The Devil in the Border: Three Weeds and a Theory

Satan Has Five Leaflets: A Confession of War with Creeping Cinquefoil

"The world needs a proper exposé on this insidious root-splitting, soul-fraying, photosynthesizing bastard." — ChatGPT

A photo of cinquefoil popping up through a mulch-covered border, surrounded by soft loose soil and partially shaded.

I hate this plant. It is literally the devil — that’s what I call it when I talk about it to others. Every time I create a new bed or dig a hole, somehow this bloody plant pops up. It only takes the tiniest piece of root left in the soil, and suddenly it snakes its way through your pristine border, thumbing its nose at you in full chlorophyll smugness.

In my newest border — the long border — I’ve been keeping watch for the evil bastard. It popped up two weeks ago. I could’ve removed it then, but instead, I punished it: I laid a stone slab directly over it. As both warning and weakening.

This week, I noticed it sprouting around the stone — undeterred, defiant — so I decided it was time. In loose, fresh soil, it’s simple enough to extract. I start by brushing back the mulch — which the plant treats like soil — making it easier to get a clean grip on the roots.

A woody, long root freshly dug from loose soil — still intact — showing the creeping structure of cinquefoil.

My technique for removing it is simple: grab at the base, then push the hand fork into the soil a few inches away. I lift the soil while gently pulling the root. When it resists, I stop, re-fork deeper, and repeat. If you yank too hard, you’ll snap the root — and that snapped piece will come back with a vengeance. There’s a real technique to getting this bastard out intact.

You see that little yellow flower? It’s deceptive — a cheerful, buttercup-like bloom peeking out from a mass of foliage. But don’t be fooled. This is tormentil, or as I’ve come to call it: Satan’s Groundcover.

A close-up of the cinquefoil plant in flower, showing its distinctive five-petaled yellow bloom and spreading foliage, growing between stone paving and grass.

I’ve been battling this plant for years now. It thrives in the cracks between paving, and once it gets hold, you’re done. The real trick isn’t in identifying it — it’s in removing it properly.

I have a small bed next to the driveway wall with a large topiary shrub. I lifted the skirt on the shrub due to brambles, expanded the bed slightly, and planted an aggressive lamium cultivar — ‘Silver Beacon’ — as underplanting.

Today? The entire area is overrun with Satan.

I’ve given up. It’s been that way for two years now. One day, I’ll remove the wall and fill the whole area with concrete. Whoever wins, wins.

The Chocolate Shamrock

Not all weeds are evil.

Let’s define it: a weed is a plant growing where you don’t want it. Otherwise, it’s a wildflower. A guest. A charming inconvenience.

One little plant that appears in my containers is Oxalis corniculata — a stunner, in my opinion. Its foliage looks like melted chocolate, spilling out from the pot. I'd let it grow anywhere, but strangely, it only ever appears in containers.

Deep reddish-brown, clover-like foliage cascading from a container — soft and dense against pale stone.

Its tiny dainty yellow flowers are especially precious. They rise from the leaves for just a moment — sometimes lasting only hours — delicate and fleeting. If you blink, they’re gone.

A macro photo of a yellow Oxalis flower, its petals just opening, with a tiny fly perched on the bloom.

The Dastardly Pimpernel

It’s always there.
In the gravel, in the cracks, weaving silently through the edges.

Scarlet pimpernel. The ultimate tease.

A tiny scarlet pimpernel flower, backlit with sunlight.

It’s not perennial. But it’s always present. Like a rumour. Like a recurring itch.

And it’s got a reputation. Not just in the garden — in literature.

It was a character first. A mystery man. A rescuer.
The Scarlet Pimpernel.
That gallant saboteur who slipped past guillotines and mobs in revolutionary France, rescuing doomed aristocrats with nothing but cunning and disguise. He always vanished without a trace. Left only his calling card.

I used to think the Baroness Orczy created him whole-cloth. But now?

Now I think the Baroness was a gardener. Or at least, she knew one.

A friend, maybe — always complaining about that damned weed.
About how it vanished before it could be plucked.
About how no matter how clean the bed looked, it would reappear, smug and untouched.
How even the barest root, the faintest fleck, would spawn a new plant, red and glowing like a tiny sun.

I think the Baroness listened.

And the plant became a character.

Maybe the weed was always there, bothering her in someone else’s bed. A lover’s bed. A rival’s. Maybe it stood in for something else — a man who wouldn’t stay, a secret too bright to bury. The Pimpernel could vanish into crowds. The plant could vanish into gravel. The resemblance is poetic.

Maybe she hated the plant.
Or maybe she loved it — for what it refused to give.

And here it is still:
Smiling in the sun. Impossible to pin down.
Winking from under the skirts of my euphorbia like a rumour nobody can kill.

Dahlia Dispatches

All the dahlias in containers are now flowering.

A Bishop of Dover dahlia in early flower with unusual bluish tints in the petals, captured in soft light.

One ‘Bishop of Dover’ always has an odd flush of colour in its first blooms — bluish, almost stained. After that, it returns to its expected crisp white. The others don’t do this. Just this one. I’ve watched it for years.

Then there’s a moment of fasciation — when two flowers fuse, growing side by side on the same stem. A kind of floral mutation. Startling. A bit obscene. Beautiful.

Dahlia exhibiting fasciation — two blooms emerging from a single fused stem.

The only dahlia in the ground that’s begun flowering is Dahlia mignon ‘Sunshine’. It’s one of my favourites. The yellow and red flowers, contrasted with black foliage, glow in low light — particularly striking in the evenings.

A yellow-red Dahlia mignon blossom just starting to open, petals still curled, caught in full sun.

 Big favourite of the pollinators. You can hear them before you see them.

Pruning the Catmints

Around mid to late June, I begin cutting back the catmints. In a few short weeks, they’ll be back in full flower, swarmed by pollinators once again.

Cat mid-rub, rolling euphorically in a pile of freshly trimmed catmint leaves.

The cat loves it. I’ll be pruning, and he’ll dive into the trug — face-first into the leaves. He gets this glazed look, paws twitching. Why do cats love catmint? Nepetalactone — a compound that triggers receptors in their brain. They lose their minds for it. Not all cats are affected, but the ones who are, really are.

I prune each catmint depending on its light cycle. One of them — the one I cut today — gets winter light, full spring sun, and brutal summer light. So it flowers earlier than the others. I cut back hard, but not with shears — I prune with care. I cut to the base or just above the new flower heads. It’s tedious. It’s worth it.

A freshly pruned catmint plant with exposed soil, trimmed back to tight foliage just above new flower buds.

Afterwards, I feed it.

5L watering can. Seaweed fertilizer. It’s gentle. It feeds both roots and leaves — no scorching. Pour it right over the plant. A foliar baptism.

Let the rain wait.
I’ve already called revival.