t is half a century since I ran up the path to my father’s greenhouse to tell him that the seeds I had planted in my thin strip of garden were peeping through. I can no longer remember if it was the calendula, cosmos or candytuft (my pocket money obviously hadn’t got me very far through the seed catalogue), but I still remember the excitement with which those shoots were greeted. To be honest, it is no different now: the excitement – no, the amazement – that a seed I have sown or bulb I have planted is poking
