“No garden, however small, should contain less than two acres of rough woodland.” The words, if you believe the legend, of Nathaniel, 1st Baron Rothschild. But while he had 300 acres of parkland at his disposal, the south London gardener’s resources are more modest. The only woodland in our fenced-in rectangle is the Japanese maple dominating the corner by the shed, its canopy sheltering the pond – or “puddle”, as the baron would have it.
Some of the maple’s leaves are already red-tinged, but its time will come later in the year, russet colours heralding autumn. For now, the eye is drawn to jaunty orange geums, the papery delicacy of Welsh poppies, slender columns of purple toadflax catching the sunlight.
This is a time of lushness – a moment to savour. A rose clambers over the shed roof, creamy blossoms cascading across the dark surface. Lower down, pure white honesty is nearly done, a few blooms hanging in there. But others are coming online. The tight ball of a peony shows promise, poised to burst into full flumpf.
Beyond the obvious vibrancy of those attention-seeking flowers, there’s plenty to see. A holly blue butterfly skitters down the garden, its path defying prediction. Tiny insects form spiralling columns. Innumerable invertebrates scrabble around in the shade of ground cover. Activity everywhere.
There is a downside. Warmth and moisture are a gilt-edged invitation to gastropods. Two allium heads lie on the ground, like a calling card from the slug mafia. The survivors look magnificent, purple globes bobbing on a sea of green, offset by towering spires of foxgloves – wait a minute and you’ll see the fuzzy arse of a buff-tailed bumblebee reversing out of one of those slipper-shaped flowers.
The soundtrack is fragmented. Garbled blackcap song, counterpointed by the excited cackles of young starlings. Tinkle of goldfinch, squee of swift. A coal tit delivers its piercing “pitch-ew”, a warning from an anxious parent. Where there are fledglings, there are predators. A magpie hops on to the fence, so obviously on the hunt it might as well be carrying a knife and fork and wearing a bib.
The glorious cycle of life, reaching its annual peak. The baron might dismiss our small urban rectangle, but we muddle on. There’s abundance enough, if you look.
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