The first snow fall of the winter and continued freezing temperatures had meant that the bird feeder was enjoying it’s busiest period of the year so far. That’s just about the only good thing about this kind of weather, you get lots of visitors to the garden, and if you’re lucky some of these are not ‘regulars’.

One time it was a moorhen, then another time a pair of woodcock. Yesterday I noticed another bird that I had never seen before.

Looking in my only 2 bird books proved inconclusive. Nothing quite seemed to fit, either the description seemed wrong or the picture, or both. In the end I turned to the Internet.

After a  little bit of ‘surfing’, I had the answer. My new visitor was a Fieldfare. Even those these birds are gregarious and most commonly found in flocks, it seems it is possible to see just one, as I did.

He may well be gregarious with his own kind, but I can tell you my new visitor was not friends with anyone else in my garden, and he jealously and aggressively guarded his windfall apples against all comers.

He stayed with us all morning and well into the afternoon. Towards teatime I decided to go out and top-up the feeder before it got dark, this would also give everyone a chance of a decent supper.

My new friend was there and fluttered into a nearby tree as I approached, he then flew into next doors field. In so doing he answered another question that has been puzzling us on and off for many years.

Sometimes when we go for a walk up the lane, particularly in Autumn, we disturb groups of birds in the adjoining fields. Most we recognise, but one group’s identity has so far eluded us.

They rise out of the stubble in a huge flock and are away in an instant. Until now we had no idea what they were, but now I know. Having seen my new friend fly off this afternoon I can say they are unmistakably Fieldfares.

So there we are, horses for courses. Books might be my natural port of call, but sometimes only the Internet will do. However did we manage without it?

Today I’ve been planning my seed sowing strategy for the coming weeks, and what’s the first thing I do when I get stuck? Do I take notice of the above Internet sales pitch? Of course I don’t, I reach for my favourite gardening book.

I wonder if it’s an ‘age’ thing, people of my generation were brought up with books. Admittedly, if I can’t find what I’m looking for in a book, I do venture on to the net, but somehow a book is more real, reassuring.

Anyway, it’s a good job I heeded my own advice for the new year and didn’t get carried away with the relatively mild weather in January. February has brought with it ferociously low temperatures, wickedly cold winds and the promise of heavy snow later today.

Sitting in the warm with a gardening book planning Spring, seems like exactly the right thing to be doing.

Over the years some of my favourite ‘finds’ have been exactly that, things that have been ‘found’ by people, but specifically ancient gold rings dug up in fields and back-gardens by men with metal detectors and waxed lyrical about by the wonderful Geoffrey Munn.

His enthusiasm for the object in question is infectious. He describes it in minute detail and explains the significance it might have had to the original owner who lost it 3 or 4 centuries earlier. Finally he ponders as to the circumstances surrounding the loss, fanciful I dare say, but none the worse for that.

Fast forward now 400 years to Antiques Roadshow 2412. A member of the public has brought in a diamond ring they found whilst digging for ‘collectables’ on the site of a 21st century household waste site. I wonder what the 25 century version of Geoffrey would make of that?

Perhaps it had been removed whilst the owner was doing the washing-up, or some baking. Remember the heartwarming story of the carrot!

Well, perhaps I could help him out with this one.

First we have to go back in time, to around 2001. My parents, already well into old age and infirm, decided they wanted to leave something of significance and value to their 2 daughters. So they bought 2 diamond rings and gave one to me and one to my sister.

To be honest, I don’t have a diamond ring lifestyle, and I would describe my hands are ‘capable’ rather than ‘elegant’, but it made my parents happy, and that was the main thing.

For years the ring lived, in it’s box, in a drawer in the wardrobe. It never left the bedroom, I never wore it because I never go anywhere ‘posh’ and it would only fit on my little finger anyway.

Since Xmas I’ve been having a major clear out, it’s part of my plan to keep busy whilst I’m waiting for gardening weather to arrive. It’s gone quite well, then suddenly the other evening I was watching TV when a horrible thought hit me. Where was the ring?

I knew I hadn’t come across it during my most recent sorting through drawers, where could it be? I mentally retraced my steps as to when I last saw it. Many months ago, in it’s box in the wardrobe, but where was it now?

