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- Herausgeber: Brandon
- Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013
'This is a book about the comfort and sustenance that can be got from gardening and from the earth, about the wonderful pleasures and fulfilment that I get from my garden.' Alice Taylor Alice's garden is her refuge, her solace. In this book, she invites you into this special place. Inherited from Uncle Jacky, it was for many years a kind of wilderness, until Alice finally managed to get around to transforming it. She introduces you to the great variety of plants and objects she has gathered – everything, of course, with its own unique and fascinating story, brought to life by a master storyteller. Alice's creativity is seen everywhere in her garden. It is a wonderful, magical space, full of surprises, where her warm personality infuses every flower, bush, tree, and surface.
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Reviews
About And Time Stood Still, Alice Taylor
‘wonderful’ Irish Independent ‘uplifting’ Arena, RTE 1 ‘And Time Stood Still warmed my heart and reminded me of the value of family, friendship and community’ Irish Independent ‘She writes down on the page what she was feeling, you don’t get any sense that there is any filter between you and the writer’ Arena, RTE1 ‘A daunting topic, but one that is well suited to her strengths as a writer’ Irish Examiner ‘A beautifully produced book, illustrated by unusual, atmospheric photographs’ Irish Examiner
About To School through the Fields, Alice Taylor
‘A delightful evocation of Irishness and of the author’s deep-rooted love of “the very fields of home” … with its rituals and local characters’ Publisher’s Weekly ‘In Ireland, where scribblers are ten a penny, she has become the most popular and universally loved author in memory’ Mail on Sunday ‘There is no writer more full of the milk of human kindness’ Books Ireland ‘People read Alice Taylor’s books, people crave Alice Taylor’s company because they want to find peace. They find it in the leaves of her books and the folds of her laughter.’ Ireland on Sunday ‘Ireland’s Laurie Lee … a chronicler of fading village life and rural rituals’ The Observer
The Gift of a Garden
Alice Taylor
Photographs by Emma Byrne
DEDICATION
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
All my ills
My garden spade can heal
Welcome to my garden. Just inside the gate, hand-painted on a rickety piece of timber, is a little sign: Miracles only grow where you plant them. I saw it in a garden centre and could not resist it. This garden is full of my lack of resistance. I have no in-depth gardening knowledge and I work on impulse. Gardening friends bequeath, and I glean stray bits of knowledge from irresistible glossy gardening magazines and unbelievable TV gardening makeover programmes.
So my gardening expertise, acquired through trial and error, is nurtured by the wonderful pleasure that I have discovered in simply digging the earth. Where does that satisfaction come from? Maybe it is the farmer in me, having grown up on a farm. But we have all sprung from the land, descended from the stock of potato-picking ancestors. Maybe buried deep in each of us is the secret need to cultivate the soil. Digging the earth breathes life back into us.
Your garden reflects your personality. Mine is a picture of organised chaos. No law and order here! As I am by nature a tidy, well-organised individual, maybe my garden tells me that the inner me is an exuberant, untidy soul trying to break out. It is to this haven that I come when the other world gets too much for me, when my energy levels are down. I stumble in the gate and the garden silently reaches out its arms and says: Welcome back to your true home, my friend.
After the first warm embrace, it leads me along its winding paths where old companions nod in welcome. Ours is a friendship of scent and sight, and I know and understand every angle and hue of my dear plant friends. We have lived together for years. They absorb my agitation and as I meander around among them they untie my knots. This is where my mental reflexology happens. The plants that are in full flower dance with delight and ignite a flame of joy in me. For others the show is over and they are happy to take a back seat. Plants know that there is a time for each one of them to be the star performer and a time to stand back; they are gracious beings. These are my close companions.
I am not the first gardener here. I inherited this garden from Uncle Jacky, who gardened here until he died in his late seventies over thirty years ago. This was his patch of the world and he gardened it with loving kindness. How do I know this? Because this little garden exudes the love he planted here. He created a healing place, a comforter – his ‘flaitheaseen’ as he called it, his ‘little bit of heaven’. This was his, and is now my ‘flaitheaseen’. How do you thank somebody for such a legacy? For such a gift? Maybe I can thank Uncle Jacky by passing the happiness of his little heaven on to you? Maybe I can plant the spirit of his garden into this little book, and then Uncle Jacky’s legacy will never be lost and will bring joy forever.
