When did I become the kind of girl who has pink shutters and dahlias?
I’m not entirely sure.
I’m getting worse in my old age.
Today, I went rampant with the secateurs and cut a hodge-podge of hydrangeas, roses, geraniums, dahlias and achillea – all of the hot pink variety. Then, I thought to myself, “well, lady, that’s just not pink enough. Why don’t you put them in front of your pink shutters for the full-on hot pink mess?”
I’ve not completely lost the plot. I’ve been perving at gardens on Pinterest and planning out more borders, more flowers, more perennials. I am in love with my perennial bed here, filled as it is with flowers of the above shades, and worse. The monarda, ruby rudbeckia and purple penstemon are all in there. I’m amazed how quickly it’s grown, seeing that stuff in Manchester seemed to take about fifty years to get established and more frequently than not died off.
The Pinterest perving has been much more subdued.
This is a picture from Ben Pentreath, a shopkeeper and architectural designer (according to his twitter feed anyway!)
The potager is just magnificent. I covet it.
The next is a little white-overkill, but you get the idea. I love it too.
I have the perfect spot for it as well. It means some major clearing, but I figure slowly, slowly catchee monkey… it’ll get there eventually.
I’m pining for being able to work full time in my garden every day of the year. That’d be an absolute dream. As it is, it’s stolen moments and never quite enough. Oh well.
On our walk last night, we came across a man in full camo gear complete with tripod for his rifle and some kind of bizarre niqab camo thing. He said he was hunting foxes. I didn’t look either approving or disapproving because I have long since learned my opinion about fox hunting is a bit like my opinion on men having nipples. I have an opinion, but its impact on the world is minimal and its point is non-existent. I was more worried about him shooting Heston or Tilly. It’s a bit out of order to be hunting stuff when you’re not in neon and when you look a bit like a strange lady jihadist with a penchant for woodland camo patterns. It must work though because neither of my dogs barked at him. Perhaps they just didn’t see him.
It is lovely to be out walking at nine thirty as the sun is setting.
Heston had a romp across a field to chase some swallows. He managed not to bark at crows or cows although I’m on the verge of sending lady-boy jihadist round to shoot the owners of the labrador at the last house in the village. Why anyone in their right mind would allow their dogs to behave as they do is anyone’s guess. I love it when the guy tuts at me for walking past with H&T. I feel like walking past his house fifty times until he teaches his dog to come when it is called. Heston has needed quite a bit of training not to bark at every living thing that makes a noise beyond the garden, but at least he can now stay out with me in the vegetable garden without going mental every time my neighbours’ children go past on bikes. I wish he wouldn’t bark at guests, but we’re working on that. Maybe they just all need camo niqabs and shotguns?