Spring 2008

I enjoy weeding. Each weed removed is ultimately time saved. I do not really mind them individually, but the thought of their myriads of seedlings hardens my heart. Weeding keeps one in close contact with the plants, drawing one's eye to any that need attention - feeding, propagating, or rescuing because they are getting squashed. If I can really control the weeds in May, the rest of the summer is much easier. In my early days I thought pearlwort was a moss, and thought it looked rather charming running between paving stones, but I have discovered what an insidious little brute it is. Weeding underneath hostas is particularly soothing: a wonderful green gloom is created by the light shining through their leaves.

A view of the Red Border in summer

Early June is the only time when I can get relief from the rush to keep up with the work. Then so many plants look their best, dead-heading has not started, the first flushes of weeds have been dealt with, and watering has not begun in earnest. Dead of winter is my other favourite season - plenty of time to stand and stare. But best of all is the sight of heavy rain after a drought.

Visiting other gardens is an essential occupation for a good gardener. There is no garden in which there is nothing to learn. The 'pecking order' that establishes itself on these visits has always amused me. After a polite lunch, the host leads the way and the most knowledgeable gardener among the guests follows directly behind. I sometimes find myself at the end of the line, and my attempts to get nearer the front, to hear the discussion about the treasure in question, are thwarted.

Sometimes when taking visitors around my own garden, I realize we have come to a halt near a particular plant. They stare at it in silent contemplation and do not seem to want to move on. This means they would like a piece but are too polite to ask.

I have some rare plants, but for me a worthwhile plant must be beautiful as well as rare. I am beginning to understand why some plants are scarce. They may be difficult to propagate, or given to what the Irish call 'going for their tea', in other words, dying for no apparent reason. I cannot stand the sight of dead bodies around the garden - such an affront to one's skill. I get rid of them immediately and keep on trying. Sudden death is forgivable, refusing to grow is intolerable.

All my beds are mixed, very mixed - shrubs, herbaceous plants, roses and bulbs - and it is a matter of fitting them all in somehow. When I try to describe the occupants of a bed, it sounds like a description of people at a party: Cornus controversa 'Variegata' wore a delightful layered skirt in pale green and cream, while Convolvulus elegantissimus was running about, as usual, in silver and rose pink, behaving badly and elbowing her neighbours out of the way. The ragwort 'Desdemona' sulked because there wasn't enough to drink; 'Fusilier', a dashing tulip, was kitted out in brilliant scarlet. Everyone thought Daphne cneorum 'Eximia' looked decidedly off colour, and had probably caught a mysterious disease from her cousins. All the poppy family were there: Romneya coulteri in translucent white; Stylophorum diphyllum arrived early; Meconopsis 'Slieve Donard' came in an incredible blue dress, and the opium poppies produced so many children that there was hardly room for anybody else.

Some flowers I just cannot resist - red-hot pokers for example. But nature itself curbs unbounded enthusiasm. I collected innumerable species of Allium until they got onion neck rot, every available cultivar of Iris reticulata before they succumbed to inkspot disease. And the vine weevils loved best of all the fleshy roots of my collection of Sedum, so they perished too. And now? I am rather fond of Origanum, but hardly dare write that for nothing has attacked them yet.

Garden work is never ending. Nonetheless, throughout the year there are unexpected, bewitching moments when I glimpse perfection, and all my efforts are rewarded.

Extract from 'In an Irish Garden'
© Helen Dillon 1998