Now, though a garden is definitely a thing of beauty and a joy forever, it is also a thing of beauty and a job forever! But that is part of its magic. A garden is a living, constant friend who waits lovingly for you, and when you come back it reaches out, claiming your mind and body to the exclusion of all else, but claiming your attention and your labours too. It is both a mind-cleanser and a back-breaker! Sometimes, when you’re bending over the ground for too long, you think that a back with two iron hinges would be a blessing.
I am not a knowledgeable gardener, but this is not a book about gardening, rather a book about the comfort and sustenance that can be got from gardening and from the earth, about the wonderful pleasures and fulfilment that I get from my garden, that I hope to share with you. The earth is a sustainer. It engenders and sows within us a deep sense of endurance and working with it cultivates our basic instincts of self-worth and tolerance.
This garden has given me so much joy, and now I will try to give thanks by transplanting that gift into words.
Maybe I should have begun this book in January at the beginning of the year, but it is now August and the idea has just blossomed. But then, January is a bleak, barren month and August is full of bounty and exuberance. Surely a better time to begin? The well organised, tidy me would have begun at the beginning of the year, but it is my gardening soul that is going to write this book and so we take a leap of faith into the middle rather than the beginning.
I have no idea where the book will take us. The garden itself, and my joy in it and my work with it, will dictate the pace and direction. The book may fall into months or maybe seasons, who knows, but whatever way it will evolve I hope that Uncle Jacky’s – and my – garden will glow between the pages and that you will find in it a comforting place to come to when the world is too much for you.
CHAPTER 1
THE AWAKENING
The joy of anticipation
Awaiting dream realisation –
Looking forward is the fun
Of happy things yet to come.
The sun is pouring in the windows, filling the bedroom with golden light. Bedroom windows should, if possible, face east because it is so good to wake up with the warm sun on your face. It would be an added bonus if your bedroom looked out over your garden, but as I am not so blessed I roll out of bed and go out into the corridor where a glass door opens on to a flat roof that overlooks the backyard and garden.
The sight of the garden trees stretching to the skyline opens the windows into my soul. The flowers on the Magnolia grandiflora rest like large goose eggs nesting on glossy green leaves. The top branches of the golden frisia are glowing butter-yellow amid her more sober companions. A real show-off, with the fancy name Robina pseudoacacia frisia, you could forgive her anything because she is so happy. She makes you happy too. She brightens up the morning. I look down on the plants in the yard below too where the sweet peas climbing up the wall beside me give out their lovely scent. They fan my anticipation of the day.
Downstairs I put my breakfast on a tray to carry it out into the backyard. I believe in a good breakfast. It is more than a meal; it is a setter-upper for the day. So I dress my tray with a fancy tea towel strewn with wild flowers, a china cup and saucer, and a silver teapot. Fresh grapefruit, bowl of muesli, brown bread and homemade marmalade. Breakfast is ready. The backyard is glowing with flowers. I sit and soak in the vibrancy and the aromas that surround me. Flowers make you feel renewed and bring a smile to your face.
As I enjoy my breakfast I try not to look over to where I know the rose has been holding back. Some plants, like some people, come into flower late in their season. Their slow blossoming is tantalising, full of delayed promise. All during the previous week I kept a cautionary eye on her from a distance. I felt like a horse breeder waiting for a prize mare to deliver a foal – though I do not even know her name and horse breeders can trace ancestry back to Adam or his horse equivalent.
I am a messy, trí na chéile gardener, with no track of my charges. They run wild and do what they like, and most of them are nameless. So my lady-in-waiting did not even have the dignity of a name and owed me nothing only the good bed of compost beneath her. She had actually been in the shadows, behind a huge lily that had over-wintered in the back porch and was then put out when the frosts were over. This lily had grown and grown, taking up a lot of space, and then produced nothing. She was like some people we all know. So when I had discovered that the lily was much ado about nothing, I chopped off her head! Maybe Henry VIII should have been a gardener; what a lot of wives that would have saved.
