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...

I've been through a rollercoaster of emotions lately, and that's aside from political events. This is how it started:

"I'm in mourning. For a tree, to be precise. It wasn't a very special tree, just an ordinary sycamore (Acer pseudoplatanus). But it had a well-grown, rounded shape and, what's more, was one of the very few trees in our street. Until yesterday about lunchtime, it grew in our next-door neighbour's garden - in the furthest corner, spreading its crown equally over her plot, the adjoining carpark and the pavement in front of our block of flats. It was in rude health when I last saw it alive. Now there's nothing but a pile of logs."

I felt uneasy as soon as I saw - from a long way off on my way home - the warning sign "tree works" on the pavement outside our block. The first thing I noticed was people chopping down a Campsis radicans in the garden next-door that previous owners had planted and which had managed to climb up to the third-floor windows. Then I saw that the huge, rampant ivy on the boundary wall with the street had not just been cut back hard as often before but this time was completely gone. Oh God, the birds had lost their home!

Finally, I clocked the emptiness above the corner and realized the tree had gone, too. I guess I didn't immediately notice as it had been bare at this time of year and less prominent visually than the dark-green mass of ivy. But once aware, the emptiness was glaring. I approached its butchers and asked why they'd cut it down. Oh, because the owner had asked them to.

Well, yes, I would have guessed so. But why? - Don't know. Probably threw too much shade. - Nonsense. There would have been some shade in the morning, but probably not even reaching her window, then shade just underneath it (i.e. in the outermost corner of the plot) around lunchtime and after that the shade would be cast on the carpark. So certainly she couldn't claim there was not enough light because of the tree. The men were getting slightly annoyed.  Of course, they were just mercenaries, paid to do a job.

            Could we have saved it? Should urban trees not merit better protection?

I asked whether we as neighbours could have done anything if we'd known in advance or whether the tree would not have been protected in some way. Nope, no such status. And true, its trunk was only 25 - 30 cm across. But still: Surely every tree is precious and should be protected in an inner-city environment, at least to the extent that people cannot simply cut them down on a whim?

Yes, I'll admit, I belong to that irrational species of "Northern tree-huggers". I love trees for what they are and for what they offer us. And not just on a quantifiable level. But even so, I would probably have felt less shocked and dismayed if the neighbour in question was a keen gardener who simply wanted something more appealing, or more light and less root pressure for her plants underneath the tree. But no - she isn't. Not at all.  Which makes it feel like a deliberate act of vandalism. And an incomprehensible one to boost: her plot, devoid of its major plant life, looks like a prison yard now!

The children were furious, too. And sad. So where other neighbours in our block of flats. Next morning, an "internal" email went round, saying exactly that and asking whether it would ever make a "comeback" of sorts. This was quickly followed by similar messages, also highlighting the speed with which it went, i.e. that there was no warning, no talk of it or anything beforehand. Being rather impulsive and passionate, I was immensely proud of myself for not pressing the send-button on mine which simply read "Why would anyone want a well-grown tree in a sea of concrete? Or birds nesting in ivy, for that matter?"

As is probably obvious, our next-door neighbour isn't a particular friend of ours - nor of the rest of the block. An American lady in, I'd guess, her Forties, she never really talks to anyone and I guess we can count ourselves lucky that she replies with a nod to our "Hallo" if we happen to cross paths in the hallway. While I absolutely respect people's right to privacy - I'm a big fan of it myself - I still think it odd that she never once introduced herself on moving in a couple of years ago. Surely it isn't too much to expect a "Hi, I'm XY, your new neighbour" when you see someone unlocking the door next to yours??

Anyway, I digress. I didn't press Send because I didn't want relations to sour even more, after all we'd continue living wall to wall. Also, I'm still slightly ashamed of how I once went at the other next-door neighbour a few years ago when they had hacked back their garden (no gardeners either, them) and - as it later transpired: unknowingly - cut one of the "main artery" of our Parthenocissus.  It resulted in the death of half the plant, the bit that had swung itself up from the fence and onto the wall, reaching up to the second floor and doing its best to cover the children's bedroom window with a veil of vines and leaves and lots of insect visitors for them to observe. So, mindful of my temper, I managed to hold back for once.

