When I wrote about Trachelospermum the other week, it made me think of other fragrances. What are the smells of summer in a garden if they are not roses - or Trachelospermum, for that matter? I can think of many, of course, and so will you. Freshly mown grass. Elderflowers. Honeysuckle. The smell of wet soil and refreshed plants after a good rain on a warm day. Lime blossom. Lavender. Pinks. All sorts of herbs: thyme, oregano, rosemary, basil. Tomato leaves. Strawberries, Raspberries, Blackberries, Blackcurrants. Sun-kissed apricots perhaps. Lilies, phloxes, evening primroses. The list seems endless and is very much subjective: determined not only by which part of the planet you live on and what you grow, but just as much by what you like and your memories.

Apparently, scent bypasses the rational part of your brain and goes straight to the subconscious. There it stirs up emotions and conjures up memories linked to this smell. If you spent your childhood summer holidays at grandparents, say, and they perhaps grew lots of scented phloxes, chances are a whiff of these flowers will send your mind back to those days spent at granny's. You can't help it, it just happens. For me, mock orange - Philadelphus, in German also called "peasant's jasmine for it's strong summery fragrance - always turns me into a little girl again: crouching under a big shrub in full flower next to a Seventies apartment block, drunk on the smell and happy no-one spotted me in my secret hide-out.

Surprisingly, there are also really strong fragrances that prove totally elusive. Take the yellow deciduous azaleas, for instance. You tend to smell them before you see them - and that's despite their glowing flowers which often will cover the entire plant. When the scent hits me, for a fraction of a second there is some memory that feels like long long ago. But what memory? Try as I may I can't grasp it! Before I can remember what it reminds me of, it's gone. I have tried so often but this smell is truly in my subconscious only. The closest I've come is to guess it has something to do with early childhood holidays.

There weren't many azaleas around where I grew up. But until I started school my family, in late May or June, used to stay in the holiday-home of an old, widely travelled natural scientist. My parents would tell me how he once had been invited to meet the Emperor of Japan and other stories that fired my imagination. And in his garden there were exotic plants we couldn't normally get hold of in East Germany. From slide images my dad took I know there were yellow azaleas, too. So I suppose my ungraspable flashbacks have something to do with these holidays. But what exactly?

I may never find out. The whole quest (I haven't given up yet!) very much reminds me of the novella "Iris" by Hermann Hesse. There, the hero as a little boy would gaze fascinatedly into the blooms of bearded irises and imagine himself to wander into the flower - a magic kingdom opening up. When he grows older, he forgets about it and wouldn't care about such childish things anyway: he is a learned and highly regarded scholar now. But then he falls in love with a colleague's sister, Iris. To his surprise, she refuses to marry him. In essence, she rejects his proposal because he is such a sober, dispassionate soul whilst she is very pensive, sensitive and imaginative.

Eventually though, she sets him a task: when they first met, he had told her that her name reminded him of something but he didn't remember what it was. If she was ever to accept his hand in marriage, she says, he must first find out what it was that her name reminded him of. And so he goes on a quest, his personality changing entirely in the process. A while later Iris dies of some illness but encourages him to continue searching because, as she points out, he will know by now that it is about far more than just gaining her love. Finally, as an old man, he finds his magic kingdom of childhood days again and - whilst his body is dying - wanders happily into it once more.

Back to the real world. In my garden, there is no lawn, no berries, no evening primrose and certainly no lime tree - but I do have pinks, a straggly old lavender, a white phlox and several assorted lilies. The regal lilies (Lilium regale) do best, multiplying and coming up stronger year after year in the beds. Their fragrance is most intoxicating in the evening and I absolutely love it. But if pressed, I still prefer that of the one Madonna lily (Lilium candidum) I have, growing in a pot. Or perhaps the more subtle scent of the Easter lily (Lilium longiflorum)? The shape of its flowers resembles that of the regal lily, but the whole plant has a more elegant appearance. In my garden it has proved hardy but I wouldn't bank on it. Lilium longiflorum by the way looks very pretty together with my summer staple, "RHS Plant of the Century" Geranium Rozanne ('Gerwat'). 

