It’s 48 degrees at 7 a.m. in the upper level of my hillside garden—chilly, but not an outright threat to tender young early-season transplants such as basil.
One hundred feet downhill, on a little plateau beside the spring creek flowing through the garden, it’s 41 degrees. Had I set basil seedlings here, these warmth-dependent, super-delicate sprouts would be flopped over like shoelaces, gasping for heat and assistance.
