A time to be born, a time to die

A time to be born, a time to die

As I tie back the climbers I hear sheep and birds in the distance, people walking along the street. I cut away the dead wood from roses, realising that those branches once bore flowers that delighted the previous owners; the thorns drew their blood as it now draws mine. Birds have taken last year's seeds from the ivy, leaving little bare stalks, and there will be birds to take seeds from this year's plants as they ripen. This garden is a part of its many-faceted community, past and present and future; I must work with nature, not try to conquer it.

A little ivy

To begin the creative process, I need to take stock of what I have. The garden covers an area of approximately 80 square metres and is bordered by high, sheltering walls. About one third is going to be dug and the rest includes hard standing with interspersed planting. Much of the planted area is in deep shade, but there is also some dappled shade and places where the sun shines for a good part of the day. The soil is slightly alkaline, well-worked but rather impoverished by having too many shrubs taking up the space. I will carefully consider which of the existing plants will be kept and which new plants I need to introduce – and ask myself questions as I  go on.