This morning Bruno and I took our seccateurs for a little walk.
We are currently staying out at the beach, and the country road sides are full of flowering grasses and self-seeded agapanthus, pohutukawa, wild cow parsley and fennel. To my eyes, the metre tall cow parsley is forager’s heaven. I can literally gather armsful and make not one jot of difference to the landscape.
But, here is where that old adage that beauty is in the eye of the beholder couldn’t be more apt.
As I am happily picking sprays of cow parsley, my mind already picturing them looking all blousey and floaty and beautiful and ‘gah’ in my old jar or enamel bucket on the table back at the bach, several people stop to ask what I am doing.
Don’t worry, they weren’t the foraging police, as in ‘we must put a halt to all that foraging’! It was more in a ‘why on earth is she picking all those weeds’ kind of way.
Sometimes you see something so frequently that you cease to really see it, even when its beauty is right in front of you.
Take these lovely almost ethereal flowers away from the dirt and dust of the roadside, and put them into a whole new context in a vase, and you begin to notice how beautiful they really are.
One person’s weed is another’s wild flower. (Or as my nieces call them, fairy table flowers.)
(photos & styling Amanda Holland for perfectly imperfect living)