As a child I could never quite master the word dahlia, I always called them bdahlias, b’s and d’s were never a friend of mine.
My Dad grew lots of dahlias his favourites were spiky deep crimson varieties, they always remind me of him (and earwigs!). He used to insist each autumn on drying the tubers that he’d lifted from the flower bed (to protect them from frost) in the airing cupboard. My Mum was never impressed by this intrusion to her line dried laundry! I snapped these dahlias in the garden at Chatsworth House on Saturday, I nipped over just in time to capture the penultimate day of the Barry Flanagan sculpture exhibition. More photos to follow.