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.
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The colour is divine.
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But the scent does not delight as much as the neighbours further up the fence.
The Gerties.
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A whole luscious wall of scent.
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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.
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But up close it’s a mad pink scramble to dead head and pick and pick and pick.
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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.
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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.