Could I suppose by a forest on a remote planet.
A walk to the butcher to pick up a joint for a regular visitor from America who demands roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. It is a pleasant walk past hedges and fields. But when I arrive at the shop I remember that they deliver orders. I could have stayed at home with chores. But I realise that I would hot have missed the walk.
Thinking about the bluebells which have invaded our small garden ( I had resolved to tolerate them) it comes to mind that they must be the strident Spanish bluebells which are threatening our more gentle native variety. I'll have to get rid of them once they have flowered or I fear that they will take over. Meanwhile I think about the wild flowers which I have encouraged to occupy corners of beds and space under the hedge. Their number surprises me: woodruff, alkanet, lesser celandine, creeping jenny, sweet cicely, Welsh poppies (garden escapes but uninvited nevertheless) and dog violets which have flourished this year.. Daisies and dandelions are discouraged. Butter cups too with their insidious root system, although to day I photographed a crowd of them in the rough grass of The Grove where they only give pleasure.
Spanish bluebells... I fear they will take over. The much-used adjective "invasive" (not here but it could have been). I'll have to get rid of them (ie, subject them to ethnic cleaning).
Despatches from the eternal battleground thinly disguised by the euphemism "horticulture".
Gardeners, it seems, don't believe God knows best. I agree, but in a wider sense.
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