The Nicotinias fell prey to slugs and snails, but there is another noticeable fragrance in my garden right now - that of Gardenia 'Kleim's Hardy'. As heady as Gardenia jasminoides which you'd buy for indoors or conservatories, but has been happy in a pot outdoors all year round with me for several years now. It is evergreen, safe that period in late spring when I always think I've killed it because all of a sudden its leaves turn yellow and drop off. It's the one standing on our table outside since it looks great all year round and now I have its perfume straight in my nose.

Not a summer addition in our climes but one I can't wait to smell again is Frangipani. And hopefully, after almost a decade, I will be able to do so soon - we're off on holiday! Naturally, I'm all excited by the prospect - not least because of the frangipani. So have a lovely few weeks and see you back here after the holidays!

Zizizizizi... Here we go again: blackbird chicks are chirping and chatting in our garden. I could watch them for hours and have to drag myself away as I have work to do. That's the beauty of having a small garden which can be overlooked in its entirety from the upstairs window: You very quickly spot the birds and then just follow their movements - dipping in and out of pots or amongst them, then on to a vine or fence, into a bed, hopping between plants, disappearing amongst the foliage. You still know where they are though since you can tell which flowers and leaves rustle and sway more than the breeze would allow for. Admittedly, this was easier in May with the first brood, when the plants weren't so tall yet.

On the terrace there is a small bowl that years ago I misguidedly bought at a discounter. It was billed as a "patio pond" and came complete with soil and four plants, a water lily amongst them. To this day the lily has never flowered but I can't blame it: the bowl is no more than 40 cm in diameter and the water no more than an inch or two deep. Moreover, as I do not top up every single day, the water level fluctuates heavily. To my immense surprise though, the water lily still survives, along with one other plant in there.

                           A pond the size of a dog's water bowl will still be a pond

But water lilies aren't the point of our "pond" as we still call it - only half aware of the inherent joke and delusion. Because, it still supports wildlife: bees, bumble bees, hoover flies, astonishing numbers of turquoise damselflies, and just as I write an enormous blue and green emperor dragonfly. But most obviously the birds love it: often it probably is the only puddle around nearby. Blue and great tits regularly come for a sip and a bath and so do our resident blackbirds.

The entire family routine is displayed before your eyes: Dad, Mum and the two chicks. Most of the day they seem to spend in our garden and very happily so. Little surprise there - it seems to be the most densely planted place on our street: a mad jumble of plants, far too congested but therefore with good protection and plenty of food for them. And in a dry spell I even might water the beds (as opposed to only the pots) just so the earthworms come up.

It always surprises me that the chicks, on leaving the nest, are almost as big as the adult birds already. But the little blackbirds are more speckled and scruffy and have much shorter tail feathers. Also, and rather funnily, they have a few very thin, fluffy white-ish feathers sticking out from their head - almost like a monk's tonsure or a long-eared owl. It makes them oddly look like their own grandpa!

When mum or dad comes, they scramble or flutter towards them, opening their beaks as wide as will go. Once they have been fed, they will hop after their parent, begging for more until the old bird simply flies off. Unlike human children though, who seem unable to be still for one second once they have learned how to crawl, the chicks happily sit motionless for long periods in the same spot - just waiting, contemplating perhaps, and surely taking in all the sounds and sights. Then a parent appears and the circle starts anew.

You learn to decipher their calls: A subdued "ziiiiii - ziiiiii" probably not just sounds like "Feeeed me!". When no adult bird is nearby, you'll often still hear a "Chirr. - Chirr. - Chirr.", very quietly. I guess the chick is either talking to itself as encouragement (It might be a bit scary, all alone, sitting on a branch or in some corner with your parents God knows where, only returning every now and then to stuff a caterpillar down your throat!) or seems to remind the world: "Here I am. Don't forget I'm still here."

