The World Is a Garden You Made

“The world is a garden you made, and you are the one who planted the seeds.”

Gardens are a matter of perspective.

I remind myself of this as I watch my nephews race across my allotment, sometimes trampling the plants I’ve tended with care. For them, the allotment is an ecosystem—an exciting maze of hidden paths and edible treasures. They run, explore, and gleefully pick beans and peas that are ready to eat.

“Don’t run past that path—it’s not mine,” I find myself saying sharply. “Don’t stand on that plant!”

But then I catch myself. I remember: gardens are about perception.

So I try to gently explain to them my version of an allotment.
“This courgette here—if we leave it, it’ll bear fruit by autumn. You’ll be able to pick it then. Let’s try not to step on it.”

Because my garden isn’t a military parade of rows and chemical perfection.

It’s a patchwork of symbiotic relationships.
I don’t spray chemicals or use fertilisers. I create space—for birds, frogs, worms, and slow-worms—to help keep things balanced.

Sure, the birds nibble a few kale leaves—but they also help with the slugs that attack my runner beans. I let a little bindweed grow; it fixes nitrogen in the soil. Dandelions bring colour to my salads and nutrition for my friend’s rabbit. Roses, when floated in a bowl of water, release scent. Dahlias, gladioli, feverfew, tulips, daffodils—each one contributes to a living bouquet across the seasons.

It’s not about control. It’s about harmony.

Most of my life, I’ve tried to fit into systems someone else designed—systems with rules, boxes, and borders drawn on maps. But here, in this space of my own making, I do things differently. This is not just gardening. It’s expression. It’s resistance. It’s freedom.

That’s why my song Tarka begins with the line:

“I’m gonna ride my bicycle on the Tarka trail.”

This is my garden. This is my life. And I’ve decided it will grow wild, true, and on my terms.