I went upstairs and started frantically to look in the place it should be and then in the places it could be, finally all the places it shouldn’t be. The ring was nowhere to be found.

There seemed to be only two explanations. Either I had put it somewhere safe, so safe in fact that not even I could find it, or I had inadvertently thrown the ring box away thinking it was empty. Could I have been so stupid? To say I was cross with myself was an understatement!

It wasn’t so much the value, because I would never have sold it, it was mostly the sentimental value and the fact that I could have been such an absolute moron.

You might wonder why I am able to write about this in such a flippant way. Well the answer to that is two-fold. Firstly, my parents are no longer with us, so they will never know what an idiot I’ve been. The second reason is a bit more practical.

In the course of beating myself up over the ring, I’ve thought of several other small items and trinkets that also seem to have disappeared. Whilst I might have accidentally thrown away an ‘empty’ ring box, I certainly couldn’t have accidentally thrown away all the other things too.

Conclusion? There must be another little box somewhere that I have failed to include in my New Year Spring Clean. Hopefully I’ll come upon it one day and there will be my diamond ring and the other bits and pieces.

However, if I’m wrong then Geoffrey (25 century) Munn is going to have a story to tell.

The general consensus seems to be, that because the autumn and winter have been milder than last year, indeed milder than many years, the birds don’t need as much support, because natural food is still available to them.

The forecast for the coming week is for very cold days and sharp frosts at night. Fingers crossed the winter doesn’t have a sting in it’s tail for all of us.

Like last year I watched through the kitchen window. The morning was sunny, but cold with no wind. I watched between 9.15am and 10.15am.

As I was doing it I couldn’t help feeling my observations were going to be down on last year so I was quite surprised when I came to compare the results.

Here are this years results, with last years in brackets.

Sparrows 14 (11)    Dunnock  2 (1)     Coal Tit 2 (1)     Chaffinch 2 (0)   Blackbird   5 (7)   Starling 2 (6)   Blue Tit 2 (3)  Great Tit 1 (2)   Robin 2 (4)  Collared Dove 2 (2).

Not as big a difference as I was expecting.

Just like last year I’ll compare my results with the national average, when they’re published. In the meantime, I’ll just enjoy watching my birds.

Over the last couple of weeks there has been activity. Vehicles parked outside, windows open, smoke out of a chimney, mattresses propped up outside and curtains tied up as if to facilitate cleaning.

Then today the icing on the cake. The septic tank was pumped out. This is the septic tank that was installed last March, was big enough to live in and reputedly cost the brewery £50,000. The pub was already on it’s knees, and has been closed completely since September. They must have money to burn.

All of this, plus the arrival of a skip and strangers walking dogs in the lane, is a sure sign that the pub is about to rise like a phoenix from the ashes. Watch this space.

Today was bright and breezy so I decided to have a close look at the plants in the conservatory. All winter I’ve really only watered them occasionally, and not much else. I’m pleased to say all was well apart from one fuchsia which had been attacked by vine weevil grubs.

I knew almost immediately just by looking at it, and a gentle tug on the stem confirmed my suspicions as the plant just lifted out of the pot with barely a root to it’s name.

I have been here before. Sometimes I can save them, sometimes I can’t. I washed what roots it had thoroughly,  pruned it, re-potted it and watered it well. Now only time will tell. I checked the other plants, who all seem to be OK which is a relief. Roll on Spring.

Incidentally I’m still keeping to my resolution and not getting carried away at the first sunbeam and bird song.

Finally, Happy Birthday to me, 58 today!!!!!

As a child I always liked to see ivy on cottages and houses. I seem to remember my mum’s response was, “You’ll get creepy-crawlies in your bedroom”. Not that we lived in the kind of house where ivy was even a possibility, but these things stay with you.

So, when we moved here 13+ years ago, it seemed natural to plant some ivy. And that’s what we did. Up the front and side of the house, around the conservatory and the side and rear of the garage.

In the first few years it was fine, but as the years passed it got to the stage of needing regular trimming, and frankly that has become a bit of a nuisance.

