Last year, before the chill struck, before we moved house I took some shots. A document of how it was back then. My strawberry plants wouldn’t stop blooming – they arrived in September and flowered through October and into November.
Then the snows came and the blossoms dropped off, the leaves froze on the stem and I almost lost the entire thing – the frosts cemented the pot to the paving stone outside my door that I had populated with potted herbs, fruits and even pea plants.
Somehow I wrenched it free and it came with us to the new house. When the thaw came the ice-scorched leaves turned into a drooped, sodden mess of brown.
Even now, when the daffodils are nodding and the primroses bask in spring sunshine, my strawberries show no sign of life.
Which is probably wise on their part – today it’s blowing a gale so strong that it’s torn the builders’ trestle table from my first floor balcony, sending it crashing to the earth, where it carved out a crater in the grass. The strawberry – alert to the power of March winds and April showers, is keeping its head down until the danger is passed.
At least I hope that’s what it’s doing while I’m looking ahead to my first taste of strawberries and cream.