This morning my camera and I wandered out to the garden but it's not really my garden at all. The Jasmine ... okay, I carried that home from the Amsterdam Flower Market one year, on the train, traveling with my favourite Australian, Clare.
And I pushed for the lavender plants and the honeysuckle too, bought one of the raspberry canes, and asked if we might have a fern. I was rapt when Gert's parents gave him a part of their rhubarb plant ... while wishing I could have had a slice from the root of the mythical rhubarb plant back home in New Zealand.
Nana and Grandad grew the best rhubarb in the world, or that's how we told it. Mum and Dad were given a section with roots and voila, we had some of that Invercargill perfection growing out back in our Mosgiel garden.
But I'm more of an admirer of gardens ... as opposed to being an actual gardener. My mother would have told you that I was a bit of a lazy wench when it came to gardening. I preferred reading or walking my dog, or just simply watching. I should have been ashamed, as I come from a long line of hardworking, dedicated gardeners but I wasn't.
Then I met Gert, who didn't garden but does now ... just like the New Zealanders I grew up around and so our garden is all thanks to him. The big fat toads living out there simply amuse him. He brushes off spiders, and goes into battle with the Ivy when it threatens to overwhelm all.
He BBQ's too, and this time I don't have a dog to get rid of the evidence about totally not being a Kiwi when it comes to BBQ food.
So these photographs taken by me mostly capture the result of his hard work and dedication ...
It was a Sunday morning impulse to attempt to capture a sense of how this beautiful day is playing out in our tiny pocket-sized Belgian garden.