Us Furlongs are selling out house. We need to downsize and simplify. Of course, we are really happy in our house, it’s big, but not too big. But the problem is the garden. It is too big – but it’s lovely. Well I think so.
I have loved my garden. It is full, wild and lush. Its full of interesting plants and secret places. In my garden, nature plans it. All the plants have chosen to grow here. I know that, because they are happy.
In amongst conventional plants that I placed, there are some treasures I am particularly proud of. Real British bluebells grow in our garden. The Columbines are stunning in the late spring. They have mutated over the years and this time there were mini mini whites and huge glorious pinks. The wild primroses come out annually in fantastic colours that I never planted. And the white daisies – just weeds really – have their special place.
Lots of people seem to love my garden – its unusual. In every season, there is colour – vibrant, tropical. It is not a British garden. There are no beds, there are patches. There is no order with little plant-soldiers all standing in a disciplined row, there is disorder, jubilant life glowing with joyous profusion along the paths to secret places. Uncontrived.
Today we had a viewing on our house. An older couple came. The wife was a gardener she said. I think she is a British garden gardener. She ooo’d when she saw our patio, she ooo’d when she saw the greenhouse. But otherwise she said, ziltch, nada, niks, naught, nothing, nooit, zippo, zot, nulity, diddly-squat.
She didn’t like my garden, maybe.