Layering the Border, Draining the Sky

 The long border — for now — is serving as a Dahlia nursery. I’m using this season to test and observe the seedlings I propagated from saved seed. They’re in a temporary location, filling the back half of the border while I allow my shrubs to establish. The plan is to replant the best-performing Dahlias next spring, into a more finalized layout.

Newly planted dark-leaved Dahlia seedling in freshly amended soil

Today I added another seedling. Its dark foliage suggests a Bishop or Mignon lineage. I have several Bishops, but only one Mignon — the variety 'Sunshine', one of my absolute favourites. Its red-orange flowers are open-faced and vibrant, a magnet for pollinators. If this new seedling turns out to be a cross between a Bishop and Mignon, I could have something really striking.

Dahlia Mignon 'Sunshine' in bloom — red-orange petals with dark foliage, pollinator-friendly form

From Hard Times to Succession Planting

This spring, I’ve been moving self-seeders from my Pollinator Hard Times border into the long border — building a future succession layer from tough, proven performers.

Earlier this season, I lifted two California Poppy (Eschscholzia californica) seedlings from the gravel edge and potted them up. Today, I planted them into the long border. If they flower and go to seed, they’ll establish a future presence — light, untamed color popping up wherever it chooses.

California Poppy seedling newly planted in open soil, surrounded by mulch and backlit in evening sun

Nearby, I planted a Fennel seedling. This came from the mother plant in the Hard Times border, now in its third year. In my mild climate, that Fennel never dies back fully — I cut it hard in early spring, and by late summer, it’s towering over everything. The seedling I moved today will hopefully take root and eventually play that same vertical role in this new space.

Young Fennel transplant in the long border, feathery foliage just emerging

The idea of succession planting is central to how I design — and I owe that largely to Monty Don. I’ve read several of his books, watched the documentaries, and of course, Gardeners’ World is a weekly fixture. It’s from Monty that I learned how to shape a garden where something is always in bloom — and where pollinators always have something to work with.

My whole garden follows this principle. Even in the mild winters of southeast Ireland, there’s always something flowering, and something for the bees to feed on. It’s not about visual perfection. It’s about rhythm, flow, continuity — the garden handing off from one plant to the next, month after month.

Drought Watch: When Rain Becomes Myth

My tank is almost dry — literally and figuratively.

Yesterday, the forecast said rain. I got excited. Texted a few people. “Finally — tomorrow!”
That’s what it’s come to: rain as an event. A promise you get your hopes up for, only to have it quietly rescheduled the next day. Then the next. And the next.

Every day lately has been blue sky on blue sky, sun pounding down. My skin’s gone two-tone — arms and face tanned from all the exposure, but under my socks I’m pale as plaster.
The contrast is ridiculous. I guess I’m lucky to tan at all. At least I don’t fry in it. But it’s starting to wear thin.

Parched garden soil with cracks and sunbaked patches, showing early signs of drought stress

The grass is browning in patches. Plants are under constant surveillance — watched for wilt, for slouching leaves, for colour drain. I carry a watering can like a medic with an IV drip. My rainwater tanks are down to dregs — maybe a bucket or two sloshing around in the bottom of the IBC.

Nearly empty IBC water tank in a bright, dry garden setting, hose draped over the edge

Now I get it — the Malibu mindset. When you spot a single cloud and think, This could be it. Shade feels luxurious. A breeze feels like a gift.

What I wouldn’t give for a slow, steady rain — something that sinks into the ground, that taps on the shed roof, that fills the tanks while I stand under cover, just listening.

Until then, I keep watering. Keep hoping. The garden’s holding on. So am I.