There is a rose in my garden, a leftover from the previous owner. I’ve never pruned this rose. I’ve never watered this rose.
But I have nothing against roses. I need to make that clear. There is a wonderful rose garden in the Botanic Gardens and, like everyone else, I pause on my walk to reach and smell and check for a fragrance.
And the benches in that section of the Bots, which look out over a palette of shades and tones and of blooms climbing and static, are always the most popular.
It’s just that I know next to nothing about roses. Although, let’s be honest, they do seem a little too cultivated. A little too perfect. So, all right, maybe I’m not their biggest fan.
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But the rose in my garden is different. The garden is entirely wild now. It’s filled with thistles and nettles, clover and ragwort. But this rose, this one rose, has survived in the midst of it all and I have to admit that I am in awe of it.
A couple of years ago, the wall between myself and my neighbour had to be replaced. The rose’s patch is close to this boundary. Very close, and I figured that would be that. Builders trampled in and out. Concrete was poured. A wasteland developed. The rose duly disappeared and I thought no more about it.
But some time later, to the delight of my neighbour, it popped up on her side of the wall. The grass was clearly greener over there. Things were better. Life was less precarious.
It was hard not to take it personally. It was true that I hadn’t looked out for this rose but I didn’t do it any harm either, leaving it to its own devices. And then, as if sensing that the coast was clear, it reappeared on my side of the wall as well.
This rose was hedging its bets. Burrowing deep under the concrete blocks, it had set up residence in both gardens to maximise its chances of survival.
It’s now in bloom. And in keeping with the nature of this rose, this is no ordinary blooming. No common-or-garden effort happening here. There are two offshoots on my side, with only one producing buds but it’s the proliferation of buds on this one offshoot that is quite something.
There are eight viable buds on this one branch. Eight. I’ve checked with my neighbour and, to date, there are none that side. She too has adopted a benign-neglect approach to looking after this rose, so some may yet appear.
I can’t help wondering if eight on one stem is a kind of record. The top bud has now opened up to the sunshine. A delicate peach colour, it exudes the loveliest of aromas that wafts around that part of the garden. The stem is long and languorous, bending out and down so that sitting on my chair in the garden I can take in the wonder of this bloom.
There are seven more to go. I’m pretty sure one stem couldn’t cope with eight buds blooming at once, so they’ll probably go in turn. I’ve taken to checking the status of these buds every morning, deciding on the ones that look most likely to burst forth next. I have a feeling that they won’t all make it but I’m hoping that most will.
I’m keen on having a bee-friendly garden but I know roses are next to useless for bees. And sure enough, while the clover and thistles are alive with whirring and buzzing, the rose remains an activity-free zone. Roses, it seems, are too dense and complicated a flower and the bees just can’t get in there to nestle up to the pollen.
But even though, the rose in my garden (and please note how I can’t bring myself to claim that it’s “my” rose) is not pulling its weight pollinator-wise, it’s welcome to stay.
Truth be told, it’s more its garden than mine. I’ve long since decided that this rose is a combination of delicacy and single-mindedness.
[ Gardening Q&A: How can I resuscitate my dying roses?Opens in new window ]
If it were a person, it would be a painter or sculptor or, more likely yet, the leader of a fascist resistance. Its tenacity knows no bounds.
And so, with the summer drawing in, I’ll keep an eye on proceedings. I’ll watch how those blooms develop. And I’ll check in on how things are going on the other side of the wall.
But all in an information kind of way. Nothing else. I’ve no intention of doing anything.
The rose in my garden happily has no need of me.
