Another day of bright sunshine so of course the garden won out on out on the list of priorities.Trying not to over-do it and keep some energy in reserve I put a strict time limit on how long to spend tackling one particular tangled patch, promising myself I wouldn't be tempted to keep doing "just this little bit more."
Wrapped around a cluster of flag irises, peonies, and bluebells, I found this low-growing perennial that originally came from my grandparents home back in Wales. It is the home I was brought up in and where my brother still lives today.
I don't know what it's botanical name is. We called it "snow-on-the-mountain" and it grew in the crevices of the stone wall cascading down, topped with starry white flowers at the back of the house. This wall, typically for houses built on a Welsh hillside, is at the top of the flight of stone steps that led up to the garden perched level with our bedrooms.
As I dug the plant free I smiled as I remembered the time my mother proudly told my father what a good crop of tomatoes she had. Dad, who had been brought up on a farm and hated anything even vaguely agricultural, rather than go into the garden to look, promised her he'd take a look at her tomatoes out of the bedroom window, where he would be almost as near them as he would be had he climbed the steps.
Gardens are a treasury of plants with this power to remind us of loved places and people. Some of mine have been much cherished gifts from garden centres, others like this one have been transplanted from some patch of earth particularly dear to me. With this in mind I potted some up for my daughter, granddaughters, and niece, so that they can have their own bit of the old "Rose Cottage" garden if they want
In another corner of the garden was this little surprise bunch of violets which had sown themselves in a shady pot.
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