I’m in awe of you gardeners, I really
am. Never more so than in summer. I love
the concept of gardening, I love the end results, and your spaces are so very
beautiful. But, you know what? I’ve finally accepted that I'm just too damn lazy to be a gardener.
My garden has gone wild and I have
decided that, rather than fight it, I’ll choose to like it that way. For almost my entire adult life I have
molested gardens, fighting and flailing in an attempt to keep them neat, tidy,
under control. But just like children who can spot a weakness a mile off, they seem to divine that my heart isn't in it and they fight back, tooth and nail, or rather thorn and spike. So this is the year of 'fuck it gardening', or rather non-gardening. I have realised that although I like being in gardens, I simply don’t enjoy the act of gardening. I'm a passive garden user rather than an active garden creator.
Okay,
so back in the day when I had a gardener, I quite liked choosing plants and deciding where to put them (or rather where they should be put) but
that was about it. Now I can’t afford
either the gardener or the plants, I have realised it doesn’t matter that much. The plants still come – it’s just I don’t get
to choose which ones and where. I have
learned to, if not love, then tolerate weeds (what is a weed, after all, but a
plant in the wrong place?). Okay, so the
ground elder still bugs me a bit but, hey, it’s won, I’ve lost – I'm nothing if not gracious in defeat. The brambles are pushy to the point of rude but hey ho nonny no, free food come autumn! Yes, it's sad that some delicate souls get crowded
out but then, that’s Darwinian life – survival of the fittest and all. But there are surprises like the irises that
appeared in the erstwhile pond and the tiny wild alpine strawberries that taste
like vanilla and bubble gum.
Now, let’s be clear, it’s not a total
unadulterated wilderness. Adrian does
mow the lawn (borrowing a lawn-mower; ours broke years ago) but carefully, avoiding
the edges because the slow worms like it there, in the cool of the stone walls. And I don’t clear the undergrowth because the
hedgehog needs some respite from pesky dogs.
Yup, a wild garden calls in the beasts and birds and bugs, that's for
sure. The place is buzzing with them. The grass snake is elusive – but I hope s/he is
still out there somewhere.
From a distance
(and bear in mind I’m short-sighted) it all looks tickety-boo.
Every once in a while I’ll realise it’s
got a bit too far out of
control. Usually when I can’t see out
the windows or when getting to the back gate is like wrestling through the enchanted
forest to Sleeping Beauty’s snoozing spot.
So then I’ll haul out the shears and secateurs and go a bit bonkers (and end up covered in slashes and scratches). But not too much because I have
always loved the secrecy of paths, and the sanctity of entrances, the
liminality of certain spaces.
And, don’t get me wrong, I do the
occasional bit of gentle maintenance – well, I dead head the roses and scatter the
petals like confetti. Or I move benches
around and re-arrange cushions.
But really, when the sun is out, on
these oh so rare beautiful summer days, I just can’t be doing with the fussing and finnicketing. I prefer to stretch out with the SP on a rug
on the grass, or curl up in a chair on the terrace - either with my nose in a book, or just
snoozing or musing, drifting and dreaming. Glass of very chilled
rose optional but welcome. J
Of course, having said all this, I know
so many of my dear friends and readers are avid tenders of the soil, careful custodians of plant, bush and tree. It would be lovely to share your blogs and
pictures so do please leave any links in the comments.
