Seventy-one.  The number of snails found hiding in the rhubarb forcing earthenware bell jar.  Seventy-one.  The number of snails in a loosely tied biodegradable bag on their way to fulfil a great task in Landfill.

I bought straw.  Two bales.  This year I will force some rhubarb.  I have a good clump in the front garden, between the cherry tree and the road.  It comes from Dad’s garden and last year it grew well so I think it is strong enough to be forced.  It may seem rather brutal, but it the exclusion of light produces light pink stems with less acidity.  Tastier.  It has long been a plan to do this, and the bell jars – I have two – have been following me around for years.  This may be the first year I have all three ingredients at the right time.  Straw, rhubarb, bell jar.

I don’t really like rhubarb that much.  It’s a bit of a one trick pony.  Rhubarb crumble.  That’s it.  And don’t use the leaves in a salad.  They are poisonous.  It is quite an impressive trait in a plant.  Edible stems and poisonous leaves.  Oh, one last point.  The world centre for commercial rhubarb production is a shed in Yorkshire.

I bought seed potatoes.  Four varieties; Duke of York, Picasso, Saxon and Vales Emerald.  First early, maincrop, second early, first early.  I chose Picasso because he was a great painter, and Tom spotted some horticultural or culinary reason for the other three varieties.  This may be the year when records are kept and varieties tested.  Taste, productivity, pest and disease resistance.  You never know.  The next step is to chit them.  Put them in trays in a light airy frost free shed.  I have such a shed.  Unfortunately as well as light air and frost freeness it also contains a shedload of junk.  And rats. This will have to be my weekend project.  Boo, my Jack Russell, will assist.

I bought shallots; twelve Yellow Moon and twelve Red Sun.  Yellow moon has excellent skin quality.  Red Sun are perfect for salads.

I bought onion sets.  Fifty Karmen and one hundred Sturon.

The early morning light is beginning to illuminate the garden.  A blackbird bungs itself across, landing on the fence and moving his tail up high to catch his balance.  A few gulls, with local tasks, ride about on the air.  A song thrush sits atop the neighbouring thorn tree singing.  A collared dove climbs straight up until he gets to a gliding place and then, holding his breath, glides.

The world may be turning but it returns, as ever, to the same place.  The same moment.  This moment, when the seed potatoes sit in their box and the warm earth awaits, ready to give her bounty to any seeker, if he can just place the seed in her arms.

But fine words butter no parsnips, as my mother said, many times.

I am ready.

Finally.

Holly Hock, the pensive gnome, has a red hat and a blue tunic.  He is thinking.

Four gnomes live in my garden.  I will introduce the others tomorrow.