November Journal

Scots pine branches glow orange in the light of early winter sun, revealing the squirrels' drey. Yesterday's gloomy rain has dismissed the cold of the first frost, more bitter for being late and swept away the snow, revealing corpses of tender plants.

The sunlight begs me to dispose of slimy dahlia foliage but this year I will again leave tubers undisturbed in the ground. I was forced to abandom them last winter but from late summer those neglected dahlias bloomed better than the few I managed to dig up and store. I know I am taking a risk because last winter was one of the mildest ever and, unlike the summer that followed, not particularly wet.

Instead of grieving over dalia slime, I should be grateful that this year, here in the British Midlands, notorious for being cold and unkind, the frosts held of until the middle of this month.

Even now I can rejoice in the surviving, slightly hardier flowers such as roses and white agrimanthemums and I can welcome the flowers of the new winter jasmine that have reached halfway up their arch. I have at last succeeded in buying a clone that flowers in profusion.

The purple hebe is still performing and forms the backbone of the winter front garden.

In that anonymous evergreen bush touching the window, greatly to the window-cleaner's annoyance, I can see the thrush's nest, abandoned now while its owners enjoy a winter vacation.