On Failure, Letting Things Grow, and Starting Over

Strictly speaking, I don’t have a garden.

That’s a rather unfortunate starting point if you want to do some gardening. On the other hand, I’ve never been particularly interested in whether the conditions for doing something are ideal before I get started.

What I do have is a courtyard. Roughly 50 square metres in which you can accommodate all sorts of things, provided you’re willing to occasionally adjust your idea of a proper garden to the realities of the space available. There are planters, pots, a polytunnel greenhouse, and various other containers with things growing in them. Some are even mounted on wheeled platforms so I can move them around when necessary.

There’s also a patch of green that doesn’t always submit entirely to the authority of the lawnmower.

Other people have raised beds. I practise horticulture without any agricultural land worth mentioning. Or, to put it in more scientific terms, I run a branch of the Institute of Applied Defiance.

That doesn’t stop me from developing grand expectations every spring.

In 2026, once again, seedlings were raised, seeds were sown, pots were filled, and planters were prepared. Tomatoes, physalis, garlic, strawberries, gooseberries, blueberries, a tayberry, and all sorts of herbs were supposed to turn the courtyard into a little green oasis. Nothing resembling large-scale agricultural production, and certainly no attempt to drive the regional vegetable trade into bankruptcy. Just a little harvesting, a little observing, and the pleasure of watching things grow.

This year, I’d decided to try something new. Instead of simply filling the planters entirely with soil, I first added plant remains from the previous year, grass clippings, and fallen leaves. Then I covered everything with potting soil. The idea was to make use of organic material that would gradually decompose, release nutrients, and potentially generate some warmth in the process. Especially during the cooler early weeks, that seemed like a useful advantage.

The initial results were impressive. The tomatoes in particular developed into veritable trees. Tiny seedlings became vigorous plants that apparently regarded their containers as little more than non-binding suggestions about where they ought to stay.

Whether this layering was actually responsible for their vigorous growth, I can’t say. But it may also have helped the plants survive the heatwave that followed. During those weeks, however, they were hardly likely to miss any additional warmth from inside their containers. Summer was already supplying more than enough of that.

Alongside the edible plants, there were lavender, calibrachoas, blue daisies, marigolds, and other flowering plants that weren’t necessarily intended to end up on my dinner plate. After all, I’m not the only living creature supposed to benefit from this little patch of green. There are bees, bumblebees, butterflies, and all manner of other creatures whose names I don’t always know but whose presence I enjoy nonetheless.

Insect hotels hang on the walls because it seems sensible to offer my little visitors not just food but accommodation as well. A hotel without a restaurant would be just as unsatisfactory as a restaurant without guests. And since I charge neither a tourist tax nor require anyone to register their arrival, the administrative workload remains pleasantly manageable.

Spring initially looked promising. The gooseberry bush was laden with fruit, the strawberries were developing nicely, and the tomatoes were conquering their pots. Seedlings were pricked out, repotted, and prepared for their final move outdoors after the last danger of frost had passed. Before that, the main concern had been preventing the young plants from freezing at night. Just a few weeks later, that concern would turn out to have been a rather grotesque irony.

Because then summer arrived.

Or, more precisely, something pretending to be summer, but which was actually a large-scale field experiment into the resilience of biological organisms.

Temperatures climbed above 40 degrees Celsius. Not somewhere in the Sahara, where people can at least prepare for such conditions, but here in Hesse, Germany. And of course, temperatures like these are measured under standardised conditions in the shade. That makes perfect meteorological sense, but it isn’t much comfort when you own a greenhouse.

Just try finding shade inside a polytunnel.

Temperatures in there reached levels at which you could probably have cooked an egg without going to the trouble of switching on the stove. The tomatoes were right in the middle of it. They were supposed to grow and produce fruit. Instead, they were subjected to a heat treatment normally reserved for after the harvest.

Conditions outside the greenhouse weren’t much more pleasant. Frieda, my cat, found the heat unbearable. So did Ronny, my dog. And I would gladly have joined them in their complaints if there had been anywhere to cool down properly.

My houseplants suffered too. The zebra plants stood by a north-facing window, normally a good location without direct midday sunlight. But eventually the air became so completely still that even this supposedly favourable spot turned into an ordeal. Not a breath of wind, no relief, just heat.

