Our front and back gardens are full of weeds or, as I prefer to call them, wildflowers. Last year, the back garden was all dandelions. They were all over the lawn and the path. I pulled them all up from the path, sat down to look over my work and regretted it immediately. With the dandelions, the garden looks sort of magical, without them it was boring.
This year, it’s way beyond dandelions. The back garden is a jungle of knee-high (to me) grass and who-knows-what else. It’s a pain to clamber through to get to the bin (which is why David does that) and the local cats are always nestling in it and pooing everywhere.
The front garden, however, looks rather gorgeous. All the spaces between the “real” plants have been filled with weeds. Some of them are a bit mean-looking – one in particular is covered with blackfly, so I’ve pulled that one out – but most of them have pretty leaves and tiny flowers.
Looking at the front garden, I couldn’t tell you which were “weeds” and which were planted purposely (by my mother-in-law). One day on Twitter, I told someone I don’t believe in weeds, I think it’s plant snobbery. I was sort of joking, but sort of not. Thinking about it afterwards, I realised that weeds are basically plants that you didn’t plant and so don’t want there. I don’t like that either. I think of the weeds as sort of plucky. They turned up and made themselves at home. Good for them, I say.
And then I saw this on Facebook and I think I may have shouted, “YES!”