Shortly before the New Gardens Organiser at the National Garden Scheme (NGS) is due to arrive at our farmhouse in north Norfolk, my youngest child – in the throes of a screaming meltdown – eyeballs me as she rips the heads off a row of giant ‘Mount Everest’ alliums.

By the time Fiona Black arrives, I’m spiralling into an existential crisis myself. Why did I bother asking if we’d be suitable, I wonder, contemplating the futility of gardening alongside children and dogs. Sliding tackles have taken out most of the alliums that survived the dogs’ digging. I retrieve a football from a bed of irises and chuck a bottle of Roundup weedkiller out of sight (soon-to-be illegal in the UK, but so effective, it’s the chemical compound I just can’t kick).

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In ‘The Glory of the Garden’, Kipling eulogised those ‘grubbing weeds from gravel-paths with broken dinner-knives’, but it’s impossible to keep on top of them when you only have a few hours a week to wield the broken knife. (I prefer a stirrup hoe.)

Opening one’s own private Eden to the public – and looking around other people’s – is peculiarly British

Opening one’s own private Eden to the public – and looking around other people’s – is peculiarly British

‘What a heavenly rose. Madame Alfred?’ asks Black, one of those redoubtable countrywomen, all backbone and tweed with the horticultural knowledge of Carl Linnaeus. ‘This is charming,’ she........

© The Spectator