Musings on horticulture

I had an idea for a different post, but by the time I returned from a gentle meander around home turf all such thoughts had disappeared. It is as if we have been napalmed, hit with agent Orange and deforested for the benefit of MacDonalds all at the same time.

The dog has executed a redesign. His name is not, and never will be,Capability Brown. There is some grass remaining, but only to act as a delicate accent around each lovingly crafted hole and the fence is but a faint memory.

I have previously likened the garden to a re-enactment of Ypres, but this is beyond all imagining. Obviously there is something fascinating going on in the antipodes and the dog plans on getting there, this led to my temper not improving due to "depth testing" several of the holes that were cunningly disguised in the way of a comb over. Digger (yes, I know it's our own fault calling him Digory) sat watching and smiling. There is work to be done, and I know just the man to do it.

Please don't misunderstand me, I do not aspire to Chelsea and nor has it ever been a garden of "park planting" with lobelia neatly in rows behind marigolds and in front of salvia. It is a garden for sitting in, or playing in. Once I had dreams of croquet - the most civilised of mortal combats - but with these holes it is going to have to be extreme snooker. There has always been an element of randomness and over dense planting, if I like something it is planted, if it thrives so much the better. It is a little disconcerting though how many of those plants that flourish are on the list of deadly dangers. Euphorbia ? check, Foxglove ? check, Laburnum ? check, Castor Oil plant ? check. (Fortunately my children would not eat anything green so they were saved from A&E by pickiness.)

In light of todays discoveries I will have to accept I will never be the new Vita Sackville West but I might get to try out as Wilfred Owen. I'm off to sit in a hole with my Moleskine and a pencil.