I am in Shrewsbury, where Ann was born and where we married in 1971. At a cafe in Butcher Row, staring at all the older people walking past. After all, I might just know them. It proves futile. In the shops and on the streets, not a soul that we know. We set off for the Quarry, the park where the flower show is set. It is years since we were here last. It is the first day of two, more expensive but quieter. Into the flower marquee and all those plants I don’t need to buy. Many too soft for our Peak District climate. Many just too much trouble, the dahlia’s that slugs die for. Then into the area full of people selling mostly horticultural stuff, none of which I need. The Shrewsbury Flower Show is not what it was in my childhood.

The Dingle

We walk down into the Dingle, an old quarry turned into a show garden. A lovely pool and a display of bedding second to none. My photo shows the quality. However, bedding, much as I love it, is rather old hat these days. The plants are expensive and it is nothing but labour to get them to this display standard. There is also a lot of skill needed but few people really see that anymore. The lawn verges have to be constantly mowed and fertiliser and horticultural chemicals used. This area was Percy Throwers great showpiece, when his love of fuchsia’s was admired nationally. Times have changed but the flower show might not have noticed.

Shrewsbury Flower Show

We then looked at the flower decorations and flowers, fruit and veg grown by amateurs. Begonias bigger than dinner plates, courgettes poorer than my own and leeks the size of gateposts. It was a pity that no bands appeared in the bandstand because there was little entertainment compared to the past. Some said that it was an expensive event for what it was. If you love flowers and plants it cannot help but be interesting. Otherwise, a damp squib for some. We did not stay for the firework display which, as kids, we thought was amazing. It was back on the train and our return to Church Stretton. The next day, back to display our garden in the Bradwell Open Gardens event. It was then that we realised we had a mole in the garden. Not a spy but of those creatures that can become a pair of trousers!