Well, moving house has finally become a set of rails, the switches of which are being directed by solicitors, agents and other higher powers. As of Thursday, we have a chain: our buyer, us, our seller. That’s about as simple as it could ever get for us. Nationwide did in their usual inept manner try to complicate things, but we’re hoping to find a way of making them irrelevant somehow.
Now that we’re—as a fellow gardener put it—“going to a better place,” I’m having to resist making changes around the garden. The rose that we trained into an arc over the back gate this year: its new growth could be trained over the same arc, for flowering next year. But to what end; for us, but also for the garden? What if the buyer doesn’t want that rose there? What if they quite like it in the first year, but then when it gets unwieldy the year afterwards they feel conned somehow into a maintenance task they didn’t ask for?
A gardener’s hope is always that the garden will outlive them. And I do rather hope that the biggest structural plants at least are left alone once K. and I have moved on. But there’s no guarantee: that, after all, is what house purchase means. Nothing about our garden is all that special, except to me. Posterity will not be particularly grateful for its preservation.
All the same… I’m taking that Brachyscome with me. And the ivy-leafed pellie. And the Stipa. It’s all I can do to leave the Heucherella where it is.