Our house is disappearing, as it does every year. After the flourish of spring flowers, there’s a pause, then a surge, when drifts of green heap on green, like chlorophyllous snow. We start to duck and weave on the path to the front door; the postman has to shimmy around plants that are engulfing the steps.
I garden by happenstance – plants arrive of their own accord and aside from some deadheading and trimming, I leave them to it. There’s always been a froth of crosswort, pink campion, herb robert and ground ivy, and structure provided by knapweed, teasel and hawk’s-beard. Other species take turns to star. The first year was a riot of buttercups and speedwells. Then came a year when bugle was everywhere, one when valerian went mad, and another when a constellation of fox-and-cubs blazed like tiny suns. For a couple of years there were masses of mullein, with its furry leaves and oddly cumbersome yellow spires, and recently sweet cicely has made a strong, fragrant showing.
