We arrive in Denmark to the mystery of molehills. An explosion of earth mounds picked out in the car headlights like a compound of pyramids. Henri is not happy. They are mobile, the moles, moving house from one corner of the meadow to another. An ancient Aztec city of soil.
The nice neighbour is obsessed with them. He has an annual petanque tournament and is lined-lawn crazy. For him it is war. I don’t exactly welcome them, but figure they’re more resident than me.
Anyway, the soil they unearth is useful today for topping Ina’s winter window box. Most I transport to the old fire pit and a few other spots around the border. Last year, these were a happy home to snaking nasturtiums, calendula and rampant borage.
I cook food for the feral cat, a raggedy long-haired ginger tom abandoned at a year old a decade ago when another neighbour moved. I put out bowls of Christmas goose fat and make him chicken giblet stew. I figure as long as I draw the line at buying tinned food it’s fine. We are not here often enough to be a reliable source.
We have come to see Ina, but there’s winter pruning to do. The fruit bushes: redcurrants and blackcurrants, the latter for Henri’s favourite jam. The redcurrants we leave for passing picking and the birds.
The biggest jobs are the roses: two old Danish climbing varieties and multiple crimson and white rugosa that also grows everywhere along the shore. The Danes have a love-hate relationship with these. There was dark talk of the rugosa not being Danish enough – plans for uprooting them from the beaches. This, though, has receded.
We arm ourselves with thick jackets and gloves and sharp secateurs. Henri is more fierce at pruning than me, so I content myself with wheeling away her cuttings. The low winter sun shines. It is good garden work.
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