I love my back garden but I am not much of a gardener. When we moved into our house seven or so years ago, I thought I would be. I poured over books, made detailed plans, planted, watered, pruned. And was left disappointed. I do not, it seems, have a green thumb.
Enter my dad who, possibly tired of my moaning about what I wasn’t achieving and how, because I didn’t know was in my garden half the time, didn’t know if I was pulling up a soon to be beautiful flower or a weed, said “If you like it, it isn’t a weed. Don’t worry.”.
So I didn’t. And for the last couple of years, instead of perfectly planted beds, come summer, my garden will be a mass of wildflowers (from mixed boxes so most of which I still won’t know the names of), herbs, and veggies in pots. It is beautiful chaos and I love it, as do the bees and butterflies.
And, yes, amongst all this, there will be weeds. But who can hate them when they brightened up this bank holiday Monday – leaving me, after minimal digging, cutting and raking to sit down with a nice glass of wine and enjoy the sun?