Love the greenhouse we inherited. It’s a bit broken and battered like it’s previous owner who loved starting things from seed, digging over his tiny potato bed and arguing with his wife about how much space could be spared for flowers.
The sun now does a detour through the thornless blackberries I planted far too near the roof and the leaves of the cherry tree with sour fruit but a mass of pink blossom in the spring. There is just enough light to warm carrots in deep seed containers and tomatoes and courgettes in buckets
A layer of bark on the flower beds bark tries unsuccessfully to smother the weeds and chives pop up between stones on the pathways. Raspberries are ripening, strawberries in a trough ready to eat.
The wisteria has taken no notice whatsoever of my efforts to prune as advised by the experts and fine wisps of foliage continue to swing like the gauze that brushed ones face on an old fashioned ghost train ride.