The seeds arrived in a battered envelope with my name written in all caps and a drawing of what looked like a badger. No note, just a handful of tiny packets, each with a scribbled name: Sea Campion, Lady’s Smock, Hairy Bittercress. Definitely from Niamh. She’s the only one who still sends me things by post and draws woodland animals on the outside.
I didn’t ask for them. But I wasn’t surprised.
She rang the week before, full of talk about rewilding a corner of her land, something to do with “keeping the bees happy.” I said something vague about it being too hot in Spain, and she muttered, “Try anyway,” and changed the subject. That’s how we talk now. Bits of grief under things, like grit in your shoe. You get used to walking with it.
I laid the packets out on the kitchen table. Max sniffed one and sneezed violently. Then I left them there for three days, moving them around like I was going to do something. Truth is, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to start another thing. Every time I dig a new patch, there’s this flicker of Brian behind me, muttering about spacing and sunlight and “don’t plant that near the rosemary, Ann.” And I miss that. Even the annoying bits.
Eventually, I cleared a little strip near the side wall. It’s the bit that never quite gets enough light but doesn’t stay damp either. I’ve failed with three types of mint there already. Maybe Hairy Bittercress will have better luck.
I planted them without ceremony. Poked shallow holes, tossed in the seeds, covered them over with soil I’d mixed with compost and a bit of sand. Wrote their names on old lolly sticks. It felt like an activity more than a plan.
Still, something about it stayed with me that night. I kept thinking: who else is trying to grow Irish plants in Spanish clay just because someone they loved once said, “You’ll never manage it”?
The next morning, I cleaned out the shed.
I hadn’t touched it since I left in January. Half the tools were rusted, one of the buckets had a dead mouse in it, and there was a box of Brian’s things I hadn’t looked through since 2022. I didn’t open it. Just dusted it off and moved it to the corner. I’ll need to decide what to do with it, eventually. But not yet.
There’s been talk of a day trip with the garden club. Mercedes mentioned it after the last meet-up, while passing me a plastic cup of warm white wine. Some botanical garden up the coast. She said something like, “You should come this time.” And for once, I didn’t immediately think of an excuse.
It’s been like that lately. Less effort to say yes.
Max has a new routine too—he’s started sitting by the front gate just before dusk, like he’s waiting for someone. I think he misses the neighbour’s dog that used to bark at him through the bars. They’ve moved. New people coming in. I saw a van last week.
Spring’s coming fast this year. Too fast. The valerian is already trying to flower. The bluebells—what’s left of them—are bending toward nothing, as usual. I might dig them up. Replace them with something more honest about the weather here.
But I’ll wait to see what comes up from Niamh’s packet first.
Things sprout when you’re not looking.