I am a hoarder.

Not the kind that requires professional intervention or will get me on television or find me dead, squashed by a fallen pile of magazines, at least not yet.

Rather, a hoarder who cannot bear to part with trinkets from her past, a hoarder who has transported, and stored, and re- and unpacked bits and pieces throughout her life.

Here is something I have kept for over thirty years:

A commemorative medal, given to me and my teammates by the mayor of a Hungarian town. We ran an English Bible Camp there for a week or so in 1991, and there was a formal reception to welcome us. The town had the extraordinary name of Hódmezővásárhely and I am proud to this day that I can pronounce it almost correctly.

Here is something I have kept for over forty years:

A drop of North Sea Oil. Encased in a small block of plastic, it was a gift when I visited Sullom Voe oil terminal in Shetland when I was ten years old. I was part of my primary school’s “Top of the Form” team. With three classmates, I won a general knowledge contest against other local primary schools and represented Caithness in our regional final, against Orkney and Shetland. We spent three days in Shetland and the highlight of the trip for me was our host at Sullom Voe casually reaching into a freezer in the dining hall and handing me a choc ice. What largesse! By the way, we lost on a tie-breaker, and I think it was my mistake.

Here is something I have kept for close to fifty years:

A tiny, red-covered mini-Bible. Perhaps an inch by half an inch, it contains Bible verses in Spanish, and was part of my New Year gift one of the years we lived in Peru. I was maybe six or seven. That year my mum told me that money was tight and that I was not to expect too much for my New Year presents, and when I opened them – I think the other gift was a pack of felt-tip pens – I exclaimed, “What do you mean, I wasn’t to expect too much for New Year this year, this is great!” or something of that sort. Did I mean it, or did I just want to spare my parents’ feelings? Impossible to say now.

My explanation for this behaviour is that I have lived an extremely restless life. I have had 26 addresses in five countries, moving on average every two plus years throughout my life. Not much has stayed constant. The right things have: God’s faithfulness, my parents’ unwavering support, decades-long friendships. But there is little else that has. I think if I can schlepp around an artefact or two from various stages of my life, I am throwing some anchors overboard to connect me to the physical world and so prevent me from floating off into the ether, blown hither and yon, like thistledown.

One day, they will all have to go, but I am not quite ready say goodbye to them yet.

As I told you back in December, my rescue orchids were looking like they were going to flower and today, four of them are looking gorgeous and giving me great pleasure.

These wooded slopes are charming in their way,

but give me Blà Bheinn any day.

The castles, vineyards, little villages are, well…so German.

They make me feel, what I am, foreign.

Gorse and bracken, Scottish wind and rain.

Golspie, Dornoch, Brora, Tain.

There’s nothing wrong with here.

It’s just not…home.

Perhaps the most unassuming plant in my collection has the best story. Days before I left Colombia in 2018, I went out for coffee with my flatmate and some friends. A leaf had broken off one of the succulents on the table and I popped it in my handbag, thinking it could be potted up back at our flat. Then I completely forgot about it, packed the handbag and flew back to the UK. A few days later, I found the leaf in the handbag, put it in water and then compost and it grew into a huge plant. Cuttings went to friends and prospered there but the original plant died. Now I just have one leaf, taken from one of the friend’s cuttings – the grandchild of the leaf that travelled back with me from Colombia.

Remember the orchid hospital? Two years ago I rescued about 18 orchids that had been abandoned on my neighbours’ balcony. I have since given some away and some have died, and now only five healthy plants remain. To my great joy, four of them show signs that they will flower in a month or two, the result, I am convinced, of beginning to steep them for 10 to 15 minutes in lukewarm water, advice for phalaenopsis (or moth) orchids that I read in a book (in Topping & Company Bookshop). This species is not indigenous to Colombia but thousands of other species of orchids are, and if you watch my little video (see above link), you will see why I associate orchids with my time in Medellín.

Another cutting from a dear friend has grown into this wonderful waterfall of green that flows elegantly from atop my kitchen units. Cheating slightly here because it is not currently in bloom, but I wanted to give you an idea of what it looks like when its flowering – a cluster of pink and white blooms. It’s called hoya carnosa if you like knowing these sorts of things.

Another post-Colombia gift from a kind friend. I made a mistake once by putting it outside where it got terribly battered by the wind on my balcony but it has recovered well in my front room. Well enough for me have a couple of plants potted on, one in my flat and one in my office. And look at all those wonderful offshoots ready to be plants on their own!

These two magnificent plants started life, in my house, anyway, as one single leaf. I didn’t like the shape of the first plant – there was one shoot standing straight up – so I cut it back and actually threw out the piece I had cut off. Then I repented, and stuck the decapitated piece into earth, where it duly prospered. I don’t usually give my plants names, but these could be Bill and Ben, or Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Any other suggestions?

Prone to get leggy without enough light, my lemon geranium seems to enjoy living on my bathroom window. It’s so-called because it gives off a delicate lemon scent when you rub the leaves. It also produces little purple flowers once in a blue moon.

This is a jade plant or crassula ovata. (A side-effect of this project is that I am learning the names of all my plants). I grew it from a tiny cutting from a venerable old plant at my previous employers. It lives in a shady corner of my bathroom and grows slowly and steadily. Like my string of hearts, it is a nice reminder of my lovely former colleagues.