Many years ago some one gave me a three inch cutting of a climbing rose which I placed along my fence and forgot about. The next year it was green but had grown no more than a couple of inches. Once more I forgot about it. But in its third year it went quite mad and proceeded to take over the whole fence and part of the garage. The number of blooms rivaled the number of leaves and even through I trim it from time to time it dwarfs everything around it.
I am of that school of thought that believes you can never have to many flowers. I adore profusion. Nature herself is my official gardener and here I have allowed her full rein. This is not the kind of garden that would please those members of our species that see themselves as being in charge of things.
I do not deny that formal gardens have their own appeal but they always seem to me to be like the pampered children of the aristocracy.
I’m from peasant stock myself having grown up where I was free to wonder along dusty lanes and country roads where wild things lived.
My house may be on a busy city street but my garden is a reflection of my lost youth, uninhibited by convention, spiritually free to follow its own whims. And by the way the resident cats see it as their own private jungle just the way they like it.