"I’m standing outside Jane Edmanson’s home, drenched by the flash floods sweeping the city. A tour of her garden, I assume, is out of the question. “Nonsense!” she says, zipping up her coat. “There’s no such thing as ‘gardening weather’. It doesn’t matter if it’s raining, you just get out there and do what you can.” She strides through a muddy garden bed to get to her , then yanks off a sprig and crushes it. “Smell that,” she says, lifting it to my nose. “Isn’t it marvellous?” Her front yard is a jumble of flowers, s, trees and herbs. Some might consider it a smidge “overgrown”; she prefers the word “full”. She adores bushes that spill onto paths and sprouting in the cracks."