Spring buck …

CHRIS BENNETT has been absorbed by the budding season.

SPRING seems rather reluctant to get into its stride, although the wildlife in our corner of the world, blue duiker, bushbuck and dassies, seem to be aware of what is going on in the garden.

I recently acquired three rather handsome crotons, in pots, to fill in a gap in my hedge, such as it is.

They have now, after about a week, been given a free haircut by some twitchy-whiskered muzzle. It was a secret, black and midnight operation, so I haven’t a clue to the culprit’s identity, although accusing fingers have been pointed in the direction of bushbuck.

Not that I see them as a culprit. They are welcome in my garden, but I get a bit miffed when they decide that it’s also a salad bar.

I applied the reeking solution recommended by my helpful friend at the nursery, and spent most of Sunday trying to stop my hands smelling like a drain. Still, as long as it works …

The wind, which I suspect nobody likes, with the possible exception of the yachtsmen, has brought untidiness but no drought relief.

Spring this year, rough and tumble though it seems to be, has been a different experience from past springs. I have paid more attention, something I did not do much of at school; looking out of the window at the cows in the fields was more interesting than old man Wilson rabbiting on about the elegance of mathematics.

He had been my father’s maths teacher; we were also taught by the same English teacher, an Oxford or Cambridge blue, I have forgotten which, called “Knocker” Johnson. He was a boxing blue.

Dick Johnson, for such was his name, had an infectious passion for the English language, something sorely lacking in our modern culture in which language is seen as more of a hindrance than a joy.

He imbued in many of us (not all, because old Wilson had some admirers for his arcane and secret arts) a love of reading, which in turn leads to the permanent sense of exploration that accompanies one throughout life. Books, those dusty old irrelevancies of today’s world, are the key to many things.

History was another favourite at school, especially the complex doings of the English monarchs. This is another subject that seems to have faded away over the past thirty years or so, which is a pity. Understanding today might help us anticipate tomorrow, and understanding today comes from knowing about the past. A tricky subject in these times; it has always been a Cinderella, laden as it is with political baggage.

This year I seemed to notice so much more about the spring, especially as some of my own pocket garden was responding to the rising of the sap. The huge ficus outside my front door looked almost edible as it burst into a green and brilliant song of leaves.

St Francis may have had a few harsh things to say about reading and learning, but he was wrong. He was right, of course, in conversing with the birds.

I tend to talk to the few plants in my care, especially the saint paulias or African violets. They are cheerful little things that bask on a windowsill and need little attention.