When I worked as a sub and gardening section editor on Australian Home Beautiful the editor regarded me as a curiosity. She would throw a smile-frown at me whenever she walked past. Sometimes she would shake her coiffed head at the same time. I had no idea what this was about until one day she said to me, ‘Why in the world are you interested in gardening? You’re far too young.’ Then she patted me on the head (I was sitting, she standing by my chair looking at a double-page spread on my computer screen). I remember what was on my screen at the time (ugly kitchen gadgets), what I was wearing (jeans, boots, my favourite red jumper), and the overpowering smell of her perfume, because no one had ever patted my adult head before, and no one has since.

I was bewildered by her comment and remain so. Gardens are amazing - as living things, as works of art, as parts of an ecosystem you can nurture and meld. Without plants we’d have no air to breathe, we’d dine on carcass, what scant rain there is would vanish, the world would have next to nothing green in it at all. On a less hysterical level, to grow a garden is a joy. It feels good to be outside, to dig, to water, to pull a fresh tomato from its stem. 

I’ve been writing about gardens for my local paper for a couple of years. The topic still rates high on the frump scale, but I don’t care. Here are a few articles about the gardens I’ve visited.