Gardens, gardening, growing. An eternal tedium for some; and endless pleasure for others. Needless to say I’m in the latter category. How many gardening blogs can one internet take? Frankly? I don’t really care. Gardening will save your life. It will feed you, excercise you, perplex and reward you in not always equal measure. It will bugger up your manicure, ensure a ruddy complexion and possibly induce Olympic standard eye rolling among your friends and families. But, as I was saying, I care not. I am in love my my plot.
Plot 39 was a 50th birthday gift. Having gardened pretty much since I could walk, starting as a toddler stalking her grandfather in his greenhouse, I’d alternately nagged and waited and eventually a plot was secured. It was wild, weed invested and waterlogged. It’s ancient glass greenhouse was now no more than a tenuously strung collection of lethal shards. Perfect.