Many hours later this seemed a wise move when Madame Tree-slayer sent a brief email in reply to grieving neighbours. It said "Hi guys, sorry for the lack of warning. The tree was just growing too fast and getting too big.  I will be replacing it with an apple tree (ideally this winter), though because it is a north facing exposure, it will be a cooking apple.  I'm also aiming to plant another tree in the corner...I was also thinking of a pear tree, but was also worried about the pollination issue!  If anyone has a green thumb and wants to offer advice, I'm all ears!"

Although the "cooking apple" seemed a rebuff to someone who'd written earlier she once mentioned wanting to plant an apple tree and jokingly suggested "anything that falls in the car park is fair game!", I was prepared to give her the benefit of the doubt. In the light of the Trump-inauguration (and her being American) I even was reminded of the quote that is often ascribed to Martin Luther who - 500 years ago this year -  nailed his ecclesial theses to the door of the Castle Church in Wittenberg: "If I knew the world was to end tomorrow, I'd plant an apple tree today."

                Plant a crab apple to secure pollination and a long season of interest

Therefore I now wrote in to recommend "a crab apple instead of a pear tree which flowers at roughly the same time as your apple tree (a good nursery/ provider should be able to advise on which ones do). They are good for pollinating and, apart from the blossom, will provide you with crab apples that can either be turned into jellies etc. and/ or left for the birds and offer 'ornamental value' in autumn. Check for mature heights of the varieties (i.e. in ten years' time) if this could become an issue for you.

If you want a pear tree, I've found the advice below [> link] - though again I'd ask the supplier which varieties are likely to do well here in London and opt for two pears rather than apple and pear. Finally, as we have heavy London clay here (despite it probably having been improved by previous owners), make sure you don't plant when the ground is sodden but wait for when it has been dry for a few days and incorporate plenty of stuff to break up the clay/ lighten the soil. You'll find more advice on this here:
[> link to RHS page]. Good luck!"

I've never had so much as an acknowledgement of my email.

Which seems to prove my initial feeling: the tree simply annoyed her - and she only reluctantly responded to neighbours because the issue had created such a stir. And no, my opinion of her hasn't changed for the better. The saddest thing though, of course, is the tree that's gone. No matter if she will plant that apple tree or not: there'll be a void for a long time because she sure isn't going to plant a mature tree.

There is a song called Mein Freund, der Baum [My friend, the tree] by German singer Alexandra, who despite her untimely death at 27 more than 45 years ago is still known and loved. I'll translate this song here: the sycamore I wrote about in this post may not have the same sentimental value to me as the tree in the lyrics, but the sentiment nonetheless fits perfectly well.

My Friend, the Tree
(For listening to Alexandra's original version on youtube, click here.)

I've long meant to see you again
My dear old friend from childhood days.
I've had so much to tell you
And knew you'd understand.

Already as a small girl
I'd come to you with all the worries of a child.
I felt secure with you
And all sorrows would disappear.

When I wept in your arms
With your green leaves
You'd caress my hair
My dear old friend.

My friend the tree is dead -
He fell at early morning's red.

You fell early today
I was too late.
You'll never sway in the breeze again
You have to lie slain by the wayside

And some of those walking past
Have no respect for the remnants of life
And tear at your green boughs
Which, dying, bend down towards the ground.

Who will now give me the calm
I found in your shadow?
My best friend is lost to me
Who had linked me with my childhood.

My friend the tree is dead -
He fell at early morning's red.

Soon a house made of glass and stone
Will grow where he was chopped down.
Soon grey walls will grow
Where he still lies in the sunshine now.

Perhaps there'll be a miracle
I secretly will wait for one.
Perhaps in front of the house a garden will bloom
And he'll arise to a new life.

But he'll be weak and small still then
And even if many years go by:
He'll never be the same again.

My friend the tree is dead -
He fell at early morning's red.