Gazing down on my kitchen garden reminds me of one of my early books, a Ladybird edition of the ‘Rapunzel’ story. How I longed to have dead-straight long tresses like Rapunzel, instead of short tight springs. I’ve been ashamed of my curly hair for most of my life, I’m sure largely as a result of that book.
But the image of the witch’s garden is the one that prevails. Why is the industrious creator of such a beautiful garden a witch? And why on earth didn’t that wife get her hands dirty and grow some lettuces of her own? They’re so easy! And what was that weak husband thinking, promising his daughter’s future to the witch to satisfy his whinging wife’s greed?
All in all, it’s a terrible story to set as an example to young girls. But I still love that picture of the garden.
Some of the lettuces I’ve dotted amongst slow growing plants.