Self-seeders. Don't you love them? Perhaps you loath them. Perhaps a bit of both. Or: love some, hate others - depending on whether they are still "well behaved", at least manageable, or whether they have become a nuisance, an enemy to your garden plans. In my own small plot more than anything I'm fascinated by plants that self-seed. Because they keep popping up and thrive in places that seem anything but ideal, at least at first sight. A few days ago this was brought home again when I discovered a small but healthy aquilegia in flower - growing under a wooden chair, in a minute gap between two paving slabs of the patio. Not the textbook growing environment for aquilegias.

I mean, it was not just the tiny gap that surprised me - growing underneath that chair also meant it received even less of the little rain we had this spring. After mulling it over though, it didn't seem quite so odd a "choice". For starters, I guess there is some sort of soil or spoil underneath the paving slabs the plant can stretch its roots into and the slabs ensure it won't dry out quite so fast as open soil. So the minute gap actually is no more than a narrow door the roots had to pass through - and that should have been easy enough as they did so after germination when tiny and just starting to grow.

Secondly, while the position seemed to be "doubly shaded" - i.e. not just shade thrown by the nearby tree and table but also by the wooden seat acting like a  "roof" - I subsequently discovered that for a few hours in the afternoon the sun's lower rays did reach my little aquilegia. Thus, it was perfectly at home in semi-shade. And finally, I initially forgot how much water will reach it - not from above but from the run-off when I water the pots stood a metre away. Should be plenty for such a small plant with little competition nearby. So, whilst the tiny seed may not have been able to choose its surroundings, it certainly wasn't the worst it could encounter and it made the most of it.

I welcome self-seeders in my garden. Some of them at least. There are not just other aquilegias amongst the patio slabs, but feverfew (Tanacetum parthenium), peach-leaved bellflower (Campanula persicifolia), ox-eye daisies (Leucanthemum vulgare) and what looks like wild strawberries (Fragaria). Perhaps the latter are not truly "wild" strawberries but offspring of normal ones we grew a few years back which has reverted to a small, wild strawberry-like size. Either way, these strawberry plants have been with us for several years now, look as happy as punch, fruit until December and - since they are the only fruit we grow - are firm favourites of the entire family. I'm always surprised we are not beaten to the ripe red berries, but the resident blackbirds don't seem to be interested.

There is also Mind-your-own-business (Soleirolia soleirolii) in one corner which I regularly have to pull up by the fistful so it doesn't swallow the pots it grows around. I love its cheerful green, brittle shoots and delicate leaves. Though it can get out of hand, I'm still enamoured with it. I guess that's because I remember so well how I agonized over it back in the day when I could only keep it as an indoor plant, confined to a little pot. I fretted whenever it turned dead brown because I had been away or simply didn't notice early enough that it needed watering again. I managed to kill a fair few plants that way, so delight in how well Mind-your-own-business grows on my patio now. 

I'm less fond of my Agapanthus: they too self-seed everywhere and frankly have become a bit of a weed. I never would have thought this possible. I remember coveting these plants with their big showy blue or white globes of flowers as a child. In Germany you have to protect agapanthus during the winter - if you don't, they are unlikely to survive. So obviously, there is no problem: any unwanted seedling is killed off - if it gets as far as germination in the first place.

Now I have a few mature plants of my own, souvenirs from Madeira. They are of the A. africanus variety and much as I love them, I'm less fond of their self-seeding habit. From the word Go seedlings develop thick, fleshy roots that are near impossible to extract from between paving. Some of them I left, curious as to whether they'll reach flowering stage. I'm also curious whether they will flower one day in the shady spot underneath the tree, amongst the ivy - anything but ideal conditions for agapanthus, but so far the plant looks lush.

While curiosity has gotten the better of me in these cases, I'm ruthlessly destroying those seedlings elsewhere: they are bullies! They pop up in every pot in my garden and if I do not notice and wrestle them out immediately after germination, they will crowd out the treasures I originally planted in that pot. Much like a cuckoo chick pushing its stepsiblings out of the nest!

Obviously, there is an easy solution: cut of the flower heads as soon as they are spent. So far, I never could bring myself to do it - they look far too pretty to get rid of them. Especially in autumn and winter when they are dry: they have much the same ornamental effect as dried Allium 'Globemaster' heads, only bigger. Like a fireworks explosion without the colour. In recent years I've taken to ripping off the seed capsules only, as soon as they start opening: stopping the self-seeding whilst retaining at least a bit of that alluring plant structure. 

And then there are those amongst the gravel/pebbles near the front door. Valerian in shades from white to red (Centranthus ruber), Pelargonium 'Attar of Roses', Omphalodes cappadocica 'Cherry Ingram'  on top of others mentioned before. Gravel and pebbles seem a good growing medium - one only has to think of Beth Chatto's amazing Gravel Garden - and there is no shortage of run-off water.  The surprising thing here is the layer's depth - or lack of it: there is a mere inch or two (between 2 and 5 cm) of gravel and accumulated detritus - with solid concrete beneath! Yet they thrive, some of them better than those I planted in what I'd deem more favourable conditions. How is that?

