From central Glasgow, walking through Kelvingrove Park up river to Milngavie, I stayed at a seedy but ok b & b in Renfew St – Paki owner and Polish girls, he v. nice & efficient but oh, these people of the east and south do not smile as much as they do in their own lands.  Leave bag for carrier to take to Milngavie for tonight.  The euphoria of walking in early morning sunshine through Glasgow, the trees, the great Stewart fountain, the sweetness of people who always greet, young women, old women, quicker greetings from men, long directions from old man with beery breath – now, my...

Fly into Dubrovnik, airport surrounded by spires of cypress & domes of pines.  Zig zag along coast, misty & scenic & stippled with islands, to old city.  Fight our way through tourists beside the walls who have just poured out of dozens of buses – 3 or 4 cruise liners each holding 5 – 6000 people have docked today, says waiter where we collapse for coffee.  They shuffle like caterpillars after leaders who hold aloft flags or furled umbrellas.   They bring in no money at all, says waiter, they get everything from the ships – bottled water, food,  souvenirs.  Tall, small, young,...

Years ago Jessica found this lovely thing in her garden and asked me what it was.  I hadn’t a clue, but eventually we found it’s from Peru, Nicandra physalodes, named after a Greek poet Nicander.   Web pictures show small blooms a pallid mauve shade among a mass of dull green foliage.  In America they wrote, ‘scrawny flowers and not very striking,’ and ‘do not think of cultivating this horrible invasive!!’   We felt outraged!  Nicandra belongs to the nightshade family, and its other names are Apple of Peru and the Shoo-Fly plant.  Whether it actually shoos flies away I very much...

December 15th, and we haven’t even got to the shortest day.  The screen of summer has gone, and the planks of the fence are revealed, dull and bare.  The leaves on the ground are no longer crisp and russet but brown slimy sheets barely distinguishable from the dog’s hard turds which I flick into the flower beds, full of stems felled by the massacre of winter.  The green man looks miserable – stifled by ivy he can scarcely breathe.  My fingers in  stout gloves are so cold they can do nothing.   It’s going to be like this for months.  The garden writers talk about flowers and veg and...