In My Garden Now that all the soft fruit is
gathered and bottled, the immediate task is to tidy up round the bushes, cutting down the lush green of weeds ready for digging in with what potash we can muster from bonfire or bag. The continuing high winds make much work in the herbaceous borders, for the tall stuff has to be tied up. My lupins this year have been blown down once, but they have since put up a second crop of flowers, with four times as many spires as before. If only the cities of Normandy could be restored as quickly!
Night, too, in the garden. It is the moment when one is more than fully paid for all the labour. The trimmed lawns, the weeded beds, the house behind its vines and wall-fruits, become mysterious, fragrant and gracious. The arithmetic of gardening is a special one. You add two and two, and they make five—sometimes even seven. And seven is a sacred number. An addition on which to leave the garden and bid the world
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