in praise of municipal dahlias

This the very best time of year for my lovely local park. It's open till 9pm, so if I'm working at the right end of town, I can cut across it on the way home. It's full of people on lazy evening walks, playing in the playgrounds, hanging out by the bandstand or on the grass or the benches under the grand old poplars and copper beeches.

In common with many parks nowadays, the planting is not as dense and intense as it once was. Some of the beds are left unplanted, others have been declared wildflower meadow, and grow chaotic discs of Ragged Robin, Oxeye Daisy and Cornflower.

But right by the old grand entrance, long curvy formal beds persist, punctuated by tidily clipped yew and box; and that's where the fireworks happen.





These miniature dahlias in dashing sorbet colours were buzzing with late bees and hoverflies in the dim of the evening. I struggle to grown dahlias in my garden (slugs strip them right down in about two weeks) so it's good to have some I can go and visit.