We don't use the garden all that much at the moment but leave it to the blackbirds until the chicks are confident flyers, so to speak. The garden is so small - the children can't run around or play ball in it anyway, they'll do this in the park or elsewhere. Leaving the door open is no problem at all and if we stay and move around quietly it's no problem either. If I see the birds and they keep a watchful eye on me, I often will talk to them in a quiet soothing voice, hoping the tone will make them feel more secure and make them realize no harm will come from us.

Daddy blackbird certainly seems to have understood this. Sometimes it's almost as if he wants me to see him going about his business. When I'm sitting outside with my laptop he might even land a metre away from me, beak teaming with worms, as if to check "Hi, how are you? See how many worms I found?" - and will wait until I look up. With the chicks, I have to be careful though - they only flutter off when you inadvertently come too close. Like, pulling up a weed less then a metre away from them. Otherwise they just duck, stay silent and don't move. I worry I might accidentally splash them when watering with the hose. Last year I nearly trod on one! We both got a fright.

                            Guarding blackbird chicks can be a tiring job

Apart from happiness, I almost feel gratitude towards them for their trust and presence, for making their home here in this tiny, inner city plot. Usually, the old blackbird couple builds their nest in our neighbour's overgrown ivy wall. But since there is not much else there for them, they come to us for the rest of the day. The nest in the ivy wall is a constant drama as foxes and cats were soon on the trail. Several times we despaired of the "stupid" birds, seemingly unable to learn from their mistakes. Many a time there was the heartbreak to find the predators had managed to jump up high enough (or "fish" from the top of the wall) to get to either eggs or chicks. Most times we were alerted by the frenetically calling parents in the early morning hours: Tscheptscheptscheptscheptscheptscheptschep!

Last summer, my man woke to find a cat playing with one of the chicks. As shouting from the window didn't stop it, he ran out in his pyjamas, stood on a chair (to look over the fence) and shooed the beast from the neighbouring garden but it was too late. Now, being a frighteningly light sleeper, he wakes pretty much every night if a fox or cat is balancing along the boundaries. I wonder whether the blackbirds note this and appreciate the human guard? The current brood is even more special - it's the first that actually hatched in our garden.

After the old couple had reared this year's first brood, their nest, complete with new eggs, was torn down by a fox. When they started to rebuild it in pretty much the same spot, our neighbour intervened (intentionally? no idea) and cut back the ivy. So they came to our garden and for the first time our bird box came in useful. We had put it up a few years ago but to our dismay it was never occupied by tits or robins or wrens (we had tried different front entrances...). So now the blackbirds. They didn't, however, build their nest in the box, but on its roof! It was well covered by parthenocissus leaves though.  

With time though, I became concerned: was there something wrong? Were there no eggs or chicks after all? Peering through the leaves I could see neither a parent sitting on the nest, nor a chick, nor did I hear tiny chirps. Also, though I did see the adults occasionally arriving with food, it seemed considerably less 
frequent than when they had been feeding their chicks in the neighbour's garden. But then, just ten days ago, I could suddenly make out two little heads between the leaves. Hooray! All was well. Good children, by the way - they put their beaks almost vertically in the air and kept very still and quiet. It was exactly what their mother had done when I once accidentally stood less than a metre away from her sitting on the nest. (I had totally forgotten about it and was watering, hose in hand, when I suddenly remembered, then - without moving - peered and spotted her.) 

I noticed with previous generations that, as soon as they could flutter, the parents took their young away from the nest, moving around, hiding elsewhere. Probably so that cats and foxes had no reliable spot where to find them. So now these two chicks have left their nest, too. Somehow, I almost feel a motherly pride myself for those little blackbirds raised in our garden. Long may they escape foxes, cats, magpies or whatever else there may be lurking.