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.

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