So I carried the zebra plants outside into the courtyard, in front of the garage. There they had shade and at least some chance of air movement. I took the fern along as well. Just imagine that: I had to rescue my houseplants by taking them outdoors because they simply couldn’t stand being indoors any longer.

In my cat room, a second room which, besides my wardrobe and some exercise equipment, mainly houses scratching posts and climbing structures, there were also plants by the window. They suffered particularly badly from the heat and were practically scorched. Plants standing in a supposedly protected indoor environment suffered heat damage, while their companions outside in the shade enjoyed better conditions.

Perhaps it’s time to reconsider the distinction between houseplants and outdoor plants. Apparently, what matters isn’t so much where a plant is supposed to live as where it can actually survive.

The news reported deaths caused by the heat. People were dying in temperatures that would have been considered exceptional in this part of the world just a few decades ago. While the debate continued over whether climate change was really happening, it was happening. In the greenhouse, in the courtyard, and on the news. Without holding a vote first, and without showing the slightest willingness to be influenced by anyone’s opinions.

We survived that period. Frieda, Ronny, me, and, astonishingly, even the plants.

Although surviving doesn’t necessarily mean you’re doing well.

The tomatoes, for instance, continued to grow and produce fruit, but much of it remained small. The plants themselves had grown magnificently. Their fruit, however, had apparently decided not to participate in the general increase in size. Huge tomato trees with tiny tomatoes. You have to work quite hard to achieve something like that.

There were red tomatoes, yellow cherry tomatoes, and some genuinely tasty specimens. The first yellow cherry tomato was particularly delicious. Unfortunately, the quantity and size of the harvest bore a somewhat unfortunate relationship to the expectations I’d developed in spring.

The garlic behaved much the same way. It had survived the winter, grown, and was finally harvested at the end of June. The bulbs, however, were so small that you practically needed a magnifying glass to distinguish them from ordinary lumps of soil. Perhaps it was the heat; perhaps other growing conditions played a part. In any case, I’d planted garlic and harvested garlic.

The fact that there needn’t be any significant difference in quantity between those two activities was one of the year’s more educational discoveries.

The tayberry was particularly disappointing. It’s a cross between a raspberry and a blackberry, and I’d planted my thornless ‚Buckingham‘ variety with great anticipation. It developed berries that slowly began to ripen, raising hopes of a first taste. Then the heat arrived, and the berries dried up. You might say the plant had already preserved its harvest before I’d even had the chance to sample it. Unfortunately, that wasn’t quite the kind of preservation I’d had in mind.

At least the tayberry is still alive. Perhaps 2027 will be its year. We’ll see what we get. It should, however, bear in mind that while my patience is considerable, my life expectancy is not unlimited.

The gooseberries were an entirely different story.

They were the welcome exception. While other plants struggled with the conditions, they delivered a genuinely good harvest. The strawberries also produced fruit, and there were at least a few physalis. Not exactly enough to open a market stall, but certainly better than nothing.

And then there were the cherries.

Behind the garage stands a cherry tree that had produced fruit, and I set about gathering at least some of it. Unfortunately, there were other interested parties who didn’t share my understanding of property rights. While I was busy with the cherries, several insects decided to take an interest in me. Apparently, they regarded my harvesting activities as an unlawful interference with their possessions.

The following day, I had not only numerous stings but also red streaks on both legs. My partner, who works in nursing care, took one look and strongly advised me to go to hospital. It might be blood poisoning, she said. So off we went to the hospital together.

Fortunately, it wasn’t sepsis. Nor was it anaphylactic shock, which I’d experienced the previous year. Instead, I was diagnosed with an inflamed vein.

Well, at least it was something different.

As the doctor explained, we have both a superficial and a deep venous system. Apparently, we’d arrived just in time, because the inflammation was threatening to spread to the deeper veins. When I curiously asked what might happen if someone simply ignored such a condition, he mentioned pulmonary embolism, sepsis, and heart attack among the possible consequences.

That didn’t sound like a particularly attractive alternative.

Unfortunately, I was now supposed to give myself injections for a while. Given my pronounced fear of needles, this prospect didn’t exactly fill me with enthusiasm.

