24.4.24

in the soil

A pile of last year’s grass pulled out from around the edges of the blackberries in the course of tying them in, dry and dead already and dried further in their pile by the constant wind more than by the intermittent sun has been sat for the last two weeks covering half of the first bed on the plot, the half that is not shaded by the hazelnut tree, and when I pull it all away the soil beneath is rich and damp and friable and unlike the other half (the half that is shaded by the hazelnut tree) does not need digging over. I drill holes in the damp dark earth with the blade of my garden knife (a hori-hori, it’s called, and does extra service as a ruler and a root-saw) and fill the holes with water and poke plants of bear’s garlic into the holes and sit back on my haunches and look at the little scene I have created, a shaded copse in open ground.

in the kitchen

While at a wedding in Turin my partner co-leads a tour of the market, in particular the farmers’ market which is really a farmers’ market, many stalls from many farms and so there is a certain amount of repetition, the same things picked in different places by different hands. There is a lady selling eggs laid that morning who will (we are told) crack one open and tell your fortune; there are waxy-looking cheeses and craggy hams and huge piles of spring vegetables, enormous leeks, spiny artichokes, courgettes the length of my little finger with a stub of flower attached, crates of aglio orsino and nettles and most interesting for me of erbe x minestre e frittate, greens for soups and omelettes, more nettles, borage, poppy leaves, wild fennel, various flowers and bunches of thistle to be picked over and washed and blanched and stewed. A man should eat a thistle sometimes, to remind himself he is an ass, someone or other once said - or words to that effect.

on the page

I’m not sure if I ever actually finished reading Walden when I was supposed to at university or if I merely skimmed it enough to be able to express an opinion on it. As a book it is a victim of the high expectations its status as an environmental classic bring; when I was studying it was fashionable to criticise Thoreau for living mere miles from town while posing as a wilderness prophet (which he never really does), to point out that he received strings of visitors (which he freely admits) and to note that for all his thrift he was squatting on land belonging to wealthy friends (which is fair). Reading it now when I am less inclined to search my books for heroes I mainly think that Thoreau must have been very funny and (when he wasn’t going on about manly virtues) good fun to hang out with, which I think is probably the case for many or all mystics of the woods, if you get them on a good day.