Those gardens are blooming gorgeous, says ISABEL MORTON

I’M SUFFERING from my annual bout of garden envy. It creeps up on me with the first signs of spring blossoms but becomes progressively worse as the weather improves.

The last few weeks have been particularly fraught, what with Easter, and all of the (appropriately named) bank holidays and the British royal nuptials. Suddenly there appeared to be an inordinate amount of al fresco dining going on.

Last weekend started unusually early on Friday morning, with an invitation to join a friend’s royal wedding brunch. I didn’t hesitate for a second.

Apart from the fact that her TV set is vast and my eyesight is not quite what it used to be, Aileen, the friend in question, is renowned for her parties and can pull one together in minutes.

Between the church ceremony and the balcony snogs, we escaped from the darkened room and the big screen to enjoy the warm sunshine and eat lunch sitting on my host’s recently painted royal blue garden furniture.

The chat turned to gardening tips and talk of GardenVille.tv (a new online TV gardening programme) and my eyes glazed over, as I was forcibly reminded that it was time to do something with mine. It felt like it was only yesterday when I last power-hosed the patio and gave my outdoor furniture a fresh lick of paint.

Later, sitting scribbling at the same scruffy garden table, I could clearly hear my neighbour’s industrious efforts, reminding me again of my own inertia. It was the unmistakable sound of a petrol lawnmower being paced back and forth with military precision, its engine complaining when halted to have its basket emptied, then delighting at being released again to resume its task.

The second stab of lush lawn envy came upon me when I closed my eyes to my own weed-infested patch and replaced it with images of a smooth bowling green. It didn’t work. When I opened my eyes, the dandelions and daisies were still there highlighting my laziness like bright beacons.

The guilty feelings were further compounded on Saturday evening at a friend’s barbecue.

As I admired my friend Jane’s immaculate lawn, it took some time for it to register with me that there was something a little different about it.

Another guest eventually enlightened me: apparently our hostess had started a new trend for mowing the lawn in a circular format, rather than up and down in straight lines.

I’m afraid I was enjoying the evening far too much to enquire, as to whether one starts the process from the centre and worked outwards, or from the outer edge and worked inwards.

After a few glasses of wine, it didn’t seem to matter. Although it did strike me that, rather like the wine, mowing a lawn in ever increasing or decreasing circles could result in one becoming quite dizzy.

The dizziness continued, when I was attending a lunch the following day. I found myself staring in awe at a heavenly floral waterfall of wisteria.

Its gnarled trunk and twisted branches supported abundant bunches of delicate soft lilac-white blooms, dangling gracefully to frame the windows and doors of my host’s south-facing home.

I could hardly breathe and my eyes suddenly turned a particularly brilliant shade of emerald. Never mind talking to plants, I have been negotiating with my wisteria for years. I’ve even resorted to the occasional threat, but it resolutely ignores my pleas and only recently saw fit to produce a few pathetic blooms. Terms such as “abundant” and “luxuriant” would certainly not be applicable to my miserable horticultural specimen.

Then again, my friend (and I use the term lightly, as I’m rapidly going off her) Jennifer, last Sunday’s gracious hostess, is one of those green-fingered types who can take an insignificant plant cutting and turn it into a prize-winning specimen almost overnight.

While everything blossoms, blooms and flourishes under her nurturing care, somehow she manages simultaneously to terrorise weeds from even contemplating making an appearance in her immaculate garden.

On Tuesday afternoon, I thought I might call in to visit another friend, Fidelma, as appealing images of coffee and a chat in her secret walled garden came to mind.

As if hand-picked by Mother Nature, to the exclusion of all others in the vicinity, her garden is generous, bountiful and has an air of casual magnificence about it, fooling you into believing that it came about entirely naturally and of its own accord without any need for human assistance or interference.

I didn’t stop. I wasn’t feeling at all well. I had experienced a sudden and particularly acute attack of garden envy.

* ISABEL MORTONis a property consultant