There is a tiny bed at the front of my farmhouse in which the former owner grew some colour. It contrasted with the rest of the farm, which was grazed back to the base of the hedges, the grass being the focus. I have used the bed this winter to line out my bare-root plants while the vegetable garden is being prepared, but in the last week or so I have made it my own. In pulling out the hardy fuchsias and the remains of last year's pelargonium, I came upon a sickly clematis, baked into submission on this south-facing wall and strangled with bindweed at the root. It is not worth saving, but in consigning it to the bonfire, with the fleshy roots of the bindweed, I have begun to ponder on a replacement.
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