I used to have a big, deep pond in the back garden. It was there when we bought the house, and
over the years it evolved – fountains and waterfalls were added, various
aquatic plants were introduced, the fish (which had come with the deeds to the
house, it seemed) bred and multiplied and died and got taken by passing herons. Blanket weed grew, was raked out, thrown into
the compost. It was an ecosystem of
sorts, I suppose, but not a properly sustainable one. Ecosystems, especially micro- ones, don’t
thrive on neglect.
One day, about ten years ago, I looked at the nasty green
swamp and said: “Let’s fill it in.” Viv
agreed, but was compassionately concerned for the fish. As luck would have it, providence was on our
side – a friend had just moved into a new home which had a pond, and was keen
to stock it with goldfish. And so it
came to pass. Our fish got fished out,
well most of them, and somehow found their way to Caro’s pond, where they
thrived. (Until recently, when she
decided to fill hers in; but that’s another story.)
At the time, I remember feeling some concern for the
frogs. Some years earlier, we’d been sitting
out late on a warm humid evening enjoying the tail end of a bottle or two, when
suddenly about twenty-five frogs leapt out of the pond and scuttled off into
the undergrowth. Half a minute later
lightning flashed, thunder clapped, and a deluge descended. “Those frogs know something,” I thought (and
said, to anyone who’d listen, for months afterwards).
So when the Great Pond Fill-in started, I worried a bit
about how they’d fare without their swamp.
Viv reassured me: “They’ve been around longer than us. They’ll survive.”
This evening, about an hour ago, I wandered out into the
garden for a ciggie, and heard an unmistakeable sound from the
undergrowth. I came in, started to
write this, went out again just now (I wanted to be sure), and heard it
again.
Hope spring’s eternal.
