The Gentle Art of Doing Nothing
It’s a funny time of year, this is. The garden is quite happy left to its own devices and I’m finding myself at a bit of a loose end. Back in the day, I would be out there diligently cutting back all the spent perennials, but that was before Biodiversity, Sustainability and Mindfulness. Now I’m inclined to let things gradually slide into picturesque decay.
And do you know what? I’m feeling very relaxed about it! It seems I have experienced something of a Damascene moment. Perhaps it’s the recent installation of a water butt and compost bin. I cannot describe the feeling of fulfilment I had from adding my vegetable peelings to the compost bin for the very first time.
Whilst I was up at the back, I sauntered into the greenhouse. There lingered three tomato cordons and a cucumber vine. The tomatoes refused to ripen, while the cucumber was valiantly nurturing several undersized fruits. Gone are the days when I would have whipped them out at the roots - somewhat reminiscent of Mary Poppins’ Spit Spot! - and discarded them. Now I’m happy to let them do their thing a little longer.
And my new laissez faire attitude to weeding has paid dividends in the propagation department too. Rampant jasmine Fiona’s Sunrise has put down roots where it has run through the back of the borders, and persicaria Lisan has scattered several seedlings amongst the gravel paths, providing me with next year’s plants. And I wasn’t even mildly tempted to get out the broom and start sweeping up the fallen leaves; let them sit where they fall, it’s part of what autumn is.
The Catio has an overblown, louche feel to it, puts me in mind of Toulouse-Lautrec’s Moulin Rouge. Begonias spilling over the paving, nasturtiums coiling up the pergola. Spring bulb planting will just have to wait.
It’s just lovely to mooch around in the garden, surrounded by the lofty ornamental grasses and seedheads as they sway in the wind, listening to the birds, following the bees as they buzz from flower to flower.
I’m going to squeeze the very last drop of summer out of the garden before I even start contemplating next spring.
Love, Caroline
