Welsh Country - Issue88 - May - Jun 19

From the
Potting
Shed
It is late March and I am digging tatties. The sun beats
down from a sky as blue as a cornflower in summer. It
is yet mid-morning but the temperature must be well
into the 70's. I bend my back turning the dry, friable loam
to reveal small golden nuggets of new potatoes from under
the withering green tops. Bees and hover flies still taking the
nectar from the pretty purple and white discarded flowers.
Small friendly dark brown Fantails flit along the low branches
of overhanging shrubs and peach trees; promiscuously
flouncing their creamy white fanned tails like cheeky girls
dancing the can – can. They continually chatter in a metallic
cacophony imploring me to disturb more sand flies upon
which they greedily gorge. Along the shrubbery and distant
woodlands the Bellbird sings his echoing refrain. Captain
Cook described its melody as 'seeming like small bells most
exquisitely tuned'. His dark olive green feathers showing an
almost purple sheen as he flies amongst the native shrub.
Along with his comrade the Tui they form a significant part of
the early morning symphony much noted by early settlers to
New Zealand.
For I have forsaken my beloved Potting Shed and leaving
the icy Easterly winds bearing snow we have traversed the
globe to visit our daughter and family, recently settled in the
north western area of South Island amongst the lakes, rivers
and mountains that make up the Nelson National Park.
“
Captain Cook described its
melody as 'seeming like small bells
most exquisitely tuned'
”
For them it is late Summer coming into early Autumn but
we are in the middle of a heatwave. By noon it is too hot to toil
so we sit on the deck in faded wicker chairs sipping icy water
drawn from their deep well. The property is isolated sitting
neatly on a knoll overlooking the verdant valley. The red tin
roof and white lap board house visible for miles around. As
we sit and look at the odd cloud shadow crossing the dark
green mountainside before us we wonder at the silence. The
tin on the roofs of house and barns tick in the heat; across
the meadow a timber truck crosses along the shingle road
the trailer almost disappearing in the swirling white dust. The
chickens have taken shelter amongst the outbuildings. Some
perching on the covered log pile their feathers puffed out
trying to lose heat. Others in the untidy workshop resting on
old doors and discarded window frames. Colin the pig dozes
in his cot too hot to move, the droning flies settling on his
brown bristling flank undisturbed.
Towards evening we stir
ourselves watering the pots of roses
and honeysuckle scrambling up the
posts around the decking, spilling
over onto the bright tin roof.
“
”
Towards evening we stir ourselves watering the pots of
roses and honeysuckle scrambling up the posts around the
decking, spilling over onto the bright tin roof. Brilliant red
geraniums shedding petals amongst the pure white Cosmos
their lacy leaves wilting. I collect the potatoes, French beans
and herbs required by the catering department.
Another deck offers a brilliant sun set down the valley.
The trees on the mountains darken as the shadows lengthen
beneath the apricot sky. A couple of fishermen amble along
the riverbank making their way back to the bridge. A red deer
stag roars further up the valley restless amongst his hinds.
With just the sound of the river murmuring softly my mind
momentarily returns to the far away Potting Shed where
perhaps Uncle Dick is opening up and lighting the little wood
burner watched by a shivering Monty the whippet. Starting
the very same day that we are just ending.
Words: Ezra Bay
Illustration: Richard Stockton
52
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