28th January 2008

It’s as well to have a pocket full of seeds. Last month I travelled to the deep south & this afternoon pulled on the old Donegal jacket I wore then, to make the happy rediscovery of maple seeds I had stashed. I’d been amusing the toddlers by throwing them in the air to watch them whirligig down with little rises in the puffing wind. None of us could get enough, marvelling at these patterns & dissemination of purest opulence.

Last autumn wherever I went in the woodlands I collected seeds. Oak & hazel mostly, which have spent all winter in my fridge. Now, with the time come to stratify them (some would have done this immediately, but I’m in no hurry, nor are the seeds), I’ve been casting around for a container that neither the hens nor sheep will upturn or rootle about in.

The sheep are fresh on the hill, released from the gated Park, foraging like me, nuzzling the salty sand piles the road men leave for icy weather. Mooching around with no set purpose, still foraging for seeds even now, there by the boathouse is a plastic blue shallow fish tray. It’s washed up on last night’s tide & perfect for sand & seeds, with uniform holes to let the water through. It’s under my oxter before I really think about it. I saunter home, an Ardnamurchan flaneur, with sea riches, thinking of the wealth of germination & the first leaves to come & dreaming of a tree nursery for these parts.