Frieda Hughes, writer

“Your eyes are glazed over again,” said my husband Laszlo, accusingly. “I can’t leave you alone like this.” He wasn’t talking about an illness (although that’s debatable); we were standing in the Derwen Garden Centre near Guilsfield and he was talking about my wanton purchase of plants. Short, tall, bushy, preferably evergreen, usually acid-loving and always irresistible. For almost four years I have hacked flowerbeds out of the acre of flat field that is now the garden; I have mixed concrete, built flowerbed walls, laid pavers and been driven on and on by the idea that each new stage requires more plants.

The design element has its own addictive delights, but the need to purchase more miniature azaleas (the smaller they are, the more I can squeeze in) makes me wake up in the morning with a grin on my face. To see things grow and multiply (so I can prune and shape and take cuttings) around the ponds and streams that I have built, and the meandering pathways that lead to circular rooms of camellias, nandinas and skimmias, is a real joy. I have even used fallen branches from our massive cedar of Lebanon as lookouts to sit on, and arches for climbing hydrangeas.

My most recent excuse to purchase more plants has been the aviary, which I had built last autumn for George, my magpie. I found George as a tiny fledgling in the garden last May, with two dead siblings, after their nest had been destroyed in ferocious gales. For the first two months I fed him and cared for him, his cage remained on the floor beside the Rayburn next to the baskets for our three small dogs; he came to believe they were siblings and that I was a strange, featherless parent. I took him out every day and he lived half his life on my shoulder. I was smitten.

George was eventually able to fly around the kitchen which, large as it is, didn’t take him long to trash; a magpie can strip the spine out of a cookery book with remarkable speed and dexterity. He was curious about everything and constantly needed items of interest to occupy his frenetic little mind; I have video of him playing tug-of-war with the dogs and a bit of rope and hiding frozen peas in the tops of my socks.

But, one day, when he could fly all too well and was peering disconsolately out of the kitchen window at the sky, we had to let him go. I was inconsolable. What if he didn’t keep away from humans and someone shot him? Farmers don’t like magpies and we are surrounded by farmers.

He flew to our garage roof, where he stayed for several hours. I warned the neighbours that he was our pet, and if he came close it was only because he was being friendly. In fact, over the weeks that followed, George made friends with several people in the village, paying special attention to houses with small dogs… and every night he came home to the kitchen and joined us for supper, before going to roost in his cage.

Laszlo and I had to make certain that everything in the kitchen and utility room was magpie-proof. Keys and other small objects were never left out, and we had to weight the plug from the kitchen sink with a short length of heavy chain, because once George was able to fly in and out of the window I kept finding it in the front yard. After that, I’d occasionally hear the chain dragging across the floorboards as George tried in vain to get it airborne.

At mealtimes George stole from our plates; I had to give him his own little dish on the kitchen table, and a tiny glass of milk that I kept topped up. Once, when I forgot to fill the glass, he stuck his head in the top of the milk bottle and got it so far in that I thought we’d never get him out again.

But in growing up George emulated the behaviour of the dogs. He ate from their bowls, sat on the kitchen sofa with them, and jumped up at people just like the dogs did. He’d pace around a visitor as if sizing them up, and would bounce off first one leg, then the other. I couldn’t fathom it, until I noticed how he watched and imitated the dogs in whatever they did.

But George could fly, and his greeting gradually worked up to the visitor’s head. For anyone who didn’t know George, a head-bouncing magpie was intimidating. One of our older neighbours confessed a deep unease at the idea of possibly being overbalanced. She took to wearing a hat in the garden. I realised that if George wouldn’t leave home I was going to have to find a solution. So I had the idea of the aviary.

During the four years we’ve been here, our tiny back garden had been terribly neglected while I lavished all my love and effort (and money) on the large front garden. The weeds overwhelmed the pavers and the ground-elder overtook the flowerbeds. We’d thought of building a conservatory, but it was too expensive and we really didn’t need another room. Then I had the idea of having a giant pergola. If it were big enough to encompass the small back yard, I could do something interesting with it. And if it were covered with mesh then it could also house our head-bouncing magpie.

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