The strawberry nursery.
The two strawberry plants in pots on the terrace's edge (pot on the right in picture, with berries) made more over the last weeks, by sending out long, unstoppable runners which I encouraged to root in neighbouring pots. The one strawberry planted on the terrace itself is less lush by far, as it receives about half as much sunlight. Nevertheless, it, too, had faith in the future and reproduced. What do they know that I don't?
I spent some time this evening potting up the rooted runners, and putting some nice new potting soil within reach of runners that have leaves, but no roots yet. I had to sacrifice two small pots of basil (lemon and Thai), in flower now for two weeks already, and beloved by all manner of bees and bee lookalikes. I felt pretty bad about that. Especially since one of the bees today was ... a honey bee.
Imagine saying that in awed terms. Honey bee. Remember my bee dream?
There are still other flowers for them - the agastache, a small pot of purple basil just for the flowers, lots of calamintha (all family Lamiaceae), um...the Verbena bonariensis, which I cut back quite heavily today, too, and ...that's about it. Maybe not lots. My big pot of purple basil is for leaves for eating so I don't allow it make flowers.
Sounds like quite a fascist terrace.
But strawberries are all about Brideshead Revisited. About Oxfords's dreaming spires, about Charles and Sebastian:
"I've got a motor car and a basket of strawberries and a bottle of Chateau Peyraguey - which isn't a wine you've ever tasted, so don't pretend. It's heaven with strawberries."
The BBC miniseries is perfect. A rare case of book becoming film, faultlessly.