Navigating the wild landscape of my garden has made me realise that I’m no gardener — more like a reluctant weed wrangler! Between lost dog dramas and dodging garden centre boredom, I respect the neatness of perfectly pruned flower beds, but I also realise that maybe the whole concept of “proper gardening” is a bit overrated.

The Missing Labrador

So there I am, minding my own business in the field where I take my dog for a daily run around, blissfully unaware of the canine chaos about to unfold.

Suddenly, a fellow woman dog walker’s excitable labrador decides it’s time for an impromptu game of hide and seek.

Luckily, after several fraught minutes of searching, the not-so-little escape artist was finally located and reunited with its owner.

But the following day, as fate would have it, the very same woman and her husband leisurely strolled past my house. Not realising I was there, she casually pointed to the army of stinging nettles beneath my front window and declared, “Look at all those weeds!”

Image credit: Paul Morley on Unsplash

Cheeky, right?

But at that moment, it hit me like a rogue dandelion on a cricket pitch: I’m not really a gardener. I’m more of a demonic pruner with a flair for wanton neglect!

In that moment, I realised my garden might not be everyone’s idea of paradise. But what struck me, though, was that the woman’s main concern seemed to be the aesthetic of my garden rather than the fact that it provided a haven for insects like ladybirds and butterflies (which, incidentally is my nefarious explanation/excuse for the presence of the nettles).

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Going Back to My Roots (Literally)

My childhood garden was a glorious mess of daisies and sprawling grass, largely thanks to my dad’s attitude (or lack thereof) towards gardening.

To him, it was all about keeping the grass short and the trees pruned. No more, no less.

We had a big garden with apple and plum trees and a gooseberry bush, which made me feel close to nature and provided the foundation for my attempt to eat locally and seasonally where possible as an adult. I mean, I can’t be the only person to wince at supermarket avocados from Peru, can I?

With my older sister in our family garden in March 1977

The smell of fresh, early-summer roses still transports me back to memories of my mum, who lovingly (I assume) planted a rose bush in the middle of our garden in the late-1970s.

Image credit: Magda Smolen on Unsplash

Also, the pungent smell and colour of white and purple lilac blossom. It was no coincidence the house was called Lilac Cottage.

Image credit: Juja Han on Unsplash

My childhood garden taught me that beauty isn’t about perfection; it’s about memories, exploration, and a little bit of wildness.

Making mud pies and rose “perfume”, eating fish fingers and chips on a blanket on a rickety old wooden climbing frame and pretending to be a dinner lady serving up gravel with a side of grass and sloppy, muddy “gravy” drizzled over the top.

Image credit: Stocktake

The Joy of Purposeful Pruning… Until I Get Bored

Now, I’m not anti-gardening entirely. I do, in fact, enjoy a good pruning session — it’s strangely satisfying, but there’s only so much of it I can take. Ten minutes into clipping away, I’m already eyeing the next bush needing attention, thinking, “Oh no, not another one!”

For me, gardening has to have a purpose. I’m not out there to create a showpiece; I’m there to make something edible or vaguely useful.

Not for the Want of Trying

I’ve tried to cultivate my green fingers over the years, even attempting to grow tomatoes — until I forgot to water them, of course.

Once, I successfully grew chilies, and those hot little victories felt monumental at the time.

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Garden Centres: The Ikea of the Outdoors (But with Pricier Cake)

Unlike some of my peers, my childhood weekends weren’t spent wandering around garden centres with my dad and sister — I was much more likely to be found pressing sample doorbells in DIY stores.

But when I finally ventured into a garden centre as an adult, expecting a spark of inspiration, it was more like a leafy version of Ikea with no clear exit in sight.

Image credit: Gift Chalet

Instead of a green fingered awakening, I found endless aisles of intimidating seeds, mystery tools, and compost bags with price tags that made me wonder if they were sprinkled with gold dust.

And then, lurking behind the plants, there’s always the “seasonal tat section.”

Somehow, garden centres morph into mini Christmas emporiums long before the actual season, lined wall-to-wall with glittery, overpriced decorations that only see daylight once a year.

It’s a strangely depressing tinsel wonderland of ornaments, faux trees, and enough baubles to fill Santa’s sleigh twice over — all costing just enough to make you question reality.

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Then there’s the café.

For those who adore tea and cake amid the potted perennials, it’s the ideal afternoon. But for me? If the main event is a slightly dry, overpriced slice of Victoria sponge, maybe these “outdoor paradises” just aren’t my scene (or should I say scone?).

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Foraging in the Great Outdoors

I do love getting outside to forage for wild treats, especially blackberries, however.

Every autumn, I set off with visions of rustic blackberry jams and pies dancing in my head, often returning with bagfuls — yes, in dog poo bags, which I’m sure makes me look quite the spectacle to local passers by.

I really enjoy the “squidge” factor; pulling individual blackberries off a bush. It feels therapeutic and mindful, almost, a process that cannot be rushed in the otherwise fast-paced world we live in.

I stash my hard-won bounty in the freezer, where, inevitably, they sit for a year, untouched.

My family isn’t always thrilled when they see these foraged treasures resurface, and honestly, I can hardly blame them. Blackberries may look charmingly rustic in the field, but at home, they don’t always live up to the hype.

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Then there was the mushroom incident. I once picked two whole carrier bagfuls, with dreams of making a beautiful, earthy mushroom soup. A vat, even.

But life got in the way, and my lovely haul of mushrooms ended up quickly rotting in the garage.

I still love the thrill of foraging and have recurring, annual aspirations of nettle tea and wild garlic soup, but I’ve learned to make peace with a slightly less ambitious meal plan. I guess some wild dreams aren’t meant for the dinner table.

Image credit: Wild Food Stories

Gardening Without Perfection: Finding Beauty in the Wild and Unruly

Let’s be honest, for all my moaning, there’s something undeniably grounding about gardening. Being outside and tending to a bit of earth has its perks.

It connects you to something bigger, even if that’s just the battle against weeds.

Image credit: Bill Wiggins

But here’s the thing: you don’t need a picture-perfect garden to feel that. You just need a patch or container of flowers or a few herbs on the windowsill. It’s not all about how it looks; it’s about being part of the cycle, even if that cycle includes more nettles than roses.

Image credit: Pinterest

Also, I must admit that one of my guilty pleasures in life is watching Gardeners’ World on BBC 2 on Friday evenings, especially listening to the dulcet tones of Monty Don (who happens to remind me of my dad). I listen to all the tips but rarely put them into action.

Monty Don
Image credit: BBC Gardeners’ World Live

For me, gardening is about embracing a touch of wildness. I love the charm of tangled shrubs, sprawling herbs, and a bit of beautifully contained chaos that feels alive and real.

Image credit: Louis Hansel on Unsplash

It’s less about crafting a flawless plot and more about letting the garden find its own rhythm, with all its quirks and surprises — a bit like the English countryside itself. In many ways, it mirrors my own personality — a bit messy and unruly, and that’s okay.

View from the Grotto at Stourhead, Wiltshire
Image credit: The National Trust

So, where do you stand? Is your garden all about precision or a bit more on the wild side? Tell me about it in the comments, or share your best (or worst!) garden centre experiences. Let’s dig up some real talk on why we garden the way we do (or don’t).