One of the elderly brothers waves a proprietorial slim and once elegant hand into the distance. 'It's a natural garden now of course' he says, his voice a faded treble.
We nod. Of course it is. That much is obvious. Cowslips - such kind sweet flowers - have taken hold in cobbles 3 paces from the back step; a gooseberry hunkers down against the wash-house wall. Briars whip the unwary. Sappy diamond-dewed grass is ankle high. Everywhere Arums, Aquilegia, Forget-me-not and a jewel box of primulas jostle beneath a canopy of apple, pear and prunus blossom. There's a horticultural riot taking place. Today we were blessed with a blue skies too.
This garden opens only once a year - to raise money for the parish church I believe. I have been here twice before and each time been moved by its fragile beauty. Speedwell, dandelion and stinging nettle, goose grass and cow parsley - how I love you all in your fresh spring finery amongst those promiscuous primulas and hellebores. Such is its wild perfection that I wish it were mine to keep and preserve. I want, I want, I want.I envy the visiting childrens' bold footsteps as they zoom and shriek around what might have been an orchard - I hardly know where to step through a carpet of flowers. I try not to leave footsteps. I take only photographs.