Pond life.

A cold and blowy morning gave way to spring sunshine, and by noon I was digging out weeds and old potatoes from the ground in just my shirt sleeves, welcoming the cooling breeze. I stopped for lunch at one and lay down by the little pool in front of the fruit bushes, head resting on my elbow, peering into the water. The reeds and emerging Lilly pads were clearly defined, illuminated by the mid day sun. Dead reeds, dried blond in summer covered the pond floor like abandoned pick-up-sticks, their shafts unusually bright and golden. Suddenly, I saw a tiny hand grip one of the reeds, as if using a hand-rail for support. It was a young newt, holding on to the reed like a child clinging to the rim of a municipal swimming pool, nudging its head over the top to see what was happening on the other side.

I sat there, counting four newts, as I listened to a programme on Radio 4 about how the recent brutal winters in Scotland have made it difficult for native birds and wild life to find food and survive. A Scottish lord told of how he'd found a nesting box on his estate containing eighteen comatose wrens huddling together for warmth. He took them home to his kitchen, and revived them in the warm Aga, feeding them grated Parmesan cheese until they were strong enough to be released.

As I listened, I felt a strong desire to take a newt out of the water and examine him in detail: the beautiful markings on his back, the tiny eyes, toes... Instead, I finished up my lunch and went back to digging out the beds. It all seems to be about digging at the moment...