But what could I do? So the injections were administered, accompanied by swearing, grumbling, and the temporary conviction that medical science really ought to have come up with something better by now.

A few days later, I accompanied my partner to our family doctor. She noticed how little I was enjoying my new occupation and, mercifully, had an alternative to offer: tablets.

I was saved!

Apparently, modern medicine had developed ways of getting medication into the human body without forcibly drilling through the skin. A most welcome development.

I was considerably happier taking the tablets. After all, I’m not afraid of swallowing.

Other people come home from cherry-picking with a basket. I came home with a diagnosis and a treatment plan.

At least I’d learned something. And survived.

Meanwhile, the remaining plants still demanded attention. Watering, moving pots, observing, checking, watering again. During the worst of the heat, even the soil remained warm well below the surface. And just as we’d grown accustomed to the sky apparently trying to remove every last trace of moisture from the landscape, along came thunderstorms, torrential rain, and hail.

Nature has a remarkable repertoire for keeping gardeners entertained. First everything gets baked, then washed, and occasionally pelted with ice cubes.

Nevertheless, many plants recovered. New leaves appeared, damaged shoots were replaced, and some plants that had seemed beyond saving began producing fresh growth. The herbs proved particularly resilient. Parsley, basil, and oregano all did well. Even at the end of October, the oregano is still there and shows absolutely no sign of intending to retire any time soon.

The lavender was another pleasure. It flowered, attracted insects, and performed several useful functions at once without my having to offer it an employment contract. The marigolds also flourished, bloomed, and produced seeds. So preparations for next year are already under way, provided nature doesn’t once again decide to replace all my plans with a fresh set of surprises.

The story of the lettuce was considerably less encouraging.

And I’d really made an effort. I sowed the seeds, waited, watched, and enjoyed seeing the leaves grow. After all, fresh home-grown lettuce is one of the things that makes gardening so appealing. You know where it comes from, what’s in the soil, and that it hasn’t had to travel halfway across Europe to reach your plate.

Unfortunately, other living creatures shared my enthusiasm.

Not the slugs, whom I’d initially suspected. Green caterpillars discovered my lettuce plants and concluded that I’d opened an all-you-can-eat restaurant especially for them. Twice, practically the entire crop disappeared without anyone having the courtesy to leave me so much as a single leaf.

In principle, I have no objection to sharing this little patch of green with other living creatures. But as I understand it, sharing means that something remains for both sides. Anyone who helps themselves to the entire harvest without asking may not have fully grasped the concept.

The Institute of Applied Defiance would probably have ordered a second series of experiments. The caterpillars were delighted.

Eventually, I went back to buying my lettuce at the shop.

I may have to pay for it there, but at least there’s a reasonable chance that I’ll actually possess some lettuce afterwards.

Other plants, meanwhile, were doing well. The castor oil plant developed nicely, the stevia grew and is still awaiting its harvest at the end of October. The Jerusalem artichokes now have brown edges on their leaves and no longer look particularly impressive above ground. But that’s perfectly normal for them in autumn. Their real achievement lies beneath the soil, where the tubers are developing. Perhaps there’s still a pleasant surprise waiting down there.

The blueberry bush also did well, as did several things I hadn’t deliberately planted at all.

Because a garden isn’t made up solely of what you put into it. Not even when you don’t actually have a garden.

Ground ivy spread, particularly on one side of the small patch of grass belonging to the property. Ribwort plantain grew, and little flowers appeared near the insect hotels. I began paying closer attention to what was flowering before mowing. Sweet violets, for example. Sometimes I left one side standing, sometimes the other. Not everything has to be cut short at the same time. After all, I don’t need to misunderstand nature first and then mow away the insects‘ dinner as well.

Nettles, dandelions, and thistles are part of the picture too, although I’m not prepared to give them complete freedom everywhere. The moment they start making a bid for total control of the garden, the friendly negotiations are over. I have no intention of surrendering the entire property to the vegetation. On the other hand, not every plant needs to disappear simply because it wasn’t purchased from a garden centre.

Small wildflowers are often more valuable to insects than many elaborately bred ornamental plants. Anyone putting up insect hotels should remember that the guests will want something to eat after checking in.

