Life of a rose

The garden room before breakfast this morning with St Micheal's Mount behind




I love to keep Lillies in the cool garden room, their scent builds over night to greet me as i open the outside french doors ready for our guests.




A corner of the courtyard - the little statue was a sale room find

We have a rose here a Ednovean that sit majestically clothing an old milking parlour on the western end of the courtyard. The building could never have been a thing of beauty, probably less than eighty years old, built over an old water tank but serviceable non-the-less and "handy by" for the cattle standings that now form our Apricot and Blue bedrooms. But i digress from my rose - given to me by my father when I was married as he said our family had always had one of these roses in their garden. The lovely flower, old fashioned in its way - probably an Albertene, single flowering and sweetly scented and a delicate shade of bronzy pink - the rose glows each year for a brief period of bliss. Each year I always wait in high anticipation for its brief flowering - the gorgeous scent that fills the courtyard and the garden room and then eventually the fallen petals that gently drift across the gravel and the garden room's warm terracotta floor. All too soon the time is over, as it slips back to its (or I prefer Her) slumbers for another year a permanent reminder of my fathers gift.