Many of the plants in my garden hold memories, collapsing time as vividly as Proust’s madeleine. The smell of a Cheddar pink is me in my parents’ garden, lying on sun-warm grass at the edge of a border. The bitter almond of viburnum is midwinter days in the first garden I made. Pink-trumpeted daffodils, dark red hellebores, a silver-leaved cyclamen – all are gifts from people no longer alive that remind me of them every time I see them.
The plant with the most direct link back to my childhood is flowering now against the south-facing wall of my house. There, nesting in an untidy sprawl of leaves, the mauve-blue of Algerian irises is so unexpected in winter. The colour of native bluebells, the fragile-looking flowers have purple lines and a central yellow band guiding down into white throats. Blooming since late December, they have continuously budded, opened and shrivelled, each lasting just a couple of days.
