a rose named Paul

A while ago I started posting occasional favourites out of the many old family photos I've been scanning as part of my digitisation project. Here's another one that I like, slightly more recent than those I've posted before: my cousins Alison, Rachel and Paul in the garden of their house in Kitwe, Zambia in 1975 - they lived in Zambia for about two years while their dad was teaching over there.


My cousin Paul was born in 1972, the same year that my mum and dad were married. That same year, my mum bought a little climbing rose named Paul (seriously, that's what the variety is called) in honour of the new little nephew. We're now getting on for 39 years down the track and the rose named Paul is still there, in the back garden of the house I now rent from my parents, my childhood home - it rambles up and along the back wall and every year, at about this time, it produces the most gorgeous red roses imaginable. The cousin named Paul should also be turning 39 this year, the same age as the rose named Paul, but he isn't. This week marks 12 years since Paul was killed in a road accident, on a beautiful, bright summer's evening, just as the rose was coming into bloom. He was 26 years old.

So, in memory of Paul, some images of the rose that bears his name:

( a rose named Paul )

a rose named Paul

A while ago I started posting occasional favourites out of the many old family photos I've been scanning as part of my digitisation project. Here's another one that I like, slightly more recent than those I've posted before: my cousins Alison, Rachel and Paul in the garden of their house in Kitwe, Zambia in 1975 - they lived in Zambia for about two years while their dad was teaching over there.


My cousin Paul was born in 1972, the same year that my mum and dad were married. That same year, my mum bought a little climbing rose named Paul (seriously, that's what the variety is called) in honour of the new little nephew. We're now getting on for 39 years down the track and the rose named Paul is still there, in the back garden of the house I now rent from my parents, my childhood home - it rambles up and along the back wall and every year, at about this time, it produces the most gorgeous red roses imaginable. The cousin named Paul should also be turning 39 this year, the same age as the rose named Paul, but he isn't. This week marks 12 years since Paul was killed in a road accident, on a beautiful, bright summer's evening, just as the rose was coming into bloom. He was 26 years old.

So, in memory of Paul, some images of the rose that bears his name:

( a rose named Paul )