The garden of youth

I recently passed my childhood home, took the opportunity to park up for a few minutes and furtively look in from the car. My mother died twenty six years ago and we sold the house a couple of years after that and I have always found it painful to go back.

The house itself has fallen into obvious disrepair. Peeling paint, dirty windows, dripping gutters. But it was the state of the garden that hurt most. The neat borders and…