2. Some Place ... end January.

This was to be the year of making a garden. Well the snow has been down for 2 weeks, newly planted trees are leaning horizontally and the trunk of a young cherry has snapped raggedly at the stake tie. Stored onions freeze in the barn. 'It`s the season', says Emile grimly. 'Nothing to be done.' He pauses. 'It's not always like this.' I'm learning.
'Tie the tree at a lower angle next time,' he shrugs.. I cross the alleyway where the wind shrieks, clump out into the field that I try to call garden. I test the wind as it thumps me, gulp the air, appreciate the razor chill, avoid the mud sumps that lie at the base of my little trees and force my hands to struggle with a fork, levering up a few leeks for the pot. Will it ever be spring?