23/05/2026
Saturday morning in the garden, waiting with growing anticipation for the promised heat to finally arrive. You can almost feel the whole place holding its breath.
The plants have been sitting there for weeks in a state of theatrical despair, sulking, stunted, refusing to move an inch, looking personally offended by the cold. A few warm days now could change everything overnight. Suddenly borders will erupt, pots will spill over, and the garden will remember itself again.
I’ve never known a spring for slug damage like this one. Normally the birds, frogs and hedgehogs keep the balance beautifully, but this year even nature’s clean-up crew seems overwhelmed by the sheer slimy volume marching through the beds every evening.
Hostas shredded, dahlias nibbled to stumps, tender shoots disappearing before they’ve even had a chance to unfurl. Every morning feels like stepping outside to inspect the aftermath of a tiny drunken riot.
So it’s come to this: beer traps.
If the slugs insist on destroying the garden, at least they’ll go out the way they lived, overfed, half-cut, and singing into the night while the blackbirds watch on in disgust.
Still, there’s hope in the air this morning. The light has changed, the warmth is coming, and once the garden finally wakes up properly, it’ll burst forward with all the pent-up energy of spring held hostage too long.
