I grew up in a house with a beautiful garden. Both of my parents were keen gardeners and my father in particular spent every summer evening and most of his weekends, when not in Church or watching Aston Villa play, tending his flower beds. Each year we would have a wide spread of spring bulbs, followed by trellises covered in rambling roses; walls disappearing behind deep purple clematis; canes bending under an abundance of sweet peas; chrysanthemums the size of saucers; and vividly-coloured dahlias, so beloved of earwigs. The smell of Lilly of the Valley, the sight of green tomatoes; or the touch of a velvet peony petal always takes me straight back to Ryland Road.
