It saddens me to confess; I'm not a gardener. I get no joy from aching fingers, being hot and sweaty and dizzy. Even when I had full health, I didn't enjoy it. I love flowers, when someone else has grown them and arranged them. I love fresh vegetables, dug out of the earth fresh, chemical free, but not if I've had to do all the work, the weeding, the chasing away of chickens etc. But occasionally, grubbing around in the earth really gives me pleasure.
This morning I have been attacking the vegetable patch. It doesn't have any vegetables planted in it, just an olive tree, which loves it 'thank you very much'. I could no longer bear to see the foot high grass, mangled and tangled clover and goodness knows what else in it. Of course, my motivation would happen on the hottest day of the year so far (31 degrees expected). By 9am I'd had it, and was about to shift the very full wheelbarrow when I heard an argument progressing. In digging furiously, I'd dislodged a weta and a cricket who were discussing putting a complaint in to the management. Initially I couldn't see them amongst the weeds, but it wasn't long before voices were raised and lawyers were being threatened. They wanted to be returned to their accommodation or travel arrangements provided for their family (who had been left behind) They protested that once the wheelbarrow had been emptied in a different part of the garden, it would take them months to find each other. This means that I will need to recommence my digging at dusk to find their relatives and no doubt be bitten by mosquitos in the process. This was not how I intended to fill my day.
But as I love little creatures and wouldn't want to make them refugees on our two acres of paradise, I suppose I had better get on with the job.
Oh, and we have a strayberry who has also been separated from her cousins.