The tree of love

Myrtle loves the summer sun. A native of the Mediterranean, the bush was associated with Aphrodite, the goddess of love, and further north it only flowers in hot summers like this one.

This myrtle grows beside my garden path. Some people find it a bit obtrusive but I cherish it because there's a story attached. I planted it as a tiny seedling given to me by an elderly lady who once lived here when the place was still a farm. She had married into a  distinguished Welsh gentry  family and her husband, a naval captain, was honoured for his service in  WW2. Following his death some 20 years after, his wife, who I'll call Margaret, settled here with her children. To help her run the farm she employed a local worker on the land, a strong, proud, capable man - I'll call him Horst. Because he was German. He'd been one of the many prisoners of war who were detailed to work on British farms and some, like Horst,  decided to remain. As a naval rating he had been shipwrecked in the Mediterranean after his vessel was bombed by allied planes and he survived 5 days in the water with a open stomach wound - so, a tough guy.  He ended up in Pembrokeshire, married and put down roots. However when he came to work for Margaret an unlikely romance blossomed. And persisted, because by the time I got to know Margaret and Horst (by then in their 80s) they were still a couple.  After Horst's wife died he moved in with Margaret and they lived together in  comfort and harmony until his death. It was on a visit to them that I admired her myrtle tree and she pulled up some suckers for me to plant. 
And that's why I think of it as the tree of love.