It grows at a ferocious rate, I’ve lost track of the number of times I trimmed it last year. My idea is to keep on top of it. Young shoots are easier to trim than old woody ones, but here’s the rub. I’m scared of heights. Anything over 3 rungs on a step ladder and I’m a gibbering wreck. This means that although I can do a lot of it, trimming the ivy on the front of the house falls to Peter.

He doesn’t like heights either, but is prepared to do it once a year, with me hanging on to the base of the ladder to prevent mishaps. Trouble is, he isn’t always well enough to do it, which is why it is growing through the gutter and on to the roof as I speak. (The picture above is pretty old) He says he will do it, but I worry about him. He did fall off once, despite my help.

Many times I have considered just chopping it off at ground level and waiting for it to die, but various things stop me.

Firstly I don’t like killing things, even ivy. Secondly, the birds and the insects love it, even if I don’t. Finally, it does cover up some unsightly marks in our brickwork, which is why we planted it in the first place.

We don’t get creepy-crawlies in our bedroom, but I do wish I had heeded my mum’s advice.

In my defence, it’s sometimes outside my control, for example last year we were under several feet of snow, and the year before I was decorating, but even so it seems to me the gardening switch in my head just turns itself off around the beginning of December, and refuses to fully switch on again until about March.

A lot of people don’t like January and February, but to be honest I quite like them, having a birthday towards the end of January probably helps a bit, but regardless of that, I feel the excitement of a new gardening year approaching and what’s not to like about that?

The trouble is I do tend to get a bit carried away, and as soon as even a hint of warm sunshine appears, I’m convinced Spring is here, and over-ride my gardening switch to go into the garden, even if it’s still February!

Consequently I have been known to come un-stuck occasionally, when I’ve tried to get things going a bit too soon, but this year it’s going to be different. Honest!

With that in mind, instead of rushing out to buy seed potatoes and onion sets, all I’ve done so far this year is plan the crop rotation in my vegetable garden. I’m going to plant a new strawberry bed this year, as the existing one probably peaked last year.

The ‘Lucifer’ seedlings that I sowed at the end of September and the ‘Rudbeckia’ experiment are both still hanging on in the conservatory along with flowering fuchsias and a few geraniums.

I’m going for long walks to keep me occupied until the weather improves and the switch in my head turns on and I can get back into the garden.

For years now I’ve been putting a bowl of cat biscuits out each night for the various stray cats that have passed my way over the years. The present one, a large, hairy, white and black tom cat is a regular visitor, but is too timid for anything more than a wave through the window.

The cat biscuits I buy are nothing special, but invariably come in mixed flavours, the current box being rabbit, chicken, duck and vegetables. Indeed they all have ‘vegetables’.

The kibbles are different shapes and colours and the vegetable ones are always green.

Sometimes the stray doesn’t eat them all, and in summer the rest is usually eaten by a hedgehog, finally, come daybreak if any are left the birds eat them.

Many a time when I’ve been up early I’ve seen a robin or blackbird having a sneaky snack out of the cat’s bowl. But guess what? They always leave the vegetable ones.

So there you are, it’s not only children that won’t eat their greens.

I’d just finished cleaning my teeth and had placed my brush back in its mug. I should point out at this stage that I was quite tired, and having had my usual night-cap of a glass of port, wasn’t at my sparkling best.

Suddenly, out of nowhere something that seemed quite large flew at my head. I tried to brush it away, but it kept on coming. I began to retreat to the bathroom door, but the thing kept on flying at my head and it was buzzing.

I’m not given to hysterics, but I actually screamed out loud, not that it did any good, as Peter who was downstairs watching TV, never heard a thing!

The whole thing probably lasted no more than a few seconds, and when things calmed down there was a huge wasp in the middle of the bathroom floor. Where on earth had he come from?

I placed a glass over him so I knew where he was and to stop either of us treading on him with bare feet during the night, because at that point I was going to leave him there until morning.

Then I got thinking. I knew if I did that he would be dead by the time I got up. So at around midnight I got out of bed, scooped him up into the glass to take him outside.

On reflection, given my ‘mellow’ state and the fact that it was pitch dark and blowing a gale, this might not have been my best decision ever, but as luck would have it all went well.

He may not have survived the night coming as he did from our warm bathroom to a force 9 gale, but at least I’d given him a chance.

So there we are, proof yet again, that the old softie in me is alive and well in 2012.