Glorious Plans
Mrs Fox peered out into the sunshine. The grass was brighter today, the sun was stronger. It was well past Imbolc, but not yet Ostara. And yet. Surprisingly Spring-like. Pheasants abounded in the fields, strutting and calling to each other cheerfully.
The Foxes had raked and dug, planted and watered. ‘Til they bothed ached all over. Blackcurrant bushes times four. Tick. Gooseberry bushes times four. Tick. Summer Raspberry canes times six. Autumn raspberry canes times six. Tick, tick. Crowns of rhubarb times two (now covered, for fear of frost). Tick. Broad bean seeds times 36. Tick. Tidied up around the Autumn planted onion bed. The fences around the farm yard were going to be fruit hedging this year, as Mrs Fox was determined to be prepared for a further Damson-gate situation.
Last Autumn, for the first time, there had been not a single damson at Foxes’ Retreat. Mrs Fox hoped that the damson trees had been simply taking a break. The year before 74kg of damsons had been picked, without a single step onto a ladder. Mrs Fox had decreed that all fruit out of fox-reach was to be left for the birds to enjoy. Various methods of taking the stones from the damsons had been tried over the years, but the very best was to simmer the damsons gently, then to push them through a cake cooling tray over a waiting pot. This was the stones stayed on the tray and the delicious bright fruit slipped through ready for crumble. Ready for jam. Ready for chutneys. Oh, the things that they had made!
Mrs Fox narrowed her eyes across to the top paddock. Pursed her foxy snout. Considered. The counter plan to ensure fruit at Foxes’ Retreat this year was underway. She wondered if the lazy damson trees could sense her diverting into soft fruit bushes. She wondered if the damson trees were smirking at their rest and expected bumper harvest. Mrs Fox already had three freezer spaces. Just because of the damson trees. And now… potentially more fruit. This might mean more bottling, more preserving of jam, more spicy chutneys to go with delicious cheese. Mrs Fox’s mouth watered.
In the barn, safely under the filly’s discarded foal blanket, were potted up strawberries. Nine. And a jumble of 4” pots of seeds. All planted to germinate into fragrant sweet peas, lupins and echinops to brighten up darker corners in the wilderness of the fireglobe garden. And aubergine seeds, of course, for in the greenhouse later on. They were a gamble. Mrs Fox liked a gamble every now and again. A wild risk to take, but the adrenalin was much needed this year. The bottom drawer in the kitchen was pregnant with seeds for March and April sowings. The greenhouse foundation bricks were being placed carefully, before the preloved greenhouse that Mr Fox had found for them was erected next week.
Time to write, thought Mrs Fox, there were stories to tell today. Her lovely poetic friend, Dominic, had reminded her of the shoes hanging from the lowest branch by the portal. It was time to tell that tale. She settled back, picked up her black fountain pen and relaxed into the familiar world of her writing desk. Smiling.