Seeds or plug plants?

Whilst the term plug plants has that delightfully alliterative quality beloved of Anglo-Saxon poets, I decided to grow my bog flowers from seeds. Doc Barbara and I had our annual moment of agreement on this topic because we both find seeds miraculous. That the whole substance of a plant is stored in such a minute container fills us with silent wonder. That, too, is an annual event. 

I duly chose my flowers and sent off for the amazingly cheap packets of seeds which duly arrived. By a stroke of luck, it was a windless day for planting because the packets contained microscopic amounts of what seemed like dust. No chance of counting them carefully and placing 6 in geometrical arrangements in the pots: I was fortunate that any landed in there at all. 

 I constantly had my colour diagram in mind.

I am a bog gardener, not an artist.

This was before putting the thin layer of gravel on top, still allowing the light through to help germination. Anxious nights, days, even weeks, passed before I spotted tiny baby seedlings and wept copiously with joy over them. The salt does not seem to have harmed them: my bog garden is no Carthage (although that is a historical myth).  I admit that I had weakened after a fortnight of nothing happening (Doc Barbara also weeps copiously when disappointed and it is not a pleasant sight) and so I did send off for reliable plug plants of water forget-me-nots which you can see thriving on this photo.

In the next few thrilling instalments I will reveal what seeds I had chosen and hope to accompany them with drawings which will confirm your suspicion that I won't be retiring on my artistic income any time soon.