The wisdom of pond life
A small tub of water has radically enlarged my sense of what the world could be.
ByReviewing politics
and culture since 1913
A small tub of water has radically enlarged my sense of what the world could be.
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When lives are in flux, house plants are a source of constancy and calm.
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Soft grass, roses and tangling clematis entwine, all in a year when I’ve never done less gardening.
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One of the hardest things about my strained back is my lack of agency.
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A garden tended to by departed loved ones deserves to be celebrated.
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The cravings to fill the house with tulips and white narcissus are irresistible.
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There’s much more to it than wafting around in a kaftan.
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It’s time to tear up the horticultural rulebook and indulge in curiosity.
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But most of what we want can’t be bought.
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We may not be able to stick around long enough to enjoy the fruit of our labours.
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It’s taboo to say, but I’ve felt a disconnect from the thing I pour hours of labour into.
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The joy of the simple pelargonium.
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Doing nothing is the antidote to declining insect populations.
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Often I find myself picking among jettisoned debris, looking for incriminating documents, but rarely with any luck.
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Many raised their eyebrows at the sex scenes; I was outraged that anybody thought wisteria, apple trees and roses bloom…
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A focus on rewilding and sustainability has not diminished what the world-famous garden show does best.
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Olivia Laing and Richard Mabey reveal the joys, crises and politics of making a garden of one’s own.
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Also this week: AI enters the classroom, and the British obsession with gardening vs Brexit red tape.
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I’m no birdwatcher, but I was glued to the garden, willing on the fledgling great tits like my own offspring.
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One of the beautiful things about gardens is that they are continuously being made anew.
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