My quince tree thrives – proof that nature can overcome adversity. I planted it, and I am a bad gardener. Childhood hours spent waiting for my mother to finish watching Gardeners’ World left me with fond memories of Percy Thrower, but in place of horticultural skill I inherited indolent incompetence.

Our garden did not seem so big when we moved from a flat a decade ago. But for most of the second half of the 20th century, the former occupant of our house had been a keen gardener. Carefully planted beds, it turns out, need care, which I have failed to provide.

Each spring I wage a blood feud with ground elder, to the point where I hallucinate its leaves. In summer I normally grow tomatoes and courgettes – this year has been the first exception, and my wife was silently and obviously ple

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