Rose season

I’ve come indoors to dose up on bite cream.

My whole wrist is a writhing angry mass o’ welts. That will teach me to have a gap between glove and wrist. And to wade into weeds without proper protection.

But it was worth it. I have weeded around the Munstead Wood rose that was being quietly strangled by intruders.

The colour is divine.

But the scent does not delight as much as the neighbours further up the fence.

The Gerties.

A whole luscious wall of scent.

It’s a daily delight in June.

If you step back a bit it almost looks appropriate in the garden setting of a steep bank, eragrostis grasses and cypresses and vetch.

But up close it’s a mad pink scramble to dead head and pick and pick and pick.

I’m doing endless walks around the mountain to deliver little jars of blooms. And for Solene, a huge basket of petals for drying for her soaps.

Add in some sweet peas in jars and you have a delicious scent bomb.

I’m gradually emerging from the hell fest that is my French tax returns. A week late and the final document managed to run to 85 pages. Thank goodness the fantastic accountant finds all this marvellous sport. And takes payment in cheque and a huge bouquet of English roses.

I was all for lying down in a darkened room and just shuddering with horror.

But this season is not for dallying indoors. It’s all lush and fluffy. And when you are a gardener you have no option but to step away from the computer and the files and go out with secateurs and wade in.