I have a hanging basket outside my front door. It’s a pretty decent size, hooked onto a piece of fishing rope that’s curled around our porch. I don’t know my plants, but the flowers inside are pretty; reds, greens, a beautiful striking purple. It was brought over by my mother-in-law on her last visit, a little piece of her own gorgeous garden brought here to Rum.

“The deer might take a fancy to it,” I warned when I saw her carrying it off the ferry. But they haven’t struck yet.

It felt funny hanging it outside our front door, when our garden out the back tells a completely different story. While this basket is self-contained, a collection of carefully selected petals, the long, mismatched stems of my garden are much less structured. The daffodils that poked through the wiry grass in spring have been replaced with the tallest daisies I’ve ever seen.

I’d like to say that my wildflower garden was purposeful. That I sprinkled some seeds and knew just how much water it needed to grow as wild and beautiful as it looks now. But the reality is, I don’t know how to work the strimmer.

When you visit my Scottish island, there is one thing you'll notice is missing

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