A gander at Jean’s golden daffodils

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What a fantabulous start to the YMs’ Easter Holibags. I think we can safely say that, after a week of gloriously splendiferous scorchio sunshine, we can lay The Great Spring Debate to rest.

Both Gamford and Mr E have come to an understanding that spring may have finally sprung, and that indeed there is a haze of greenness aboot the Duke’s trees as they peek over the Duke’s extremely well-maintained dykes, and so the signs are there that the seasons have just about changed.

Oh, all hail the giant ball of fire in the sky that brings so much happiness and warmth. It has even resulted in the first cases of Scottish Farmers’ Tan, I noted as I crossed the square of Bonnie Kelsae Toon the other day. Lovely red arms, neck and face, just around the area not covered by a t-shirt. The mischievous imp in me just wants to reach out and slap a red bit. Naughty!

There has even been talk amongst the small people about shorts, wet suits and trips to the beach. The YMs have yet to ask for the paddling pool, but if this weather continues I’m sure it won’t be long.

It is also at this time of year, when the daffodils are out, that my thoughts turn to Jean. A fellow daffodil, gardening and poultry-lover, Jean lives about 10 minutes away and it is usually in spring in particular that we get in touch with each other to admire each other’s gardens and chookeries.

Jean has chooks and turkeys too, but she also has guinea fowl, ducks and geese. And so it was that a few days ago, we found ourselves bumping up Jean’s track to her house, only to be greeted by the lady herself walking down towards us with a long cane, in pursuit of two escapee turkey hens she was trying to herd back into her paddock.

Once we had helped her shepherd the turkeys back through the gate, we toured her gardens to admire the beautiful daffodils, with a story here and there about the variety, when she had first planted it and what she liked about it. Yellows, creams, oranges, apricots and even the odd tinge of pink. Thin petals, round petals, flared, fluted and frilled trumpets. So far removed from the bright yellow, featureless splodges painted by the YMs in primary school.

After a good potter aboot, we were met by three of her beautiful, big ganders as we went back to get into the truck. Three large geese in full hiss were enough to send the Young Master scuttling off firstly behind me, and then the truck, for protection.

Meanwhile, the Young Mistress, who thinks nothing of cuddling huge turkeys, said: “Ooooh, lovely.”

Lovely they may have been, but they were not coming home with us.

However, a stag turkey is a different matter. Jean had hatched a few Norfolk Blacks last year, and had a spare boy. Would we like him? As we had a Vic-sized gap in our lives after he decided to turn up his toes for no good reason a few months ago, we said yes, of course.

So we’ll be making another trip to see Jean very soon, and taking a very large box with us. Oh, happy days.