The gardens meandered along banks of rhododendron—“This will be magnificent in a month”—and what must have once been a knot garden that meandered into a half-walled garden. We paused at the edge of an enormous field of rose bushes just leafing out on their leggy stalks. “How could they have survived so well?” I said in wonder. “Well, they’ve gone wild, haven’t they?” “My mother had a rose garden. I suppose I know why now.”
