My Garden Story

In a burst of environmental enthusiasm, I went to the local native nursery and bought kangaroo paws, a bottle brush and a grevillea for the birds. The kangaroo paws died immediately, the grevillea has struggled on for years with no flowers and a lot of die back. The scarlet bottle brush has survived but only flowers at the very top. I think it is the wrong sort of soil and not enough sun. I took stock of the garden. There was slightly more than an acre. Though the house was rented and I couldn't do anything to it, I had free rein in the garden. At the front of the house was a neat little bed of pink hydrangeas bordered with common buxus.  I dislike them both so I pulled the evil, cat-piss smelling buxus out and threw it on the rubbish heap, and I gave the hydrangeas to my landlady who had a woodland and said they would glimmer nicely in the shade. There was a small rose bed, and all the rest was lawn and trees. I will not burden the reader with a lot of lists, but I noted the following;  two huge gum trees and two smaller ones, two oaks, three pears (nashi, Manchurian and small brown ornamental) a deodar. Loquat, two tall cypresses guard the entrance, three elderly crab-apples, a straggly photinia hedge, apricot, peach, plum and almond trees.  I had no idea what a treasure trove it was. All were mature and fruiting, apart from a dismal grove of silver birch, obviously very recently planted to enhance the auction. There were six small trees, they were waterlogged and even I could see three were dead or dying. The handyman I inherited moved the three remaining to higher ground where they are still flourishing. I kept it all going somehow, watered the roses and picked the fruit. Fast forward three years. I bought the cottage, hired a landscaper and my problems really began.