I dream of a garden. On a daily basis, as I walk to work, through streets stuffed with houses full of them, I catch myself wondering if the owners would let me borrow them for an afternoon. I doubt it.
Thankfully the National Trust's Wakehurst Place had plenty of them to quench my need. It gave me food for thought. What would I plant? Would I do the whole veg thing? I am not too sure I would. Herbs and plants are where my hearts at.
Roses. I would have lots and lots of roses. Great big, heavily laden bushes of them. That I would lazily walk up to and snip away at. I would take my bounty indoors, to the cool of my kitchen and arrange them in a hap-hazard type fashion. It would not matter, because they would look stunning in an old margarine tub. Thats the magic of roses.
In my massive, sprawling imaginary garden, I would have the odd kitchen or bathroom appliance over spilling with some kind of fauna. An old Belfast sink laden with lavender. A stone bath full of poppies and moon daises. Or an old wooden ladder, propped against a wall and holding potted herbs of the culinary variety upon it's rungs. But only the ones I actually like the taste of. The basics, like rosemary, thyme, sage and lemon balm. Oh, and spearmint. So I could make a cup of green-hued tea that tastes like chewing gum.
If I had the room, I might have a walled bit, so I could have climbers. Like wisteria and honeysuckle. Which, come summer, would be a live with bees. We all know how I do love them there bumblers.
And I might even have a gravel path. No, scrap that. I loathe gravel. It always gets inside my sandals. Like, right inside so that every step becomes a game of Russian Roulette of stone-non-stone-ouch-non-ouch. So I would go for stepping stones through the grass. Which would be covered in daisies and dandelions, clover and chamomile.
But, dear peoples, that is all but a dream. As I walk to work, these are the things that go through my head. Maybe one day I will have more space and be able to grow something other than marigolds, geraniums, the odd straggly rosemary and a slowly greying sage.
Until then, I have other peoples vast gardens to wander through. To keep me wondering about what might be.