When I was growing up, my favourite garden was attached to an abandoned cottage. In the way of the country, most of the cottage had been recycled; the stones had gone to reinforce gateways or build outhouses at the local farms, the timbers had gone to firewood, and anything reusable had been reused. All that remained of the house were the lumps, dips and levels; chunks of stone too heavy to move, now grassed and mossed over, flats and spaces marking hearth, floor, pantry.
The garden, however, was still an active force. The hedge had grown up and out, nibbled by sheep and hedgetrimmers into open, perforated lines of bushes, easy enough for a child to slip between. Inside the sheltered hedgebound space, the wind dropped and the sun intensified. In the warm space within the remnants of old garden flowers tangled with the wild; Goldenrod, Perennial Sunflower and Michaelmas Daisies held their own against the Stitchwort and Campions; wild roses and tame arced through the high hedges. A star of clematis, a spark of Jasmine.
The grass was meadow-thick, a deep and forgiving coverlet that hung slightly above the ground below, and gave as you stood on it, just a little bit. Each spring, a sprinkling of bulbs would stipple the banks; snowdrop, daffodil, grape hyacinth. You had to watch your step, as under the grass would be shattered, slippery wall stones, unexpected and bruising.
There was a quietness in the space; nothing spooky, but the usual noises of the downs (the cows, the wind, the farmnoise, the ocassional passing car) would shrink, and the birdsong would become more audible although no louder. Nothing spooky, just a dying fall, a slow diminuendo as the tame sank back into the wild.
The tumble-down garden returning to the wild; the bright flashes of resilience against the returning natives; that perfect moment in the entropic slide back to the Darwinian tangled bank when your garden is just chaos enough; that is what I am aiming for.
The garden, however, was still an active force. The hedge had grown up and out, nibbled by sheep and hedgetrimmers into open, perforated lines of bushes, easy enough for a child to slip between. Inside the sheltered hedgebound space, the wind dropped and the sun intensified. In the warm space within the remnants of old garden flowers tangled with the wild; Goldenrod, Perennial Sunflower and Michaelmas Daisies held their own against the Stitchwort and Campions; wild roses and tame arced through the high hedges. A star of clematis, a spark of Jasmine.
The grass was meadow-thick, a deep and forgiving coverlet that hung slightly above the ground below, and gave as you stood on it, just a little bit. Each spring, a sprinkling of bulbs would stipple the banks; snowdrop, daffodil, grape hyacinth. You had to watch your step, as under the grass would be shattered, slippery wall stones, unexpected and bruising.
There was a quietness in the space; nothing spooky, but the usual noises of the downs (the cows, the wind, the farmnoise, the ocassional passing car) would shrink, and the birdsong would become more audible although no louder. Nothing spooky, just a dying fall, a slow diminuendo as the tame sank back into the wild.
The tumble-down garden returning to the wild; the bright flashes of resilience against the returning natives; that perfect moment in the entropic slide back to the Darwinian tangled bank when your garden is just chaos enough; that is what I am aiming for.
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