I should have known better, but the promise of spring does strange things to a grower. The moment the light stretched a little longer in the evenings, I felt that familiar itch - the eagerness to get everything planted out as quickly as possible. Some of my prised seedlings were bursting with life on the windowsill, tiny leaves reaching like impatient hands. And I, equally impatient, convinced myself they were ready for the outside world.
The sun had been out for, what, two days? Long enough for me to swagger around the polytunnel like some sort of horticultural prodigy, convinced I could read the seasons. The soil felt a bit warm, the breeze was soft, and I felt unstoppable. So out they went. All one hundred Zinnea (a more expensive, variety may I add) and for a day or two, I basked in the illusion that I’d got ahead of nature - that my June wedding bouquet would be full to the brim of flowers destined for July. Or so I thought.
There’s something grounding about watching the land wake up; in saying ‘hello’ to certain plants and animals I haven’t seen much of in month
— Ruby Free
Then came the frost – a full‑blown, icy ambush. A few days later, my seedlings resembled a tiny battlefield of fallen soldiers; limp, defeated, and very much not ready for the world. I stood there in my dressing gown, clutching a mug of tea, staring at the carnage. I could either laugh or cry and so shed a few tears… which I am embarrassed to admit.
A few days later, (when I finally felt able to laugh about it all), I realised I’d learned a valuable lesson - something that sounds incredibly obvious but is only ever truly learnt in practice. Nature moves at her own pace, and if I try to sprint ahead, she will absolutely trip me up. She doesn’t care how enthusiastic I am or that I’ve bought a fancy compost or whispered encouraging things to my plants. In hindsight, I could almost hear Brigid muttering ‘catch yourself on’ as I’d planted them.
So, I started another batch of Zinnea. This time, a little wiser, a little more patient and with a healthy respect for the fact that sometimes the best thing you can do is wait. Growing is nothing short of an exercise in optimism; there will be more seedlings, there will be more sun. So next time, I’ll trust the packet’s instructions over a few warm days. And honestly, that feels like growth too.
Read more: Life on the Farm: Why nature deserves a BAFTA – The Irish News
As we hit mid-March, it seemed as though the natural world was having a growth-spurt of its own. Frogs spawn turned tadpoles, bare branches grew buds, birds stitched the air with their calls, wild garlic pushed through the soil, and the first bees began to hover over early blossoms. I love this time of year. When the sun truly shines, I’m reminded that I’m no more complex than a plant – needing little more than food, water and sunlight to keep me going.
As Craig and I planted lettuce, cherry tomatoes (a variety called Rubylicious, gifted by a friend) and rainbow courgettes we felt delighted to be well and truly back in the ‘growing season’. Beautiful little wrens kept a watchful eye on our whereabouts, darting into the polytunnel every time we disturbed the soil so it could feast on invertebrates.
There’s something grounding about watching the land wake up; in saying ‘hello’ to certain plants and animals I haven’t seen much of in months. But that sense of comfort sits alongside a growing unease. Because as familiar as these seasonal moments feel, they’re unfolding against a backdrop that’s becoming anything but stable. The latest UN climate report, published on the 23rd of March, made it painfully clear: The Earth’s climate is further out of balance than at any time in recorded history. And while many of us aren’t facing the catastrophic climate disasters already devastating parts of the Global South, right now - we are living through incremental, deadly shifts. The kind that creep in at the edges of the everyday.
Take the ponds where the frogs lay their spawn. For two years running now, they’ve dried up before the tadpoles had a chance. I’ve lived here long enough to know this isn’t normal, but a sign of a system slipping out of balance.
And it’s not just that pond. The hedgerows are leafing weeks before they used to. Migratory birds are arriving out of sync with the insects they depend on. Bumblebees are emerging earlier on warm February days, only to be caught out by a cold snap. These are just a few examples, but the list goes on, and these seemingly small changes are in fact rather mighty when you begin to understand how one element of the natural world affects another.
Yet I don’t want to end in despair. Talking about these shifts; naming them, sharing the latest science, and refusing to look away is one of the most powerful things we can do. Climate silence (yes, this is a real thing) is getting worse. It’s the quiet gap between what we’re witnessing and what we feel permitted to say; the instinct to downplay our observations because we don’t want to seem alarmist or dramatic. But that silence is exactly what allows the crisis to deepen unchecked. When we don’t speak about what’s changing, we normalise nature loss, worsening Shifting Baseline Syndrome (a new level of nature each generation is becoming accustomed to). We lose the ability to connect our local experiences to the wider pattern unfolding across the world and we miss the chance to demand better from leaders, because a weakening public mandate for change leaves the political dial unshifted.
Even though the burden shouldn’t fall on individuals, the truth is that small conversations and acts of care, matter. They create pockets of resilience and remind us that we’re part of the solution, not just a witnesses to the problem.
This year, before the pond dries up again, I did something I wouldn’t normally advise - something people shouldn’t do unless absolutely necessary - I gathered a small amount of frogspawn and moved it to a deeper, more reliable pond nearby. It wasn’t a grand gesture, just a small attempt to save some life in a season that’s becoming harder for it to survive.
And maybe that’s what this moment asks of us all: to pay attention, do what we can, where we are, while we still can… even if that sometimes means playing emergency midwife to a bucket of frogspawn!