Recently my husband potted on the willow twigs that we had rescued from the flailing hedge-cutter at the beginning of January. They sat in a glass vase in a semi-dormant state until the daylight hours lengthened and then we saw the brown cases fall to the carpet and fluffy grey 'blobs' emerge. They even put out a few leaves and started to form roots.
There were three twigs that my husband considered worth saving. These now join a motley collection of twigs in pots on our back patio which I list as follows:
Two small oak saplings from the great tree at the junction of our avenue, a relic of the times, within living memory, when all around us was farmland. These were probably buried by the grey squirrel before my husband had a chance to shout 'Oy' and rap on the window.
Another willow which came up in the midst of a flowerbed. I cannot attribute its arrival to the squirrel. It is a different variety, I think, to the rescued ones and has no 'pussy' buds.
A street tree, from further down the lane. Possibly squirrel had a paw in this one. I haven't identified it yet.
A homegrown forsythia cutting. This will have its final destination in the front hedge alongside the others that J gave us last year. It is small, but growing green buds.
A homegrown rosemary cutting. I hope we will eventually be able to give this away.
Three raspberry canes donated by J. We do have raspberries, but we had a large pot going spare.
As I look out on these from the kitchen window I wonder if we are turning into the kind of older persons that we once gardened for with their miscellanies of assorted pots and saucers for wildlife. I cannot bear to put good trees into the garden recycling bin, they are too precious. They will grow. Another season, I promise myself, no need to take any decisions yet.
