stories and illustration

Evening Primrose


These flowers grew in an untended corner of the vegetable garden in my Grandmother’s house in Steeple Aston, a patch which backed on to Iris Murdoch’s garden, where everyone else trespassed except me, who went another route and was the only one who was caught and told off.  We used to make jumps down the path between the vegetables and pretend to be show-jumpers.  I had long lists of horses’ names in a notebook. Another world, another time.  I have always liked these plants, but have seen them rarely growing wild, so enjoy them each year when they flower, high up above the Tweed, a few hundred yards from the border between Scotland and England, which for the next six days at least will be part of the same Kingdom.

September 12, 2014 Posted by | Art, Photography, Uncategorized | , , , , , | Leave a comment


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