could either be a triumph… or slapstick waiting to happen. Stay tuned. 🌱✂️🚜

Day One: Me, Ian, and a Bag of Rubbish.

 They eased me in gently. No roses to prune, no ancient yew maze to tame, no dazzling displays of horticultural brilliance. Just… litter picking.

At 6:45 a.m., bleary-eyed, clutching a coffee that tasted more like regret than caffeine, I set off down the drive to work. On arrival I was handed a grabber stick, and introduced to Ian. “You’ll be with him today,” the head gardener said. Then he raised an eyebrow in a way that made me feel this was some kind of test.

Ian is a man of few words. The sort of few words that carry the weight of someone who has seen things. Important things. Like crisp packets in hedgerows and plastic bottles wedged into ornamental fountains. We walked in silence for a bit, the only soundtrack the crunch of gravel and my internal monologue screaming: *What am I doing with my life?

But then something shifted. Maybe it was the way Ian neatly speared a rogue Fanta can from under a rose bush. Maybe it was the conspiratorial smile he gave me when we discovered a very suspicious pair of trousers abandoned by the ha-ha wall (don’t ask). Or maybe it was just the pure, simple satisfaction of filling a bin bag until it was gloriously, triumphantly full.

By mid-morning, I was oddly… content. There’s something strangely meditative about scouring the gardens for other people’s discarded chaos. And while it wasn’t exactly “birds singing under dappled sunlight,” there was a kind of peace in it. A rhythm. Even a little pride.

Ian, for his part, remains an enigma. Does he think I’m hopeless? Probably. Did he notice me almost fall into a rhododendron while reaching for a Coke bottle? Definitely. But he didn’t laugh. He just handed me the bag and said, “Good one.” Reader, I swooned.

So there it is. Day one: not glamorous, not Instagram-worthy, but undeniably real. I came home smelling faintly of damp plastic and triumph. Tomorrow? Who knows. Maybe I’ll graduate to hedge trimming. Or maybe just more trousers by the ha-ha.

Stay tuned. 🌱

"Well, This Escalated Quickly..."

 They told me it would be peaceful. Idyllic. Full of birdsong and gentle pruning under dappled sunlight.

They did 'not' mention the 6:30 a.m. starts, the mysterious green slime that gets under your fingernails, or how impossibly attractive a man looks when wielding a well-oiled pair of shears. (It’s a thing. Don’t ask me.)

Welcome to my life as a trainee gardener on a country estate: where the borders are never straight, the head gardener’s eyebrows say more than his words ever do, and I’ve somehow developed a crush on a compost heap. (Metaphorically… mostly.)

In this blog, I’ll be sharing the 'real' behind-the-hedges stories: the blisters, the banter, the botanical missteps, and yes—those moments when I find myself suspiciously out of breath, covered in mud, and wondering how I got here.

Stick around. It’s going to get messy—in the best way. 🌱💋