In the garden
WHEN, as a gardener, you spend most of your time trying to make conditions as propitious as possible for the growth of plants, there is a feeling of Schadenfreude when they grow in spite of your ministrations rather than because of them.
Sometimes, such willingness to thrive is a real pain—those ever-increasing rivulets of mind-your-own-business running riot between paving slabs and then colonizing an adjoining lawn— but, on occasions, these ‘happy accidents’ can be enjoyed and even encouraged if they add to a garden’s interest.
The knapped flint wall surrounding my Hampshire garden is a little like the Forth Railway Bridge when it comes to the repairs that seem necessary after every spell of winter frost. Where we’re slow to act with the mortar, the pink valerian, Centranthus ruber, will seed itself into the crevices and I’m loath to uproot it in the interests of re-pointing when it looks so delightful.
Like the wallflower, which earned its common name by virtue of its ability to grow in the crevices between stones and bricks, it’s an embellishment to my garden rather than a weed.
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