Possibly the most poignant anecdote I have on phenomenon happened a few years ago. I'll best tell the whole story, so here goes: I love Cosmos bipinnatus. I adore them. But for some reason this love isn't mutual. As there is no open ground in my garden that a seedling requiring sun could develop in, I've sown seeds in a big window box. Maybe they were too old, maybe I didn't look after them well enough (I'm prone to either overwatering or letting the soil dry out too much before seedlings appear) but very few germinated. The slugs and snail then set about them until only two survived. Those grew reasonably well if slowly but for reasons I still don't understand didn't produce any buds! Imagine: Cosmos, the very definition of easy floriferous annuals not setting bud! Eventually they did: two buds in late November, which opened to miserable December rain...

Next year, I didn't take chances. Rather than try the whole germinating-and-raising-seedlings business again (the window box already being occupied by other plants anyway) I went for a flowering plant in a pot. Of course I know you shouldn't buy annuals at such a mature stage, they are not likely to respond well to transplanting. Whilst you probably won't kill them, they are unlikely to settle in well enough to keep growing as a young plant would. However, I had missed the time to buy the latter, none being on offer where I passed by. Besides, this Cosmos' flowers were such an intense colour that I simply couldn't resist.

Of course, it went as was to be expected: despite my best efforts and tender loving care after planting it into a huge pot, it sulked and dwindled. The first two weeks were okay-ish. Then it became apparent that not only had the plant stopped growing but also its flowers decreased in size. Then it stopped producing new buds. Those that existed already had a hard time opening. Finally, it was finished off by a massive attack of blackfly that didn't seem a problem to any other plant in the garden. Or rather: no other plant was attacked to that extent.

The story had a third chapter though: Those miserable December flowers growing on the window box plant somehow had managed to produce seed. Maybe a shivering, semi-starved bumblebee had visited them. And somehow, a seed had found its way into the children's sandpit. With a playground redevelopment in our local park had come a big sandpit there, so the tiny one in our garden no longer saw much action. I'm sure you can guess where this narrative is heading. And yes, that Cosmos seed not only germinated but happily grew and flourished in the sand, eventually growing to more than a metre tall and producing dozens of blooms. In one way it was nice, of course. In another way it was maddening: as if nature wanted to stick two fingers up to me...

It was one of those unexpected pleasures where you hope for something nice and then everything turns out even better: at the weekend we went to Yockletts Bank. We'd heard about it years ago when visiting another nature reserve in Kent to admire cowslips and orchids and fellow visitors recommended it to us. Two days ago, wanting to get out of London but not really sure where to, we suddenly remembered. But was it orchid time? We weren't sure: memory suggested it was too late for some and too early for others. So we googled Yockletts and, lo and behold, main visiting time the website said was April and May. Off we went...

The road bisects the nature reserve and, having parked near Yockletts Farm and walked back to the reserve's entrance, we chose the site to the left first. Which was probably a good thing as we found many more orchids in this smaller area than we did later on the other side of the road. Indeed, we had just walked a few metres when an elderly gentleman drew our attention to the first specimens. I'm truly glad he did, because quite possibly we would have walked past many of them before noticing the first!

You see, we love plants - including native orchids, of course - but we are not orchid aficionados. We do not have specialist knowledge and - quite frankly - in the case of Twayblade (Listera ovata or Neottia ovata) didn't even know what to look out for. If  you haven't seen them before, these orchids with their small green flowers are easy to miss amongst other greenery - especially since they only just started to come into flower. At a very casual glance, they reminded me of broadleaf plantain (Plantago major). But once we'd seen them, we spotted them literally everywhere. There must have been hundreds if not thousands of them.

Very soon, we found other orchids, too. Apparently, Yockletts is one of the best places in the UK to see the Lady orchid (Orchis purpurea). They grew in the shade of the wood as well as on grassland, where they mingled picturesquely with cowslips (Primula veris). We even found the rare white form.

The Early Purple Orchid (Orchis mascula) grew mainly in the wooded parts amongst the bluebells (Hyacinthoides non-scripta) - a colour effect which, to my eyes at least, jarred horribly! I consoled myself with the lovely patches of wild garlic (Allium ursinum) in full flower, one of my favourites at this time of year. If it hadn't been a nature reserve, I'd have picked a huge bunch - for the vase as well as for the kitchen. How I wish I had a good-sized patch somewhere at hand locally...

Our favourite find, however, had to be the Fly orchid (Ophrys insectifera)! Like the Twayblade, they were only just starting to come into flower. And as they are so slender and inconspicuous, they are even easier to miss. Since they often grow right next to the path, you have to be extremely careful (which I'm please to say we were) not to tread on them. Close up, though, they are nothing short of a marvel! And marvel I did. We even started to compete who'd find the next one - and who would find the one with most flowers open.