But Is It A Garden

As the season fleetingly draws to a close, I am plagued more and more by the question of what is a garden? Or more precisely, do I have a garden? Is it merely just a collection of increasingly vulnerable plants - some of which I cannot seem to get enough of - no matter what the consequences. No matter how delectable to the various creatures, hooved, furry and/or winged, those which inhabit our neighborhoods above and below ground - there is always the allure of a new season, a different challenge, the hope that the weather will be just rainy enough to keep everything thriving and warm enough to cause those incredible growth spurts and that somehow, next year we will keep the creatures at bay.
Usually I find getting too philosophical about the garden boring, but the other question that vexes me: is a garden still a garden if no one ever sees it but the gardener? Which reminds me of a joyous trip to the Cotswolds some years ago - a literal gardening feast - and the opportunity to make one lonely garden-keeper happy. Idbury Manor, is seldom used but meticulously maintained season-in and season-out.


So imagine the joy of this dedicated groundskeeper when seven of us eager American garden-lovers descended on this idyllic 16th Century house for a week of oohing and aahing . Even the plants perked up - so happy were they to be viewed so adoringly.