“Had I the heaven’s embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light;
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.”
I am in my fourth year of proper gardening, before that I would say I fiddled with planting and making pots look fancy without actually having a clue about what plants actually needed to survive and flourish. My gardening then was based on the philosophy of trying to make the small garden of my first flat look less jungle-like than the Amazon with bursts of pretty: a philosophy which failed more than guided me.
A year after I lost my mother, who was embuded not only with ten green fingers but with a carefree love for gardening, I somehow started to tackle my now much larger garden almost instinctively. By that I mean, in part I gardened without a clue what I was doing but in some part, I just did what I felt was the right thing to do. And that, along with no specialist knowledge whatsoever, was the start of my fumbling journey towards The Pink Wheelbarrow!
I share my garden with a 14ft trampoline, two swings and a lot of footballs in the form of my two gorgeous children who care only that the garden is a place in which to play and so it should be, that does not however, mean it cannot also be a productive, pretty paradise!