When I was a little girl the garden meant nothing to me. At least, when I say nothing I mean that the upkeep and general hard work of a garden meant nothing to me. When I complained of having nothing to do my mum would offer me the chance to do the weeding ... a chance I always declined.
Our garden was big and sloping, dotted with fruit trees that gave us heavenly apples, pears and plums each year, with the the top of the garden hidden away from the house by a screen of trees. Behind those trees was my favourite part of the garden ... at the end of a narrow, shady pathway lay a secret vegetable patch.
I remember lazy days alone in that secret garden, making stables from long, dried grass for my toy horses and lying under the fruit bushes sucking the sweet insides of gooseberries until my tummy was full and my fingers sticky. My imagination ran wild up there and in my memory it was always summer ...
That garden is gone now, bulldozed to make a swimming pool the long hot summer of 1976. Our garden was still lovely, with the added bonus of free swimming every day, but it had lost its magical quality.
I forgot about gardens for a long time. They were the haunt of old people and I did not understand the complexities of planting or weeding... And yet that garden of my childhood was always there at the back of my mind ... the secret club house in the depths of the laurel tree, the golden rod, alive with bees, and, of course, that vegetable garden, now buried under tons of white, chalky soil.
It may be because I am heading towards being an "old" person, or it may be that I am trying to recreate the feeling of calm and beauty that the garden of my childhood gave me. Whatever the reason, gardening fills my life more and more... whether its my postage stamp of a back garden or my allotment, my time at both is time spent happily.
Our garden was big and sloping, dotted with fruit trees that gave us heavenly apples, pears and plums each year, with the the top of the garden hidden away from the house by a screen of trees. Behind those trees was my favourite part of the garden ... at the end of a narrow, shady pathway lay a secret vegetable patch.
I remember lazy days alone in that secret garden, making stables from long, dried grass for my toy horses and lying under the fruit bushes sucking the sweet insides of gooseberries until my tummy was full and my fingers sticky. My imagination ran wild up there and in my memory it was always summer ...
That garden is gone now, bulldozed to make a swimming pool the long hot summer of 1976. Our garden was still lovely, with the added bonus of free swimming every day, but it had lost its magical quality.
I forgot about gardens for a long time. They were the haunt of old people and I did not understand the complexities of planting or weeding... And yet that garden of my childhood was always there at the back of my mind ... the secret club house in the depths of the laurel tree, the golden rod, alive with bees, and, of course, that vegetable garden, now buried under tons of white, chalky soil.
It may be because I am heading towards being an "old" person, or it may be that I am trying to recreate the feeling of calm and beauty that the garden of my childhood gave me. Whatever the reason, gardening fills my life more and more... whether its my postage stamp of a back garden or my allotment, my time at both is time spent happily.
I am not a brilliant gardener, but I read and listen to people who are good gardeners and, as if by magic, plants grow. There is nothing more beautiful than to sit in my garden on a balmy evening, glass of wine in hand, nibbles in a bowl, watching the blackbird hopping about the wet grass searching for worms.
I love the butterflies on my buddleia and the bees around the lavender ...
Its difficult to put into words, but if you are a gardener you will know ... There is order and tranquility and a feeling that everything is right with the world.
