Return of the Weed

Amongst the deluge of derisory name-calling at school, I remember being labelled a "weed". I always took it to mean one of a feeble or weak-willed disposition. It's taken me forty years to think about it but that's a curious colloquialism. Perhaps it is the sense of worthlessness. Of course, it's difficult to believe it these days given such a manly countenance but I've filled out a lot since then. But perhaps those cruel boys (and girls for that matter) knew more than I did. Sure, they weren't referring to a thuggish nature of couch grass or the smothering tendency of chickweed, and definitely not the unbearable plainness of pineapple mayweed, but perhaps they saw a delicate beauty that stood out from the crowd. 

Back from a week in Orkney, amongst the waist-high mass of the usual suspects, I'll be finding space to save some of the uninvited interlopers that perhaps remind me of surviving against the odds amongst much tougher species. I would never pull up a heartsease...

while I'll overlook the odd campion, corn chamomile, corn marigold, mallow and common fumitory...

And in this weed sanctuary, I am even nurturing some introduced weeds.Somewhere amongst this sea of self-seeded phacelia are six young blueberry bushes. But it's such a popular buzz with the pollinators that I can't bring myself to remove it, even though the garden is littered with the stuff. Not sure where this sentimental streak appeared from.