May ends with a burst of of blossoms. Achillea, campanulas, clematis, sweet william, irises, lavender,  peonies, and roses make cottage gardens into  places of enchantment. My own garden is lovely, if looked at selectively. These days writing takes up most of my time and I find it  impossible to cope with the explosion of weeds that follows a good rain. Bindweed, creeping charlie,  the poisonous  tree of of heaven, wild cherry trees invade the flower beds, slurp up the nutrients meant for less aggressive plants, threatening to suppress everything on their path.
I do not use chemicals in my garden. If the roses develop  black spot, as they invariably do, they get the tough love treatment. If insects feast on the basil, i let them. Between these plagues and the herd of deer that took up residence in  my neighborhood a few years ago, only the toughest plants survive. Old roses and thorny shrubs  usually survive Bambi’s depredations. Gooseberries yield a respectable crop. Quince is another story. It sets fruit that promises a glorious harvest, but in autumn all manner of fungi and  insect attack the fruit and render it inedible.
Maybe it is naive to try to garden organically in this part of the world.  Maybe it is folly to try to combine writing and gardening unless one is Vita Sackville-West. I persist out of the mad hope that one of these days everything will order itself beautifully. Who know? Ii might be right.