In August, when we purchased this house the structure of the gardens was clear. The edges of every garden were marked with stone. Plants did not honour those lines, growing in the gravel lanes, spreading from one terrace to the other, but the structure was visible.

When we took possession in September, I brought some plants from the farm, some of which I had brought from my parents' garden. At that point, I saw that there were lots of lilies and irises already here and a lovely red rose. Much of the rest I couldn't identify.

As I dug in to the ground, I discovered landscape fabric. Everywhere. Not in the beds in front of the house, but everywhere behind. Under the gravel pathways and around all the shrubs and around the perennials.

The landscape fabric is coming off. The layer of mulch and leaves on top of it are being dug into the ground to add texture to the clay. After fourteen years, the fabric no longer does its job of weed prevention. Asters and coltsfoot and grass and dandelions and more grow right on top with roots reaching through. Pulling weeds pulls up the fabric. And once pulled up, I am getting rid of it.

The green leaves of the coltsfoot provided a lovely, rich groundcover last summer, but it was the first indication that the garden needed attention as it covered sections of pathways. It bloomed before the dandelions, providing for bees, so won't get rid of it, but I will dig it back.

By the time we moved here in October, there were dry, dead stocks in many places in the garden. Some were clearly hostas, some ornamental grass, some asters. Some I could not identify. I left them all. These were the clue where plants were. As spring has slowly brought growth, there are circles of leaves growing beneath these stocks. Some of these plants are new to me, still to be identified. I can now break off the stocks and compost them as this year's leaves appear.

When I find the same leaf in ten different places, I know it is a strong plant. I suspect some are weeds. I am going to wait and see the flowers before deciding how much I want to keep.

Back at the farm, I knew the perennials and the annuals, weeds and planned plants. I let a few mullein (velvet weed) grow because the yellow flowers are attractive to bees and the plant adds height to the garden. Farmers define it as a weed, and it can be obnoxious in a field of beans, but I will let a few grow here.

The native plants here by the shore are quite different from the farm. There is mustard, but it clearly struggles in this climate and soil: it is a short spindly plant with a couple flowers. Many of the others I don't recognize. Going for a walk helps. As I examine what grows at the side of the road and in the forest, I see some of the same things that are in the garden.

That examination helped me determine that a plant in the front garden is not something I need to keep. There is still a mystery to be solved in that plot: last summer there was an interesting vine growing up the cedar tree with a lovely white, star shaped flower. It has yet to show up this year, as far as I can tell, but I do want to figure out what it is and whether to provide it a place to climb or not. I learned that the groundcover in the bush between the house and the road and around the cedar trees is likely natural to this place. I will control it a bit, but it has a nice white flower and a rich green colour.

There is still a lot to learn about what is natural here, what was added that I want to keep, and what was added that I want to get rid of. Periwinkle does not belong in the natural bush area between the house and the road for example. There is, however, a limit to how much time I have this summer. I can accept that. Learning to work with this ecosystem is a long-term project.

Cathy Hird lives on the shore of Georgian Bay.