I find myself the custodian of a substantial collection of old fashioned roses in our new house. Most of these, (avert your eyes now, all rose lovers), have been earmarked for disposal. I don't relish the thought of doing this but thorns and small children are not a match made in heaven.
I took to them with loppers and a pair of secateurs not long after we moved in as a precurser to The Big Cull. Of course, when we returned from overseas I was greeted by the waxy luxuriant growth of rosebushes in their prime with buds poised for extravagant display. Extravagance being the key word here, the rose below is somewhere between a large side plate and a dinner plate in size and suffused with shades of magenta, crimson and lolly pink. I am trying to ignore it's magnificence. I cast brief, sidelong glances at it as I pass.
"Keep me, keep me!", I hear in rosy tones. Or was it the wind?
Damn! I am in torment.
Maybe I could act the proper gardener and take cuttings to grow them elsewhere, away from the small people. I could purchase some old world climbers with magnificent fragrance - I see them now tumbling over a wicker arbor. But what of my plans for a dry, water-wise garden - olive trees, succulents, Australian natives?
It's just that I'm coming round to the idea of roses - I like my pretty mixed up with a bit of thorn.
Look, I've even made a rose for my gardening hat.
I think they're staying.
x