When the pen takes control.

As I was cycling out of the village I couldn’t help but notice a little thatched cottage. Around the doorway and windows there bloomed a delightful rambling rose of deepest crimson. A woman was standing in the garden, a pair of secateurs gripped tightly in her right hand and she was doing battle with a large buddleia that filled one corner of her narrow strip of land.

I was astounded at the beautiful colours of the flowers that seemed to fill and cover every inch of space on both sides of the gravel path that led to the small lopsided front door. I plucked up courage and announced my presence to the lady. I complimented her on her lovely floral display and out of curiosity asked her if she had a secret to her success.

Smiling, she answered that she could only surmise that her home made fertiliser was the key. Continuing her explanation she mentioned that her husband had always tried to get a nice garden but since he had gone she had been very successful. He would never see it, though he had been a great influence. I persuaded her to tell me the secret ingredient and tapping the side of her nose, she said as if in confidence.

“Blood and bone my dear, plain old blood and bone.”