Today we planted spring.

 Saturday 11th October 2025

I stayed home with Mum today rather than going to the stables. A box of flower bulbs she ordered arrived the other day, and with the sunshine pouring in through the kitchen window this morning, she decided it was the perfect day to get them planted. It turned into a bit of a joint project — or perhaps more of a guided one — with Mum calling out instructions while I did the digging.

She has a way of making even the smallest task feel purposeful. I’d no sooner finished one hole before she was already deciding what colour would bloom there. There was a quiet rhythm to it all: the scrape of the trowel, the soft crumble of soil, her voice, the faint smell of autumn drifting through the air. We finished just before lunch, our handiwork tucked neatly beneath the earth, a promise of spring hidden away. As though we had just planted spring itself.

After lunch I took a bag of seed out to where Dad was drilling. I stayed with him for an hour, sitting in the cab and watching the neat lines form across the field. He doesn’t talk much when he’s working, but there’s a kind of companionship in the silence. The hum of the engine, the turning of the drill, the steady patience of it all — it gives you time to think without feeling alone. There is something comforting about sitting with dad while he is working even a word never passes between us, it doesn't seem to matter.

On the way home, I slowed by the stables and decided to stop in for a minute. Rob was there, leaning on the garden wall, and he looked genuinely pleased to see me. He even said how much he misses me being around on Saturdays, which made me smile. There was a time when that place had become to feel almost like an extension of myself — the smell of hay and leather, the sound of hooves in the yard — but lately, it feels like something I’ve stepped further back from without quite meaning to. I thought about walking across to see if Charlotte was there, but I couldn’t bring myself to. It felt as though I’d be intruding, like I was only half-belonging to something that had started to be mine.

Rob told me not to be silly, reminded me that I still own the place. He’s right, of course, but ownership and belonging aren’t always the same thing.

When I got back home, the light was already turning that soft, golden sort that settles gently over everything. The garden looked peaceful, the soil dark where we’d planted the bulbs. Mum was inside, humming to herself as she put the kettle on ready for our afternoon tea. On the way to the summerhouse I stood for a while just looking at the neat patches of earth, knowing that beneath the surface something new was waiting to grow. I have never felt that anywhere I've been before. It struck me that maybe that’s how it is with people too — sometimes you have to let a season pass quietly before something familiar starts to feel like yours again.