A fine tree on a lawn is wonderfully set off by a lavish surround of spring bulbs. First come the snowdrops, then, quickly, the crocuses: blue, white and yellow. Scattered in clumps over, say, twenty yards square, they lighten the darker days and shine magnificently in the sun shine we have recently welcomed. The crocuses fall around a bit, often knocked over by birds, but the daffodils will shortly be dominating the scene as the others diminish.
The woman of this particular house says that if she had it to do all over again, she would have the daffodils elsewhere.
For, you see, the lawn cannot be fully mowed until late June, by which time, she reckons, the leaves of the daffodils will have died back sufficiently to allow the bulbs' below to gather their strength from the dying foliage.
The daffodils are now coming on heavily as the snowdrops wither; there is still plenty of life and colour in the crocuses. But they will soon be over and, she reckons, with only snowdrops and crocuses, the lawn could be cut towards the end of May, and quite safely for these two.
She may be a bit conservative, some may think, but this year's showing seems to prove that her methods are correct. The crocuses, in particular, have multiplied and when you look inside and see that lovely powder, you wish it were saffron, that very dear condiment, which is used in cookery for colour and for flavour. God knows now many crocuses (of a different sort from our garden variety) go into the making of the tiny sachets which you buy.
As to grass-cutting, a friend in Navan declares that he mowed his lawn a week before Christmas, then about three weeks later. What has Navan got in its climate that other places haven't? Mind you, the second cutting was rather a perfunctory exercise, but he has been at it several times since.