We are overrun again. The cracks in the concrete have been inched open and thick, fibrous stalks have risen and bloomed. An apparently barren surface has once again proven to be deceptively fertile and capable of supporting an unexpected floral abundance.

I can’t remember exactly when hollyhocks began to bloom across Amsterdam. It feels as if, one summer, they were suddenly just there, reaching up through the paving stones and covering gable ends with wild abandon.

I found the sight of them rather disconcerting, in the beginning. They are not, in any sense, delicate flowers. The stalks resemble something you would expect to confront in some wild, untameable jungle; something you would need to hack through with a machete in order to clear a path for yourself. The flowers too, while colourful and abundant, are not especially intricate or delicate, the petal formation resembling a child’s idea of a flower. Their function is to be garish and brash. Pollination is all that matters.

But something about the way they have run rampant across the city has won me over. It’s as if they have reclaimed the space for something wild. Have taken back the ground and shot up through the most improbable of spaces in defiance of the manmade and as a counterweight to our need for order and regulation. I look at them and like to imagine the city emptied of people, the plants slowly taking back the space we tried to tame and control.

Their presence, every summer, the way they turn the streets into overgrown gardens, has become a reminder that nature can push through without us, can carry on regardless. We are not needed. Our neat, smooth, surfaces are simply an illusion. A temporary arrangement.

The hollyhocks return each summer to remind us that life will always find a way to take root and all you can do is anticipate their arrival and enjoy their wild and open invitation to celebrate the chaos.