April and May: The Garden of Eden

 

‘A garden is not a place. It is a journey.’

(Monty Don)

I get what Monty Don is saying here. Like a house, a garden is never complete. It involves constant attention, rotation and perspiration. You get out what you put in. I don’t put much into our garden. I’m not an outdoorsy person for a start. Even in high summer, I don’t like to be outside. I’d rather be in, somewhere cool, watching the television or reading a book. It just doesn’t feel much fun having the sun on my back and hayfever in my eyes.

However, this attitude does make me feel guilty. The reason for this is because I’m from a line of gardeners. My nan was a member of the horticultural society and would go on daytrips to gardens. My dad had green fingers too, building decking at the front and a pagoda down the back. And if I became famous enough to be a subject on Who Do You Think You Are? I’m sure it would be unearthed that my original ancestor was God, the creator of the Garden of Eden. I’m not saying I am the son of God you understand – that’s for you to say.

Mum and dad's garden.

I also appreciate we’re very lucky to have a garden. Many people would kill to have a garden. The irony is they would have no where to bury the body. A garden for many is the ideal situation: a place where you can go out, but don’t have to socialise with anybody. Put it like that and I see the appeal. I am out in the garden more since my son has been born. He loves it. He enjoys going out bug hunts as he looks to find the hidden creepy crawlies we’ve scattered about. Last summer, he loved being in the paddling pool, although he was less enamored with the dinosaur jet stream that came with it. (Given it was aimed at children under-three, it’s probably best they don’t manufacture something Home Secretaries would buy to quell riots.)

Kit in our garden.

So I know I need to up my garden game. I mow the lawn. I water the plants, but that’s it really. Harriet buys the plants, grows the vegetables and revitalizes the grass when it’s looking depressed. I should recognise the names of the things in our garden, learn when and where thing need planting, uncover what deadheading really means.

Last year I planted a rose to commemorate my dad’s life, his passing. I thought that would be motivation enough to get out in the garden and tend to it. Shamefully, it wasn’t. I’d like this year to be different. To improve my knowledge and understanding would be a fitting tribute to my nan and dad, two gardeners that I valued so much. For they treated their little plots as they did people: with care, diligence and perseverance.  

A rose for Raj.

I’ll try not to think of the garden as a functional place. I’ll look to heed Don’s maxim of it being in constant flux, a destination without end. Who knows I might even like it? Unlikely, but it will make me feel connected with those that have passed, in blood and in soil, unifying the ancestral with the elemental.

Pass me the trowel. I’ve got some digging to do.