In truth, I've never understood how people can invest so much time and money on urban (albeit bordering on suburban) gardening only to ditch it all on the couple of days of the week (over the couple of months of the year) they can actually enjoy it with martinis. Mind you, undoubtedly most of these gardeners benefit from the assistance of professionals. Both here and up north.
As we wandered (skip down if this chatter bores you, there are some good photos ahead), Nicole and I discussed the utter embarrassment of luxury amidst which we walked. In our downtown 'hoods, any one of the insanely beautiful birches grafted with cherry or unusual willows (which generally only grow in zone 7) would have caused stop-in-your-tracks transfixion. In Baby Point (peeps, it's pronounced Bobby Point), we were practically dismissive by the end of it.
I don't know what my point is. Is it fortunate to live amongst ugly urban grit because one's tiny garden will then function that much more relevantly as a fantastic oasis? Have my brain cells been realigned by the drugginess of the old-boy, high-WASP experience?
You be the judge:
This willow almost died last year due to hot, dry summer. Massive pruning and this year's deluge of rain brought it back.
I know, this garden is just ridiculous. I counted and you could seat 30 people without even making a dent on the space. Oh, and it's on a ravine.
Scott loathes that visor I'm wearing. He says I remind him of a retiree. Might I remind you I'm on a horticultural tour on my 41st birthday?? Besides, I feel I look "tennis".