There are places for hedgehogs to retreat to as well. Stones, dead wood, and sheltered corners are allowed to remain. Not every bit of untidiness is a problem. Sometimes it’s simply a habitat.

A hornet once showed an interest in moving in, too. Nothing came of it in the end. Perhaps the accommodation didn’t meet her expectations. I haven’t received a written complaint, anyway. A pity. I’d already given her a name.

Then, in autumn, things began winding down.

Some plants turned yellow, others dried out, and still others gave up altogether. The tomatoes in the greenhouse now look as though they’ve spent an extended stay at a particularly badly run health resort. Their leaves hang limply, many brown and dry. Here and there, a few fruits and green shoots remain.

I really ought to remove them.

But I can’t quite bring myself to do it yet.

That may be irrational. After all, these are annual crops whose life cycle eventually comes to an end. Even so, it’s hard to pull out something you’ve cared for over so many months. Perhaps it’s because you don’t just see the plant. You see the time you’ve spent with it. The first seed leaves, the repotting, the daily checking, the pleasure of seeing the first flowers, and eventually the fruit.

And then you stand there and are simply supposed to say: That’s it.

At least I’ve made some preparations. I took cuttings from several tomato plants, let them develop roots in water, and then transferred them into small pots. Five young plants are now indoors, where I hope they’ll survive the winter. Whether that works remains to be seen. Perhaps they’ll become strong new tomato plants next spring. Perhaps they won’t.

The Institute calls it future research. I call it: We’ll see.

Not everything has to succeed to have been worthwhile. You’re allowed to gain experience and learn something along the way.

Looking back on the gardening year of 2026, the actual harvest was rather modest. The gooseberries were excellent, the strawberries a pleasure, and some of the tomatoes and physalis tasted good. The garlic remained tiny, the tayberry disappointed, and when it came to lettuce, I was mainly working as an unpaid agricultural service provider for a population of caterpillars.

If you calculated the financial return and compared it with the cost of soil, plants, water, and labour, it would probably have been more sensible simply to buy the vegetables.

But that was never the point.

The point was to watch something grow. And perhaps, even more importantly, to watch something grow in a place where, strictly speaking, nothing was supposed to grow at all. In a courtyard that was never intended to be a garden, between walls, paving stones, and all sorts of things that have accumulated over the years.

To go outside in the morning and see whether a plant had grown new leaves. To be delighted by a flower that hadn’t been there the day before. To watch bumblebees moving between the lavender and other blossoms. To discover that a plant you’d long since written off had suddenly started sprouting again.

My brother-in-law Thomas once called this place „Paradise on Grünberger Weg.“

I still remember those words with great affection.

Because he’d seen something that couldn’t be measured in square metres or kilograms of harvested tomatoes. A courtyard had become something greater than the sum of its planters, flowerpots, and improvised garden beds.

And when I sit out there in summer and hear the insects buzzing, sometimes it sounds like a thank-you. As though they’re saying, „You’ve done a wonderful job!“

Naturally, I have no idea what they’re actually saying. Perhaps they’re complaining about breakfast, the room facilities, or the lack of air conditioning. After all, I’m running an insect hotel, not a five-star wellness resort.

But one thing I do know: without what I’ve created here, many of them probably wouldn’t have anything to say in this particular place.

And that’s a lovely thought.

I don’t have to save the whole world. I couldn’t do that anyway. But I can try to make the small part of the world I can influence a little more liveable. For myself, for the plants, and for the animals that find a home here, or at least somewhere to stop and rest.

Perhaps that doesn’t change the world.

But it changes something in it.

At the end of October, winter is approaching. The last crops are being harvested, sensitive plants are being protected, and the others are allowed to take their leave in their own way. Some will return in spring. Others will be replaced. And somewhere in the soil, the next gardening year is already waiting.

I’ll sow seeds again, repot plants, water them, watch them, and hope.

I’ll probably raise far too many tomato seedlings again, too.

The caterpillars will probably be back as well. After all, they’ve had a very positive experience here.

And the tayberry gets another chance.

So the Institute of Applied Defiance will continue its research in 2027. The experimental setup will remain largely unchanged, the results will continue to be uncertain, and the scientific director stubbornly refuses to draw the obvious conclusions from previous setbacks.

The Institute’s official motto is therefore:

Anyone can give up.

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