Here we are about to turn the corner to walk down the north side of the house. In the foreground you can see Hosta ‘So Sweet’ with 2 Dolce Blackcurrant heucheras on trial from Proven Winners and a Carex conica ‘Marginata’ on trial from Nooks & Crannies, as well as 3 golden feverfew I grew from seed. The mass of golden leaves on the left is the filipendula where the hen hatched a clutch of eggs. Just beyond it, you can see self-sown flowering tobacco exploding with bloom. On the right, birdfeeder sunflowers sown by the chipmunks tower above the annual dianthus, and if you look carefully, you can see the birdfeeder ensconced in its bower of sweet peas.
Gardening is not some sort of game by which one proves his superiority over others, nor is it a marketplace for the display of elegant things that others cannot afford. It is, on the contrary, a growing work of creation, endless in its changing elements. It is not a monument or an achievement, but a sort of traveling, a kind of pilgrimage you might say, often a bit grubby and sweaty though true pilgrims do not mind that. A garden is not a picture, but a language, which is of course the major art of life.











