The bucket sat in the shed for three days in July, and by then nobody in the house would go near it. Three eggs, a litre of water, the lid left loose. The smell sat somewhere between a drained pond and a fridge that had lost power. It also…

Eleven in the morning, late May. I was kneeling in the bean row with a soil thermometer when the ground under my right knee gave a hollow thump. Not a rock. Not a root. A…

Eleven holes in a strip of lawn four metres long. I counted them at half past six on a September morning, three nights after the first heavy rain of the season. Each hole was roughly 9 cm across and 6 cm deep. Every one had a neat lip of…

Seven ripe cherries hung on my Morello this July. I picked four. A blackbird took the rest, and it had learned the exact mornings I was slow. That bird was not cruel, and it was not greedy — it had found a food supply and settled into a…

Eleven sunflower hearts, none of them eaten, and a bucket-shaped hollow pressed into the gravel under the feeder hook. That is how a rat announced itself in a client’s garden last October. I had filled that feeder two evenings running. On…

Every gardener meets the same morning eventually. Something has been at the leaves overnight, and the plant looks worse than

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