To fill the vacant space left by the beheaded lily, my nameless rose moved forward into centre court. She stood demurely shrouded in dark, glistening leaves, doing very little but promising much. It would have seemed intrusive to have gone across the yard and to have stood vulgarly awaiting her unveiling. But from her rich green foliage, you somehow felt that she was going to put on a dazzling display.
Yesterday it rained non-stop. It should not rain like this in August and I was not sure if the earth was soaking it up like a thirsty drunk or outraged at this ravaging of its overgrown finery. The petunias certainly collapsed in misery, their delicate petticoats dripping forlornly over the edge of their urn. But the leaves of the trees glistened in appreciation and the hydrangeas straightened their bending backs as the moisture went straight down their wilting spines.
I forgot, last evening, to check on my nameless rose. That happens in the garden – in my garden anyway. You get so taken up with one protégé that you somehow forget the others. Then the forgotten ones catch you unawares and you gasp in delight – something beautiful took place while your attention was somewhere else.
Now I glance across the yard. The miracle has happened! Breakfast is forgotten. She has blossomed. The unveiling had taken place overnight or in the early dawn. I walk towards her in reverence. She is simply stunning in her perfection. Not pink, red or orange, but a combination of the best of all three colours. Saucer-large and luscious, she rests on her rich, satin foliage like a jewel on a dark pillow. She is breathtaking. I stand in awe and soak up the moment. Moments like this are why people garden – dig until their backs break and prune until their arms ache. And then the garden decides it’s payback time and puts on a shameless display of enticement. It lights up some part of your inner being and you know that life does not get any better than this. You are looking at a masterpiece, though unlike a Monet this is not permanent. It is a beautiful transient ballet, and for a brief moment you are the dancer and the rose lifts you into a spiral of enchantment. I gently move closer to my beautiful nameless rose and her fragrance – light and delicate – wafts up my nose. How can a rose look so beautiful and smell so good? Even in the rose world life does not dole out its favours equally. I stand back in appreciation. Beauty such as this has to be savoured and reverenced. It is indeed a moment for taking the time to smell the roses.
Then I feel the need to share this magic moment. But no one is available to me except a son who is into football and veteran cars. I haul him across the yard. He gazes wordlessly and his silence speaks volumes.
‘Wow!’ he breathes finally.
As a young lad he had gardened with Uncle Jacky. When we depart this earth we can pass on many inheritances, but maybe an appreciation of the world’s beauty is one of the most valuable treasures we can leave behind. Thank you, Uncle Jacky.
CHAPTER 2
A JUGOF FLOWERS
Give me a bunch
Of dew-fresh flowers
What if they will not last
I cannot live in the future
The present is all I ask.
One of the best things about gardening is the inducement to wander around aimlessly. Most mornings I meander, sometimes in my nightdress, out into the backyard and up into the garden just to see how they all are after the night. A morning walk around the garden is totally different to an evening walk; an evening walk is a winder-downer, but a morning walk is a waker-upper. In the morning they are all fresh and vibrant; they are standing tall and refreshed after the dampness of the night, and they tell you: Wake up and dance with us, it’s the start of a new day. But you must be careful because a garden is like a demanding child always looking for attention, and before you know what you’re doing you’re dead-heading or propping up a plant that has lost its grip. But my garden and I are on very familiar terms, so now I tell them: Shut up! This is my time. I’ll come to you later.
Then, on this lovely late summer morning, I go up the stone steps beside Jacky’s apple tree and stop dead in my tracks: where is that heavenly smell coming from? I sniff around like a cocker spaniel. Then a flash of yellow catches my eye and I realise that a beautiful lily has come into full bloom and is pouring her essence over all her neighbours. She is standing demurely beside a statue of one of the Three Wise Men from a Christmas crib who has found his way into the garden. He was rescued from a skip, looking the worse for wear after years in a dusty loft over our church, and I restored his regal regalia. Too big for domestic confines, he had come out into the garden. It was a wise decision, because now here he was, basking in the aroma of this beautiful lily and sheltering under the arm of an over-reaching hydrangea. He was a long way from Bethlehem, but then the Lord is found in strange places!
