ABOUT a week ago the landscaper departed, wheeling his barrow off for the last time. In his wake he has left steps made from sleepers and sandstone, a stepping-stone path that is perfect for hopscotch, and a garden-wide trellis that divides the field-like expanse in two. Constructed from rustic poles, the trellis has a striking pointed arch that could be hired out for weddings, although the pale pink climbing roses intended to smother it will need to get a move on.

As the landscaper worked away, sawing, measuring, using calculations that took me back to the dread days of algebra and geometry, it became obvious that this was not a task we could have attempted ourselves.

No light tapping-in of a ready-made frame would suffice in these conditions. The poles are sunk a foot deep in concrete, in part to withstand the undulations of our ground, which rises in the middle like a muffin. Most importantly, it is sturdy enough to resist the Siberian winds that arrive by way of the Eildons and the North Sea. Even the badgers’ habit of undermining and toppling obstacles in their way has been taken into account.

In short, this is Hoolet’s answer to Hadrian’s Wall. Even so, the landscaper seemed to have taken our measure. “Don’t play on it,” he warned before leaving. This was a pity, because with a telegraph pole hanging close to our trees providing a handy rip-wire, I had envisaged Hoolet Cottage one day doubling as a boot camp.

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Even if that never comes to pass, the place has already been transformed from untamed prairie. The effect I was hoping for was more Gertrude Jekyll than the Hairy Bikers, but for the moment at least its main function is as an all-day buffet. With large new beds carved out of the turf, we have effectively doubled our planting area. Alan has already sliced and forked it over, which was no small feat. No wonder Robert Burns preferred writing to ploughing.

As he found his rhythm and sank his spade, he recalled Seamus Heaney’s poem Digging: “The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft/ Against the inside knee was levered firmly…By God, the old man could handle a spade.”.

No-dig gardening might be all the rage, but this land has been under grass for longer than we’ll ever know, and requires a bit of air. For the past few days I have been following up his hard labour by crawling over the beds with a hand fork, turning clods into something that, in the gloaming, might faintly resemble tilth.

In the process, I have become like a fishing boat, followed by screaming hordes of gulls. Wherever I work, blackbirds are close by my elbow. One in particular has become an inseparable companion. This is Wilf, the slender old bird I’ve mentioned before, whose life was saved some years ago by a neighbour. After finding him stunned and bleeding on his lawn, having been mobbed, he took out a chair, and sat by him for a couple of hours to keep his attackers at bay until he had recovered.

He has since been rewarded by Wilf setting up HQ in his garden. But while this is his main territory, he patrols the area far beyond base. Food is probably the spur, but you cannot help wondering if he simply likes knowing what’s going on beyond his doorstep. You could say he’s like a shopper who gets his essentials at Tesco but occasionally tops up at M&S.

Although he is distinguished by his dapper appearance and a sprinkling of white on one wing, Wilf also has a silver ring on his right ankle. Whenever I open the garden shed, with its loud cracking creak – like Edinburgh’s one o’clock gun – he is alerted, however far away he is. By the time I am on my knees, working over the earth, he is there. Usually it’s robins who keep close, fearless in their search for worms, but I’ve never met a wild bird quite so unperturbed that he can be within touching reach, yet entirely unconcerned. Before I shift my position I have to check I’m not about to tread on him.

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With a beak full of juicy grubs, he sometimes goes into suspended animation. Spreading his wings to soak up the sun – “pupils fixed and dilated”, as they say in medical dramas – he goes into a dwam. A few feet behind the rest of the blackbird fraternity pores over the earth like a police forensic squad. Wilf’s partner, who is equally sylph-like, is an even better forager. Whereas he is drawn to the finest range, she gathers by the kilo.

I read recently that it’s in gardeners’ interests to feed birds well, so that they will keep down the pest population of slugs, snails, aphids, etc. Yet no mention was made of their industrial hoovering of earth-friendly worms, without which there’d be no garden or fields in the first place.

As they appear glistening by my fork, I keep them within sight, and at the first opportunity camouflage them with fine earth. This way, they might have a fighting chance of hiding themselves before the army of beaks is upon them. Given the numbers of birds of all sorts – robins, wood pigeons, turtle doves, thrushes and pheasants – working over the newly scalped terrain, I fear for them. No wonder the peanut feeders are ignored.

Most of the unexpected visitors to our garden arrive under or through the chicken wire. Last week, though, one or two came via the gate from the field, to see what the landscaper had been up to.

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Another guest described the improvement perfectly. “Before, it was just too big”, she said. Her daughter hopped along the stepping stones, and pounced on a tray of violas by the summer house, which she removed beyond reach of her toddler brother. His idea of gardening, they said, was to plonk himself down beside flowers and carefully pick off all the petals.

I have memories of doing exactly that with daisies and buttercups when I was not much older than he is. Presumably childish curiosity is the same principle by which mechanical whizzes take cars to pieces, to see how they are made. Fortunately, most people don’t wait as long as I have to start putting what they’ve learned into practice.

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