suprise suprise

We went for a drive this week and ended up in Hook Head. It's a bit of a trek from Gorey, but well worth the spin.  We arrived on what could only be described as a typical Irish summer's day. The wind was howling, the rain was driving sideways, and the sea was crashing against the rocks. Despite the weather, the first thing that caught my eye was the carpet of purple flowers spread across the headland. It was everywhere. Naturally, nothing would do me but get out for a closer look.

Before long, I had myself a fine big clump pulled up and ready for the journey home. It's a habit I inherited from my mother. Wherever she went, she'd come back with a slip, a cutting, or a bit of root wrapped in a tissue. I seem to have followed in her footsteps.

Half the plants in my garden have arrived by accident, generosity, or opportunism. I've taken cuttings from friends' gardens, rescued neglected plants from forgotten corners, and occasionally helped myself to a little souvenir from a roadside ditch or woodland walk. Most of the time I haven't a clue what I've planted. For me that’s part of the fun.

My garden is a wonderfully untidy collection of mysteries. Every year something appears that I'd completely forgotten about. A shoot pushes through the soil, a flower suddenly blooms, and I'm left scratching my head trying to remember where it came from. Then the memories return.

"That came from Mary's garden."

"I got that down in Kerry or was it that holiday in Cork."

"Didn't I take a piece of that from somewhere in Donegal?".

The plant becomes a reminder of a place, a day out, or a person.

I have a St John’s Wort shrub that came all the way from my home county of Westmeath as a tiny slip, complete with its roots and a clump of good midland soil’, to this day, it’s thriving.

Whenever it comes into bloom, I’m transported back to a late summer’s evening many moons ago. I picture the original plant that grew in my mother’s garden, and in my mind’s eye I can see its bright yellow flowers glowing in the fading light. For a moment, I’m there again.

It’s far more satisfying than anything I’ve ever bought in a garden centre;

So, back to the Hook.

My purple-flowered treasure came home complete with a generous lump of clay and plenty of roots attached. My mother always maintained that if you're taking a slip, the roots are only half the battle — you need to bring some of its home soil with it as well. Whether that's gardening wisdom or folklore, I couldn't say, but I've always followed her advice.

I dug a little hole, settled it into its new surroundings, gave it a good watering, and left it to its own devices. Now I'll wait. More than likely, I'll forget all about it until one day I notice a patch of purple thriving in some corner of the garden and remember exactly where it came from. I hadn't the faintest idea what the plant was called, but that didn't bother me in the slightest. I've spent years happily growing things without knowing their names.

Then I remembered hearing about Google Lens. Apparently, all you have to do is point your phone at a plant and it tells you what you're looking at.

So I gave it a go. Lo and behold, it worked.

My mystery flower turned out to be Sea Thrift. According to the genius that is Google, it loves full sun, thrives in sandy soil, and is tough enough to withstand the wild conditions of the coast. In other words, it sounds far hardier than I am. Then I got a bit carried away with myself. Before long I was wandering around the garden pointing my phone at everything in sight. Plants I'd grown for years suddenly had names. Weeds became wildflowers. Unknown shrubs acquired identities. I have to admit, I was impressed.

But then a worrying thought struck me. If I know the name of everything, where's the surprise?

Part of the pleasure of gardening, at least for me, is the mystery of it all. The forgotten cutting. The unexpected flower. The plant that appears years later when you've long since forgotten putting it there.

So while Google Lens is a wonderful bit of magic, I think I'll stick mostly to my mother's method.

A slip here. A cutting there. A hopeful poke into the ground.

Then leave the rest to nature.

After all, life's full of enough certainties. It's nice to have a few surprises waiting in the garden