I scored Anna Pavord‘s The Curious Gardener at a book sale last week. It was a brand new copy until I got my hands on it. Now it has some dirty fingerprints, and I’ve read all essays about spring and summer months. Come September I will dive back in for more of her wit and wisdom.
Finding the book coincided with the first garden-worthy day in a few weeks. All afternoon of Memorial Day I got in among the perennials where grasses are stiff competition every spring. With the rain of the last two weeks it feels like we’ve grown a hay crop between the irises, daylilies and baptisia. For the task of pulling grass to the root I needed to work barehanded for part of the day. By evening my wrists were aching, and my fingertips resembled blackened sandpaper.
Falling exhausted into an armchair, I cracked the cover of The Curious Gardener and sank into Pavord’s prose with a sigh of contentment. If I can write of gardens, life and plants half so well I’ll be happy.