I’m forcing myself to spend more time sitting in the garden than tending it: things will grow no matter what, and I can’t be bothered to deal with blackspot on the roses and whatever it is that is eating the shasta daisies. I shall sit here and watch the butterflies flitting and the blackbird scrumping raspberries, and I’ll pick the caterpillars off the broccoli next month. The long grass is still a bit of a mess, but I can’t cut it back yet because the yellow rattle still hasn’t yet dropped its seed, and now the goldfinches are dining off it. Yellow rattle has made all the difference to its transformation into a wildflower patch: before that, the plug plants struggled to survive.
It is a shame about the shastas, but they were great last year and other plants are doing well this year. And if the climbing rose still suffers from blackspot when the jasmine reaches the top of the arch, then I shall get rid of it.
Anyway, my lack of activity has shown me a wren and a young blackbird. It also gives me time to ponder on where to site the new hedgehog house. (Yes, I know it doesn’t figure anywhere on the scale of world problems, but there are now at least three hedgehogs using the garden. This is a population explosion that needs encouragement.)