As summer shifts into autumn here in Norway, the mornings and evenings have taken on a sharp, familiar chill. Though the days can still be warm, the birches are turning yellow, mist rises from the water, and the garden is slowly winding down for the season.
One of the most rewarding things I’ve done this year was building a frog pond. It’s essentially a bucket filled with a mix of water from Lake Mjøsa, our well, and whatever falls from the sky, set into the ground and layered with stones and water plants. When I first started, it didn't look like much, and I quickly discovered the area was crawling with ants. But the pond had to be there, so we made it work. I added more stones as we went and planted strawberries (which had sprouted between my asparagus) and meadowsweet. Digging up the soil actually opened the way for even more wild plants to emerge.
Throughout August, I let the growth surrounding the pond run wild on its own terms. I did try introducing three specific pond plants, but they died back quite quickly. Practicing no-dig, I’m simply letting the soil and the coming winter take care of them. Within just a few weeks, a lush ring of low green leaves enveloped the pond. Added some fairies and fairylights too!
Early on, aside from two large toads by the front door I wrote about previously, there were no signs of interested frogs. While the pond area settled, we removed an old birch pole and planted a Summer Oak in the center of the labyrinth. Once it grows, it will shelter the pond from the boiling high-summer sun. The labyrinth itself is shaping up beautifully right now, retaining its Dún na Sí design inspired by the one in Ireland's Heritage Park.
With the dropping temperatures, I’ve started bringing in the late harvest, including three cobs of corn yesterday. This year brought an insane aphid infestation with barely any ladybugs in sight. I attribute a lot of this to the surrounding area: nearby trees were removed, lawns are kept short, and the foliage along the roadsides—even the fireweed and meadowsweet—is constantly cut back. I understand why it's done; where I live in Norway, the fields glow golden with oats, wheat, and barley. Thistles thrive in the ditches, and if left unchecked, they would invade the crops. But the lack of wild spaces hurts the local balance. Everything is connected after all.
In our garden, we take a different approach. I mow paths to access the growing beds, fruit trees, stone circle, and labyrinth, but we leave large patches completely wild. The reward has been incredible: tons of butterflies, bees, and other pollinators, plus our annual visit from a large flock of swallows, crows and blackbirds.
Then, as September arrived, I went out at dusk to check on the pond. Guided by the small lights marking its edge, I saw a splash. I approached as quietly as possible—trying not to startle whatever was there (though I’m sure a squealing human approaching in the dark was quite the sight for the local wildlife).
I sat completely still, enduring the mosquitoes, phone ready. Slowly, I caught that unmistakable, leggy swimming motion in the water.
There it was: a tiny frogling, sitting right under the solar fountain.
Knowing I provided a tiny haven—full of fresh water, climbing spots, hiding places, and plants—that was good enough for a little frog to call home made me so happy. It really doesn't take much for frogs to find a pond, but creating a garden full of life without pesticides or poison is what matters to me. We harvest what we need and let nature handle the rest, aphids and all.
This tiny frog gave me so much hope. No matter how small the act, we always have the opportunity to support, shelter, and grow the ecosystems around us—not just for our own pleasure, but because these creatures have a right to exist on their own terms.
With love,
Lene
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