Prologue: The Broken Border

Every garden has its secret shame. Here, it was the back border — the stretch beneath the old stone wall that separates us from the local primary school. A wilderness, really. Brambles. A compost heap verging on sentience. Turf stacked like a geological layer. Even a football. Watching me. Always watching.

Continue reading “MY NAME IS RED: DESIGNING A GARDEN BORDER AS LIVING NARRATIVE” →