Forget me nots

'Just how many forget-me-nots do you need?' Dee

We travel to France in early May, after winds and rains. The horizon is pencil-defined and blue, the sky awash with clouds of every shape. As we near the village, the fields are a patchwork of greens, punctuated by the yellow of oilseed rape, the vineyards showing the green of leaves above the twigs of the vines. The copses (left for the chasseurs and their game) are full of texture, with laburnum and guelder rose adding colour.

We enter the gate of our house and the garden hits us. Burgeoning is not a word to be used lightly, and here it is an understatement. Everywhere there is growth. The growth I had hoped for and the growth that comes on its own. If one wants a free-flowing, abundant garden, one must pay for it with the plants that come unbidden - in other words, weeds.

After a long drive, Piers grabs some crémant and I grab some tools. It is a perfect evening for gardening. The air is balmy and the soil is moist. He sits on the edge of the well as I use the fork to remove dandelions and docks from the dinosaur garden. Underneath a tree is a classic place to not plant grass, but under our Norwegian maple there is plenty of it. A whole bed (left 'empty' for the roofers) is covered in forget-me-not. I don't think Dee was right in her assumption. They look wonderful!

When the weeding is done I can asses the success of the last gardening trip. Some transplanted peonies are showing red buds and all the other introductions from last time look healthy. The weeds I can cope with if the chosen plants thrive as well.