Last night it was howling outside. It seems that my garden has it's own microclimate, and not a welcome one. It's as though the wind roams the rooftops descending forcefully into the enclosed arena to whip up a frenzy among my unsuspecting garden furniture.
In the past I've had young pears downed from the tree, my table upturned and, most damagingly, my plastic growhouses thrown halfway across the garden in acts of anarchic destruction. Last year, I lost 2 months of growing which ultimately ended my harvest in a night of carnage.
So last weekend I finally decided to learn from my mistakes and got out the string to anchor my nurseries to the stone floor. The only slight challenge was finding suitable solid objects to tie them to. Thankfully I got lucky with rooted buddleia, rusty nails and a handy support column for the flat above, that allowed me to keep the growhouses in sunshine. And I did it not a moment too soon.
This morning, I nervously peered out of my shutters, and to my manly delight I saw my handiwork had come good, my seedlings have survived and I feel one proud seed daddy. Take that Wincy Willis!.
But it wasn't all good news. Sadly, my duck took a hit.
So in case you're still taking risks out there and hoping the wind stays away, why not get out the scissors and string and let a different kind of Howlin' sound fill your day