Lessons in Wildness: Notes from a Living Garden

 A Change in the Weather

It’s been a week since my last update, and the garden feels it. Gone are the endless sunny days of spring; now we’re firmly in a classic Irish summer — rain and gloom most days, punctuated by brief, teasing intervals of sun.

The shift has been decisive. The garden, once surging ahead, has slowed. The wind, the rain, and a noticeable drop in temperature seem to have curbed the enthusiasm of many plants. Growth has stalled, and the vibrant energy of early summer feels muted.

No Mow May: Letting Nature Breathe

No Mow May is a simple but powerful idea: step back from mowing for a time and give grass, wildflowers, and pollinators a chance to flourish. It’s not about letting everything go wild — it’s about being selective. In my garden, I leave some areas to grow long while keeping others neatly mown, carving paths through the taller grass and flowers to keep a sense of structure and flow.

One spot I focus on each year is a patch alongside a Leylandii hedge — north-facing, shaded all winter, and only catching the light as spring returns. It’s perfect for leaving long: growth is steady, not rampant, and the grass stays upright without flopping. I usually give it a light cut every six weeks, and it’s about due for one next week.

shaded north-facing grass area left uncut for No Mow May

Early Growth: Bulbs Through the Grass

Another part of the garden is left long too, but with a different rhythm. From late January onwards, I ease off mowing here — not for No Mow May, but to give space for the first bulbs to rise through the grass. This area is thickly planted with bulbs, circling around an old Crab Apple tree, a quiet focal point in the middle of the lawn.

The crocuses are always the first to make their appearance. I have a few varieties scattered across the patch; some are early risers, peeking out as soon as January, while others bide their time and don’t show until February.

A vibrant yellow crocus blooming amidst long green grass, catching soft winter sunlight — signalling the first signs of spring.

Soon after the crocuses, the muscaris — or grape hyacinths — begin to emerge. I grow several varieties. The earliest ones are striking but not much use to bees. Later in February and into March, though, Muscari armeniacum appear en masse, and these become a reliable food source for early pollinators.

A cluster of deep violet muscari (grape hyacinths) rising through dewy grass, framed by soft green light — a bold early splash of colour in late winter.

The last of the early risers in this area are the snowdrops — heralds of spring. It’s always a lift to see them come. In the park next to me, they pop up in January, but in my own urban garden, they arrive later, typically in February. Shade lingers longer here, with the house itself, mature trees, and dense shrubs casting deep shadows over the lawn in these early months.

A delicate snowdrop flower with translucent white petals and a soft green heart, captured against a blurred background of early spring light.

A Spring Awakening: Natives Join the Party

As March rolls into April, the garden properly comes alive. Dandelions, often overlooked, burst open alongside the muscari — a bright, eye-catching pairing that’s a feast for the eyes and a crucial resource for early pollinators.

A bright yellow dandelion in full bloom, hosting a dark-coloured Dance fly, surrounded by lush spring grass — a vital nectar source early in the season.

Later, the snake’s head fritillaries make their entrance. These distinctive flowers, with their chequered, nodding heads, are a big hit with early bumblebees.

A pair of snake’s head fritillaries with their iconic purple-and-white chequered petals, hanging delicately in a sea of green — a magnet for early bumblebees.

Another native favourite appears in late April: the Cuckoo flower, or Lady’s Smock. Its name harks back to the timing of the cuckoo’s return from warmer climes. In May, it spreads across the garden en masse, a delicate sea of soft lilac flowers.

Delicate pale lilac blooms of the Cuckoo flower (Lady’s Smock) standing tall against a blurred green background — a classic marker of spring's progress.

Beyond its beauty, the Cuckoo flower is also a vital host plant for the Orange-tip butterfly.

An Orange-tip butterfly resting on a vibrant purple wallflower, its distinctive mottled green-and-white underwings perfectly camouflaged.

From February through May, daffodils also accent the area. They’re mainly for show — but the cheerful sight of daffodils in spring is hard to beat.

My favourite arrives later: the Poet’s daffodil (Narcissus poeticus), with pure white recurved petals and a small, vivid central corona edged in red.

A single Poet’s daffodil (Narcissus poeticus) with elegant white recurved petals and a small yellow corona rimmed with red, set against a lush green background.

Lessons from the Grass: Camassia vs Allium

This spring, I planted a couple of Camassias into the grass. Only one survived — but it proved Monty Don’s point: "Alliums for the borders, Camassia for the grass."

A blooming Camassia with starry, pale cream flowers rising from lush, tall grass — a natural fit for a wild lawn setting.

Years ago, I planted drumstick alliums. They lasted a couple of years but were soon crowded out by the grass. Camassias, bigger and tougher, seem better suited to hold their own. I plan to plant more this autumn.

Summer’s Quiet Flourish

As the season moves on, the grass grows tall. It’s tempting to cut it back in July, but leaving it pays off.

Bird’s-foot Trefoil (Lotus corniculatus) is first to take hold. It’s a low-growing plant with bright yellow, pea-like flowers. Its seed pods resemble a bird’s foot, giving it its name.

A buff-tailed bumblebee feeding on vivid yellow Bird’s-foot Trefoil flowers, framed by lush green foliage — a pollinator favourite in summer meadows.

Threaded among the trefoil is Ragwort (Jacobaea vulgaris), often maligned but a lifeline for the Cinnabar moth.

A cluster of Cinnabar moth caterpillars with bold black and orange stripes feeding on a Ragwort plant — a vital part of the summer wildflower ecosystem.

What’s Looking Good Now

Astrantia 'Roma' blooming beneath the foliage of a chocolate elderberry — soft pink flowers glowing in the morning light, with dappled shade from noon onwards.

Astrantias are in full bloom. Astrantia 'Roma' loves its spot beneath the chocolate elderberry, catching direct morning sun and dappled afternoon shade.

A lush mix of Astrantia varieties growing along a fence line, their delicate pincushion blooms catching the late noon to evening sun.

Other varieties along the fence line are thriving in stronger noon-to-evening light.

Towering purple Allium 'Ambassador' blooms standing above feathery fennel foliage, adding height and drama to the back of the border.

The Allium 'Globemaster' are at their peak — towering high at the back of the border, defying the grey weather.

Rose Transplant Update

Close-up of dried, curled rose leaves tinged with red — signs of stress following transplanting.

The rose I transplanted is doing relatively okay. Some leaves have dried up — maybe root damage from the move, or maybe overwatering. I might spray with a foliar feed to help it along.

Reflections on Letting Go

This area encapsulates what I want in a garden: something always changing, something new every month. Never static. Always evolving.

I despise the mausoleum-garden: sterile, lifeless, cold. A garden without bees and insects is dead inside.

A view through rain-dappled fruit trees towards tall, uncut grass — the lush wildness barely touched by the heavy summer rain.

I love this kind of work — kneeling in the dirt in autumn, planting bulbs by hand, welts on my fingers — knowing the payoff will come six months later.

A lesson for life if ever there was one: work hard now, and the rewards will follow. The fruits will bear eventually.