Dig a hole two feet square and two feet deep, it said. Easier said than done in my garden.
I have a small fig tree. It was descended from one that was reputedly planted by Charles Dickens himself, via some friends visiting his garden many years ago who took a surreptitious cutting and later gave a cutting of theirs to me. It's been in a pot for a long time and I have been meaning to plant it out so today was the day. Digging a big hole in my garden involves negotiating stones, clay and the remains of the old stable block but I got there in the end. It was to be lined to prevent the roots from spreading so I utilised some old roof tiles which did the job well, and as I couldn't get the plant out of the pot without breaking it, I used the crocks to line the bottom. So here it is in its new position next to the not-so-red hot pokers, a nice south facing spot sheltered by the greenhouse and the wall. This is the border that gave me so much grief a few days ago when I filled the green bin with all the weeds I took out.
The lambs and their mum have disappeared. I suspect they've been moved to a nice, safe, fox-free place.