Today, when I finally planted the daffodil bulbs I dug up from the front garden over a month ago (see day 74/366: let’s lift bulbs), I made a discovery.
Preparing the garden bed, I removed weeds and some tubers from a nearby vigorous variegated plant. While immersed in the proceedings, my hand suddenly felt something soft. It gave me a fright, so I was quite glad I was wearing protective gardening gloves.
I felt a little like an archaeologist, uncovering a fascinating object from the past, although this was a living thing. Dusting him off very gently, I tried to take a better shot, as he was camouflaged quite well.
I returned to my task and next time I looked he had hopped away. Shortly he disappeared; a frog without a pond.
Then I returned to ready the bulbs for planting. As I had dug over the soil very well, this was not an arduous task. Looking forward to the outcome, the phrase “.. a host of golden daffodils” was brought to mind, a line from Wordsworth’s poem.
In Spring I hope to have a display of daffodils, although I’m not sure whether they may need a year to settle into their new surroundings before flowering. By September my question will be answered.