Be a completist. Finish your rose obsession. Move back to the French ones.
Here is a little summary of the few roses that cheerily grow in a rather harsh climate.
My delicate and gorgeous English roses have now done their first flush. A few cling on to the fence in the potager. But I have been looking elsewhere for my ‘dose’.
Like just outside my potting shed. Munstead Wood. Loves the shade.
The courtyard ones have enjoyed the drenching while we were away.
But how about these beauties on my neighbour’s wall?
I went on my first lope around the mountain the day after we came back.
I can’t tell your their variety, or whether they have scent, but they lift my spirits just at the steepest part of the walk.
And these are the ones flowering diligently away at the abandoned hunter’s house on the far side of the mountain.
They might be what people call PLM roses. Paris, Lyon, Marseilles roses. The ones planted by station masters at their train stations on the way down from Paris to the sea. Andrew told me that one. I love it.
I think I have some in the thicket of weeds up near our guesthouse garden. Let me pop out in my pjs and get ambushed by cat, and brambles.
The roses you can’t name. A bit like calling those birds you don’t know ‘LBJs’. Little brown jobbies.
And it shows how lazy I am that I haven’t gone up to this part of the garden in ages.
Pause. Nicolas is here and is cutting back the jungle. Yay. That means we will be able to watch the wild animals feeding on the white mulberries each night.
Here’s a shot of my favourite wild animal. Delighted to have me back.
Next post. Fruit!