One Bite at a Time: Building Borders and Watching Summer Break

 

The Signals I Trust

Ah, summer is finally here. Not by the calendar, but by subtler signs I’ve come to trust.

This week, I found myself deadheading the geums—an annual ritual that quietly signals the season’s shift.

Close-up of a geum seedhead with a background of soft, mauve-toned bokeh balls — light catching the delicate structure like spun glass

Nearby, the first petal of Dahlia 'Verrone’s Obsidian' is just beginning to break through the bud’s outer bracts, forcing its way into the light with a dark, almost lacquered sheen.

The peony is right on the edge—buds tight but swelling, pink edges just visible. It always holds the promise of a brief, showy drama. And already, Salvia nemorosa has surged into bloom, its spires fully extended, buzzing with pollinators.

It’s been warm and dry for weeks. This doesn’t feel like the start of summer. It feels like we’ve been living in it.

According to the ancient Irish calendar, summer begins with Bealtaine, which opens the season on the first of May. That tradition runs summer through May, June, and July—a seasonal rhythm shaped by agriculture, light, and lived experience. Not a bureaucratic date, but a felt reality.

Eryngium flower head tightly closed, bristling with texture, just about to bloom — cool silvers and steely blues against a blur of green.

I’ve also just finished work on the long border for the season. I’ll admit my back’s a little sore. The final section I tackled was rough going—more like cement than soil. Classic urban fill: very sandy, compacted, and full of debris. A stark contrast to the clayey loam that most of my garden rests on.

Expanding West: Borders by the Bite

With summer fast approaching—and the dahlias quickly outgrowing the temporary pots they’re in—I needed to prepare new ground for planting at the west end of the long border.

In all my gardening planning, I hold myself to the old problem-solving adage: “How do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time.” That’s how I build borders too. I never dig the full shape at once. Instead, I take off small, manageable chunks.

Working this way lets me ease into the problem and adjust as I go. Each bite is a moment for reflection. I start with a rough outline in mind—enough to guide the shape—but I leave myself the freedom to change direction if the ground, light, or planting priorities shift.

The west end of the long border midway through expansion—partially removed sod, newly planted sections, mulch laid, with a cat observing from the lawn. A wheelbarrow and tools frame the work in progress.

Once the outline felt right, I completed the full shape of the extension. The proportions felt balanced, and the line of the border settled into something that worked with the space.

The border extension at full outline—sod completely removed, fresh soil raked smooth, and edge lines clearly defined, ready for planting.

Then I placed the dahlias, still in their pots, positioned exactly where they’d be planted. The bed was fully prepped—dug, amended, and ready.

Newly expanded section with dahlias in brightly coloured pots placed on freshly prepared soil, framed by newly laid mulch and stone edging.

Looking at the whole border now, it has taken on the shape of a giant cleaver—broad at the west end where this expansion sits, and tapering toward the east where the original planting began. The new end is the blade; the narrow, established section is the handle. It’s not a shape I planned from the start, but it makes sense—and it gives the border weight and direction as it grows with the garden.

Breaking Ground: The Brutal End of the Border

I had planned to do a HIIT workout that evening. Instead, I ended up with a different kind of training: functional exercise, garden edition. Sod removal, soil amendment, full-body digging. The kind that doesn’t need a timer or reps—just progress you can actually see.

The last area I removed sod from had clearly once been a rubble pile. I’ve got a solution for this sort of soil though—brutal, but effective. I use a long, heavy iron bar—about seven feet—and drive it deep into the ground. Then I wrench it upward to fracture the compacted subsoil and rubble.

Just the edge of a long iron bar in frame, embedded in the prepared bed, resting in dry, cracked soil—evidence of effort in taming urban ground.

It’s a physical act—controlled violence against ground that doesn’t want to give. The bar is heavy. Getting it through the hardened soil takes weight, rhythm, and technique. You learn how to feel the resistance, how to twist just enough without jarring your wrists. It’s crude but strangely satisfying.

Since I was removing so much material and dealing with heavy clay, I amended the soil as I went. I added a full bag of compost to the hole, raked it through, then double-dug the whole area to work it deep into the clay. I also mixed in a generous amount of chicken manure pellets—strong stuff, but excellent for long-term soil nutrition.

Worms absolutely love it. And they repay the favor. They aerate the soil as they move through it, dragging organic matter down with them. Their castings are rich in nutrients and help bind soil particles into a more stable, crumbly structure. The little guys are gardeners’ heroes—quietly transforming hard ground into something plants can actually thrive in.

Freshly turned bed—dark, clean, root-free soil with flecks of compost mixed in. Three potted dahlias placed on the surface, marking their soon-to-be homes in the new bed.

Laying It Down: Mulch, Mimicry, and a Finished Bed

Nothing much else to do after that but plant the dahlias—so I did.

Newly planted dahlias spaced evenly in the prepared bed, soil still clean and undressed—awaiting the final layer.

Then I covered the whole bed with fine mulch bark, my favourite ground cover.

Same bed now mulched—rich brown bark spread evenly, framing each dahlia. A clean, calm finish to the day’s effort.

Mulch is essential. It’s not just about neatness—though it does make a bed look resolved—it plays a deeper role. It suppresses weeds, keeps moisture in the soil, and slowly breaks down to feed the bed.

More than that, it mimics what happens in nature. In woodland ecosystems, deciduous trees and plants drop their leaves and stems every autumn, building a layer of organic mulch that feeds the system from the top down. Adding bark mulch to the beds is doing the same—it’s imitating life. You’re building the soil from above, not just below.

Shift in Weather, Shift in Weeds

With the change in the weather—from weeks of Malibu-like, endless blue skies to cloudier, rainier days—the garden has started to come alive again. The parched, droughty stretch has finally ended. The plants are responding with a kind of collective sigh. But it’s not just the perennials and borders breathing easier—every weed seed in the ground seems to have gotten the same memo.

They’ve exploded in the last couple of days.

I’ve been doing a lot of what I call my “Asian squat exercises”—constantly down in the borders, picking weeds out of the mulch. This is how you keep a garden clean: you don’t wait for weeds to grow. You catch them the moment they sprout. Every time you see a seedling—just bend down and pull it. It’s easy. It’s all about habits.

If you force yourself to pick every seedling as you see it, it becomes second nature. You’ll never let them get to flowering or seeding. You’ll barely see them at all. And then your beds stay clean—not because you’re constantly battling perennial weeds like dandelion or dock, but because you never let them take hold in the first place.

In the long border, I’ve noticed the freshly turned soil is full of thistle seedlings. Great plants—in the right place. I let them grow wild in the wilder areas of the garden where they’re part of a functioning ecosystem. Out there, they’re wildflowers. In the border, they’re weeds.