I harvested the first pears yesterday and today: Williams Bon Chrétien; the Conference ones on the other tree aren’t quite ready to come away, although I suspect today’s high winds may have a say in that matter. I see pear and almond crumble in my future!

It’s taken seven years from planting for the Williams to mature enough to fruit – there is some truth in the old saying ‘pears for heirs’. In previous years we’ve had plenty of blossom but that’s been it. The Conference crops heavily in alternate summers; this is its third ‘on’ year and the fruit is so heavy the lower branches are barely inches from the ground. This making it somewhat awkward to reach the shed . . .

There’s a clematis at the bottom of my garden.  A vigorous, large-leaved, free-flowering variety called Madame Le Coultre, which produces glorious paper-white flowers the size of tea-plates, in great abundance, every year, in spite of–or possibly because of–my sporadic attentions.  Like this one:

This morning, I discovered that Mme had fallen under her own weight, and was drooping forlornly into the hellebores.  I say “fallen under her own weight” because I wouldn’t dream of implying that my neighbours had pitched her back over when she scrambled clean up the 6ft dividing fence and made determined advances on their trellis, rather like a dark green, many-armed Napoleon across Europe.

Besides, I planted Mme nine years ago; she’s been here longer than they have lived in that house, so I reckon that gives her dibs on the fence.

So now I have to untangle the 8-10ft long stems and somehow tie them in to the acres of clematis netting I provided for Mme, which she has studiously ignored thus far.  As anyone who has ever grown a clematis will know, they are largely self-supporting.  This means they will grab onto and coil round whatever they touch; in Mme’s case, this is usually herself.

Picture the scene, if you will.  Yours truly, unsteady of foot at the best of times, waist-deep in hellebores and flag iris behind the pond (yes, that pond), attempting to untangle this monstrosity without snapping too many bud-bearing shoots.  It’s like trying to knit a Fair Isle sweater without a pattern.  In the dark.  In reverse.

However, I’ve managed to achieve some sort of order.  Mme’s many armies have been separated and espalier-trained across the aforementioned acres of netting.  Casualties were limited to one finger (a Swiss Army knife related injury) and one leading shoot, that is now hospitalised in a jam-jar of water on the kitchen windowsill in the hope it may root as a cutting for next year.

Even though I know full well what I am nurturing, I can’t bear not to give it a chance.  Where the hell I’m going to plant it, though, I do not know–give Mme free reign and she’ll annexe Poland before she’s three years old.

Cooper Towers is under attack.

The enemy has taken control of the shed, and advance scouts have been making daring daylight raids across the patio for several days.   They wear no uniform, operating in plain-clothes, the better to blend in with the civilian population.   Modern defensive strategy is useless against this new insurgency.

Day 1: Elite operatives spotted setting up observation posts at high points around the garden.  Utilising local cover, the enemy scaled the feeder pole and dropped onto the seed tray.  After approximately 28 minutes, he base-jumped into the choisya bush and made good his escape.  Enemy tentatively identified as apodemus sylvaticus.

Enemy operative secures the forward observation post and reconnoitres the LZ

Day 2: The shed was taken, under cover of darkness.  Shed door frame shows signs of forcible entry.  No casualties except a 12.5kg sack of premium wild bird food.  Moved all provisions out of reach to force the insurgents to break cover in search of supplies.  Observed two low-level raiders at close quarters.  Stalemate.

Day 3: Aha!  They’re getting a bit cocky.  They’d established their barracks in a disused nestbox, and the guard let himself be seen.  I grabbed the box and removed it, but not quite quickly enough.  One of the enemy escaped via a daring leap onto the shelving unit, where he hid behind the hosepipe and watched as his two comrades were escorted out of the combat zone.  I have designated this particularly audacious combatant “Steve McQueen”.

Day 4: Requested reinforcements.  HQ sent in a highly-trained Counter-terrorist Assault Technician (CAT) which performed a thorough sweep of the combat zone, but the enemy was lying low.  No sightings reported.  CAT redeployed to other duties.

Day 5: All quiet on the western front.  No sightings, but picked up some high-frequency communications chatter.  Cryptographers are having no luck decoding it.

Day 6 (am): I opened the shed door this morning and noted that all traces of bird food on the floor had vanished, indicating that Agent McQueen is still at large.  Reconnaissance of the upper shelves found the little bugger sitting atop my gardening gloves watching me.  The enemy’s audacity is breathtaking.  Lightly armed and agile, they are superb edificeers, shinning up the wall ribs like lumberjacks up a Douglas fir.

Day 6 (pm): It is time to take the battle to the enemy.  I have formulated a Cunning Plan, a masterpiece of Baldrickian subtlety, which hinges on the enemy’s affinity for holes.  I have reinstated the nestbox, and this time I will place my hand over the hole when I remove it.  Take that, Steve McQueen!

The battle continues…