When I was five years old, my father, a basement-reared son of inner London, decided to take his young family to rural Ireland for the summer. He’d booked rooms in a heavily recommended bed-and-breakfast, which was reportedly awash with adorable animals and good old-fashioned cooking.
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Only two years ago, when I was finishing my memoir of gardening obsession, “Rhapsody in Green,” I claimed that I had no time for houseplants. Prickly, diminutive, macramé-reliant: I’d rarely been less tempted by anything.
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